Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Monday, August 18, 2014

An Arkansas of the Mind

I hear that there's an Arkansas of the mind
-somewhere
in a fishing hollow
where the bluegill glean green and piss yellow
and the modern country music
is both insidious and totally innocent.
Where the dreams are strung up on blocks
like rusted front yard trucks,
and every nicety
is a hidden indictment.
The country musicians of St. Louis
tired of fighting riot police
wonder much about this place
somewhere between Little Rock and Ozark.
The rolling ozarks
Green in the summer
Like the lake's hidden and lush algae,
sticky like a bum's sweat
over a shitty winter flannel
Lush with lakeside retirees.

The race relations there too,
a damnable mystery,
or so I hear.


I've never been there-
have you?

Saturday, August 9, 2014

after Prufrock

A million computer screens
sighed a dusty sigh
at the witching hour,
6 o'clock pm.
I windexed that shit
and went about my way
strolling down silent streets
full of dog poop and newspaper sidewalks.
The winding narrow streets--
Bike cops and potheads---
Cute pit bulls,
And petunia woodpeckers.
The cigarette butt city,
of St. Louis,
dense with vacant warehouses
That shutter in the wind
of a September Storm
Raindrops falling on the ghetto(s)
The Brentwood congestion,
The bucolic South City crusted bars
yearning to open
and go back to work.

Monday, August 4, 2014

The Familiar

working through the demon of doubt, abyss,
with black coffee familiar.
the everyday familiar
of the flower on my front porch I do not know the name of
and the bubbling-below-the-surface of the terror.
In your voice,
I detected a bedroom hesitance
and yet should I discount
Hours of joyfulness
because of that statement of doubt.
The demon of doubt
and the bubbling day
Solitude, the choice for now,
or cruise the web
-a connection, a connection, a connect---
Do we get closer to living
as it all flies by
the emotions and your hectic love
Frayed under the surface
Yet so true
 all n all.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

That Damn Rough Larval Stage



The madman lost his mind
Even under the comfort of the old punk rock cures.
The bohemian pharmaceuticals were just too fucking much
The Aristocrat vodka that tided over his nightmares
The two dollar a pack handrolled cigarettes
Straight to the lungs.
Did you know
That at a Quicktrip in St. Louis
You can buy a 30 pack of Hamm’s beer for 10 bucks?
He spent his entire high school graduation money from his well off relatives
On the cheapest schwag weed
Among the strip malls of O’fallon Missouri.
He did the mescaline which turned out to not even really be mescaline.
All this stuff never really did him any favors
But it was an “Experience”.
Like all those judgemental punk rockers
In the basements of Wichita, Kansas.
Not one good craft beer for 5+ years.

Yet through the hand rolled cigs
And nefariously cheap whiskey
And bitter madness
There was a spirit
That never died.

Out of that gauzy boozy cocoon
There burst…
…Yea that’s a pretty good looking smart butterfly
With full wings
Flitting across the orchids and trees of the gardens
Flying off
In spite of that damn rough
Larval stage.

Cool Glass of Water Hosanna



Depravation of the senses
Can seem so poetic-
Raw hallucinations and druglike stupor
Evil poverty, feeling starved.
-But
Cold potato salad
A glass of ice water
And a fan on full blast
On a hot day
Is even better.

Loving you, Kelly, is like the latter.
Before I met you I was John the Baptist
Crunching bitter locusts in the wilderness.
Not to suggest you were my Christ
(But hell, that sort of belief is good enough for our parents
Just sayin’…)
And the salvation is real enough.

Seriously though, it’s like all of time was spread out before me
On a vast rainbow colored multiform plain
And when I looked out
I was scared shitless
Seeing that terrible abundance.
But now, it is an unfathomably beautiful phenomena
And I feel the comfort of understanding
Real and blanketing as the sweet infinite of your blue eyes
Or your touch
And just as awesome.

What I’m trying to say is that you reveal things to me.
What I’m trying to say at the risk of sounding cheese ball is
I was lost but now am found.
In other words
You are the cool glass of water
On the balmy summer afternoon
Of my lifetime.

Pound, Suzuki and Heidegger Walk Into a Bar



D.T. Suzuki,
The great Zen ambassador
Championed Japan’s descent into World War 2.
Martin Heidegger and Ezra Pounds Nazi/Fascist turn(s).
Those big intellects
Those misshapen ideas.
 Why do otherwise wise men,
Support terrible causes?
Ask the statesmen, who will remove the mountain top
In the name of a small profit, and biding time.
Heidegger, who could explain the innate nature of language itself
With stunning lucidity
But saw more career stability
Under the Nazi regime.
The esteemed graying actor, drunk on his millions
With a cheap whore and a mound of cocaine
In some godless hotel room,
Or old Ezra Pound, rotting away in St. Elizabeth’s asylum
In the room without a window,
As his guard would later say,
 “ an intellectual crackpot, thinking he could cure the world’s ills”.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Schizophrenia (Behind every locked door is another door)

Behind every locked door is another door
and behind that door is the dream world,
with it's dream languages,
and so forth.
It is a world to which I have a special access.
It twists ardously in disorder,
and illuminates with a dark light,
it is the butthole of the spiritual world
and it shits out only pain.

There is a place even the ARTISTS
don't really go
or don't really wanna go.
It is beyond an abstract spacial contortion,
and it is beyond a faux-indeginous stylized shaman.
It is the man who has plumbed his innermost debths.
Fucking Insanity.  Bare Madness,
no fancy special trappings
that make your Art or New Age Healing
more "meaningful".

I have seen the cobras of woe
twisting themselves about my thighs
in anxious Community College suburban bed.
My parents were the worst vampires.
I would shake until I really vomited out the madness,
these terrible contortions my dad said were like from The Exorcist.
I stumbled through this world a young man,
bright eyed, radical and terrified.
I have made it through with raw pharmecuticals and love
to some new language
of calm
somehow.

There is a plain of roses
and flourishing bees,
fauna and no shudder of real demon death gripping my limbs.

I know this sounds improbable
absurd,
But there is a terror in my dreams
A writhing nightmare
that is not (neccesarily) a horror story.

I could just only call it
My life as a Schizophrenic.

Men of Instagram

This is out of the last typewriter
tattooed on the left forearm
of the waitress serving my quiche
at the coffeeshop.
I took a pic of that with an iphone
in a desperate push to get published.
Don't text me now, bro.
Out on Mcree Street
we drive down with this song blasting,
they are cookin ribs
sittin on stoops
drinking Vess
and taking no selfies.
Johnny rides shotgun
pitiful and out of work-
He bled for the wage and shit his pants post mortum
before he could pay his phone bill.
My buddy Dave, the activist bisexual
was fired from the deli on McKinley street
and felt fucking like a sad sack of shit
moving back in with his mother.
Bill owes $300 a month in student loans for his photography degree,
he buses tables at The Royal 5 days a week
with his pubic beard and vintage T
just to chip away at that debt.
I'm taking my summer class on "masculinity"
and trying to stay skinny, like I used to be.
Jerry plays basketball with his bros
In Lindenwood park
On Thursday afternoons
drenched in sweat all over his baggy T shirt
and has slowly been doing better since upchucking all over his shoes
during the first game.
They smoke battys during the intermissions.
Someone brought a tall boy.

Take notice, listen,
We are the men of This World.
Smell the sunlight
and take our pic-
all smiles
flatbrims on
lookin cool,
put that shit straight on Instagram.

Awake

After that long battle
for awake-
The coffee, gulp down coffee,
Sun snaking through the blinds
-windows open-
Missouri summer thickness of air,
shimmering world
woozy tired privelage of sleeping in.
The raw skin solo in shower
my gauzy mind
rubbing daylight over eyelids
daylight over eyelids
loud punk LP over speakers
jolt me into the world
this world is it ready
for me
now?

Friday, May 9, 2014

I Love You Baby

The happy dregs
of the welfare state
sung out of garbled computer speakers
and an oldass cellphone.
The happy spring
turned sticky summer
a sticky subject stuck on the bootheels of old south st louis.
She said 'yr grammer is all wrong'
she said 'you don't care about me'
I said I'm stoned on television dope,
I'm fucking high on the internet
I've got a tv eye
and all my friends are as depressed as you are
behind computer avatars.

Somewhere the suburban poor are eating candybars for lunch
and the dregs of nature float lazily down the industrial section of the Missouri river.

'I'm in love with you
I'm just feeling sortof weird,"
I said.
'I love you too'
she said,
"I love you too goddamnit baby".

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Sunday Funday.

The light is a dusty dying ray
thru the beat up shade.
The heap of dishes for work at the Chinese joint done
and the dirty shirt with the dish scum on it's in the laundry basket.
The yellow monte carlos of st. louis
booming bass.
I take a cool pull of bourbon
in a yellowed glass
and blur the lines between fact and fiction
in the coolest spring fragrance
adjacent to north St. Louis's big occasional rubble heaps.