Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



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.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Ozark Punk

April's all green
finally
here in the Ozarks
by Beaver Mill Lake
the tiretreads get thicker
down these old roads
that last gooey bit of bait
and fishing tackle
plops into the water
that elegant stinkbait
the lake thick with bass and catfish
somewhere.
They say that punk rock doesn't belong here
well does it anywhere?
(these days maybe so I hear
but not here).
I've got my stratocaster
with the squiggly handmade designs on the body
and my Descendents sticker
and my Minor Threat sticker,
I live alone
I've got my disability check
so I've got time to kill
and I practice all day
long
for that day
my big break.
--Put out that craigslist ad for a drummer and a bassist
got the one response
but sounded redneck wingnutty, not that there's much wrong with that,
but possibly violent,
I just got that vibe
he referenced Hank 3 way too much--
So for now I play to the trees
on those lush creeping nights
where crappy and mosquitoes bite,
Those three big chords
maybe sometimes more.
I think, how do I protest this dumb nation?
I just keep playing,
every Monday I walk to the post office to drop my letters off that they'll never publish in Maximum RocknRoll.
This summer I know
that the air'll get thick
maybe I can catch a gig
or else I think,
I'll get over
playing this simple punk music
into the dead of night
and walking down to the docks
with my cold one at midnight.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

JOYLAND



for my poetry 101 class, I was asked to write a poem from the perspective of an alien abductee in an amusement park.  The poem should be informed by the abductee experience, however, not outright say what happened...I felt I was well qualified to write such a poem...

In the simmering salty summer
I got nauseas on the ferris wheel. 
I knew then
Something wasn’t right.
I expected those bright lights like God
To beam down again any second
And the weird opera music to start re-playing.
I was stuck in that Pynchon novel
 I could only dimly remember
-A screaming comes across the sky-
And then what? And then?
The salty cigarette I’d lit hung limp and broken
From my quivering lips
As the wheel like a slow weirdly inverted carousel
Wavered, and I felt all at once the terror in its slow lunge.
I never fit in-
Not once,
So no one noticed
When they took me away.
A catholic at heart, I recognized my maker
In those bright-burning lights
Off the side of HWY 17 outside New Paltz.
They dropped me here when they were finished with me
In a two bit amusement park
A half-hearted place called “Joyland”.
Oh the goddamn luck.
One time,
When I was high on LSD I thought the little green men were after me,
But this time, there was no drug I could blame.
I think the Gods gave me PTSD
And left me here
Alone
Hanging anxious and pitifully
From the ferris wheel
At this goddamn motherfucking Joyland.