Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Is dave a zapatista yet?

joints in the garage
phallic remarks
choking laughter

      gas mask with a history
                       dinner bell ringing

i always felt the naive child there
never proven

         forever aloof on
            the outer edge of
              the inner circle of
                 a splintered bit of
                   petrified wood somehow representative of

utopic dreams and joints in the garage

Friday, November 14, 2014

21st century St. Louis

Baby mama turbulence
Gary gets a lot of play
Oh, and an impending riot.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Dream of the DJ who lost his equipment

The tech he needed
and all the world's time
escaped This Man
as he dozed off
on his mom's couch
dreaming unquiet dreams
of hip hop.
His turntables and
His MPC drum machine
-that he had spilled beer on at shows
that he had beat against his head in a passionate rage
at shows-
was left festering
in a spare dim room
in old rural Minnesota someplace near Duluth.
He got a DUI that year
driving an El Dorado
with outdated plates
in an unseasonably warm
thirty two degree
touring winter.
He was slammin down his third OE forty ounce
swerving, our dude jolted onto the shoulder
then into a tree,
there the cop found him,
a slightly chubby deejay in a ditch
on the road
with only a semblance of a mission.

Rudy bailed him out
two days later.
In exchange he gave Rudy the DJ equipment he was touring with
and caught the Megabus home.
Rudy was always curious about the art form,
the effortless use of pre made beats
booming bass over a PA.
Rudy had had enough of this man,
enough of these desperate calls,
So he finally ditched the friendship
but kept the equipment.

Now our old homie
sleeps on his mom's comfy couch
dreaming of new turntables
between two part-time jobs
In Des Pere
where the river is a drainage ditch
and there a bunch of dreams
on myriad mom's couches
by various different sons.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

The Real End of that Line

We can have everything
From the blanket-glow
And a can of beer.

Streets stirred with revolution
Stirred from bloody pavement
The spoken shout
And the shattered glass
Of a rage wrestling for voice
In the undulating Sunday night.

Midnight comes and goes
Like Coast to Coast FM
Through the mind of a real-world-timid-schizophrenic
A schizophrenic transistor radio

The potent pill
Alice’s bane
Lewis Carroll’s real world epilepsy
Janis Joplin’s loneliest beltbuckle,
The cocaine dead popstar,
Questing for the quest
At the end of that line

We towed.

the writing life

u always hear those statements
in the author's biographical snippets...
then they started writing...
they were published...
they were writers...
And how were they published?
And who the hell dared publish them
And how? How?

Monday, August 18, 2014

An Arkansas of the Mind

I hear that there's an Arkansas of the mind
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.
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”.