Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

if you see a scrap of napkin
with a rough-house sketch of me
know i've been there

today i'm paper's friend
tomorrow, i sing into the dumpster
many talents have i

but not an inch of luck
to keep me on this side

i'll just be rolling off the map
(if you'll step aside)

Whenever I think of Cowboy Dan
it reminds me of One-Eyed Jack
(or was his name Joe?)..
He'd take a bet for all you had
to replace the slack
in what he didn't.

Jack was a crack addict
and mainline ho.
Stood on the corner
of 9th and P
and so

He could see one
comin' a mile a way.
Coulda been me.

Both Dan and Jack wrote
poetry on bathroom stalls.
I could hear their wails
and calls to absent
mistresses, both
doin' a dose
in a vein
behind
the
dor.

What could be more
poetic than that?
A man with a hat.
A man with a patch.

Both wanted me,
but neither could be
my match.

When there's something
under the brim,
I think of him.

When there's something
behind the eye, I cannot
deny I'm blind to why -
but I think of him, too.

a nice poem judih

I've spewed
enough really:
you about the closest to beat authenticity
around here:

once in Boulder i was at a loud drunken party, lots of pot and buddhists, deadheads, when Allen Ginsburg and Orlovsky entered chanting Wu Wu WU

arm in arm
they wu, wu'd the wild flamed scene
then off they went to rangu


orlovsky the pretty one
winked and pinched the hungry tush
my mamma had to chuckle

they Doctored Wu
and wooed the Rue:
i never dug Allens writing
much except where
he pissed on the shrew

bone nuit

allen wrote
what only allen could write
till his next lay

beat is a mood,
a mantra, a coagulation
breaking loose.. beat is
disgust banished from a barstool,
unamused by ashes, trashed
patrons slashed wrists, kisses
or queerolous crap. beat is
jazz rapped out on a
fingernaildrum

formica never had it so good.
beat is bein' in the hood with
a turf nigga, takin a swigga
pintshit, stiff inna morning,
cannabilized.

this i avow.
that was then.
this is now

it's all now
everything from then together with our hopes for more
we breathe in the now

there may be no tomorrow, sorrows spent
like wasted graves. spades can cut through soil,
dirtied garments, worlds dismissed or memorized;

lies come and go like
unelected officials, residual
sound is absorbed into studio walls.

dice the words slim, trim off the fat,
write like that, as if evolution were about
to wipe you out because it is, because

it is
documentation

do you think god can create a masterpiece
in minutes? does he play the spinet
piano or a grand?

which part of the concept does he understand?
when it comes to existence, tomorrow isn't in it.
today we play light travel games. we save
names, ideas, like hands
dealt, runs numbered
with matching colors.

i cannot learn by reading through archives.
i amass a body of literature from the size
of its value in regards to content.

now is the only hour.

sorry.

i stole that from then.

i didn't write that now.

it was in my fails... er, files.

is that cheating?

i cheat on myself every day.

it's the only way i can stay

jealous of me.

release attachment, o sister
surrender jealousy to the clutches of her own claws
fly to the tune of free

fly to the tune of free?
me? oh but i am
and i cannot!
you see, i adore my
hands upon me!

sweet palms
like velvet
breath.

why would one fly
from such a pleasant
heaven?

i am at liberty
to decline.

liberty, hmm like the liberty to delete another's writings


your pal and "moderator" mr mark went back and deleted writings of mine--not especially obscene or insulting-- on here that were posted hours before he logged in: is that liberty too doreen

when x exists
one asks y