The lost "Beat Tapes" poem

when I got samba-pa-tied
& black-magic-womaned
enough
an old friend of mine came
in
& as always according to his
unannounced
visits
the room immediately
burnt
all apart

wine was a-flowin'
voices were shared
women were barely reminded
of
stark & in visions only

he wiped the sweat off his brow
& smiled

said he brought me the "Beat Tapes"
lost ones
real ones
readings saved by accident only
as all of our accidents
are
somehow
sometimes
saved...

said he found them at some flomarkt
down in old Berlin
& he payed 50 marks
for the pleasure

the tapes were nothing special
themselves:
blue, red & white
all dusty
"Ti Jean, Cody & Old Bull Lee"
said the sticker
& said it in barely
visible
pencil
some traces of ink
still there
as well

I put one of the tapes in my old
recorder. I shivered.
He responded.
50 marks' one hell of a price
for something so blessed
& so priceless

We waited impatiently...

& the first tape did run
& the third
& the second
& then there were those readings:
wind, all wind & wind
'til it's gone
not a trace of the trio's
voices

most honest
readings
ever

most honest ever
wind

most windy ever
trio

On the bus to Nepal

so you got on the bus
it maybe ain't Greyhound
but better than none
& headed
directly Nepal

the delectable
reasonable
target

for the ticket
you took my last
dime
that's fine - I can handle
it
gently

you can find the German
emperor there
w/ his golden flies
escort
of
picturesque
disorder's
order

the man still believes in Ultima Thule
& he still
proposes you
marriage
& the honey blooms
while the twister shits
flint
& you're oh so sincerely
delighted

& the options
you'll never choose
the subconsciousnesses
you'll never
submit
to
appear once again
as the air
becomes
your journey
& you
the flower of Orient

& there's a whole melting pot
of Niagara
nirvana
waiting for you
when you
vanish

Vortex

does it really all work like a vortex?
this Engbers shirt
& Man of Town jacket
make a perfect pair of moods...

double dare the observer
& nail him down
with a pink Shoa scarf

so choose a straw for the lady in question
question the answer
in tall frozen glass
frame
while talkin' quite loosely...

on conversations like these
I wish I had a label for
myself...
a price to stick to
a trademark to rely on
a product
to sell her

wish my poems were as good
as the blank morning sky
clear-blue-swifting-
arranging
itself
anew

wish I could tell her about them
wish I could quote
myself

wish I had a bucket for my soul
& a casket
to put my eyes in
a coffin
to call it a day
& good ole cross
to hang on

guess it really works like a vortex

guess she's leavin'
this very
moment

renewed every morning
but still in the same-spot
condition

troubled & trapped in verse
but never as clear
as
the
sky

thus
never
true
or sold

Guilt cog

the hourless clock
grinds
the cogs
the ones w/ bones of matchsticks
& pudding
& tears
of
venomous
fertilizers
the ones at the margin
of
lowdown
being
the ones of the DDT
pasture
like pigs on the rainbow
& sluts
at the Vatican's golden
doorstep

the hourless clock grinds the cogs
spills the abattoir children
swallows the daylight
to waste out
regret
& lie at the bottom
of
murder

the hourless clock makes you
guilty...

of all lives stuck in the wheelturn

so sigh & roar, you Angel Child
while tore apart
by the panic
dictator
& beg for regret
at lunacy's
door

to find no way out
of the
death trap

Gospel on Sundays

"god's a mighty mustard jar..."
says the Drunken Devil Gospel Choir
up & kickin'
every
Sunday

they even got those
savage
drumkits already
no country
& western
this time...

"the benches are silk
& the chip up your ass
is Styrofoam..."
& they kneel down deeper
as deep as their
throats
& worship the lord
as good as they can
w/ a song
that is weak
as
hell

& the black robe bearer hits the organ
foul
manual
sings out death
in all choices of color

wipes out the microphone
rot

killing the flies
that disturb him
one by one by one

wishin' they were some dive-in
strippers
wishin' he could be Manson...

& we're all poor singers
in this goddamn Choir...
& this is the silk
of deliverance
w/ all these Styrofoam
still up your ass
all good clean fun
& bass
& baritone
chips

while the soldiers line up near the altar:
expecting to find a
faith
bomb
the one they cannot disarm...

"nothing here but a mustard jar
& flies & chips up your ass..."
spits out
the
Choir
already
disjointed...

Skull mural mirror

so... they've got the mural of my skull
here
they allow me to stare
at it
sometime...

I'm recognizin' those yellow
trails
of pillage
red streaks
of constraint
amazingly fractured
wisps
of self

maxilla
cheekbones
orbits:
the unchanging
points of
reference...

all since the time that fears me
& loathes
me
continues

the giant bone tree
stuck to the mirror
of
former
selves
&
dead leaves on coffee
do drown

vast as the sky over Andes
& very well written
on ice
sheets

whose fingers should I blame
whose fingers
promise
redress

& ain't that already
rebirth
in a way...

ain't that already
seconde
vue...

Fly to Saudia

the x-rayed cloud turned its back
to become one of Hassan's visionaire
dragons
gardenously
pinched
caressed by the sun
packed
delivered
unraveled

& through Citadel's structures of sand
the tail
needled
its way
to where
the tongue only knows
to which
the birdtalk
relates to

"fly to Saudia!" - queer cherub exclaimed
explained:
"Boys, you're all oh so pretty in red..."
the fire moon's high in the ninth house
the seventh
the sixth
& the first one
is
jammed
w/ Aquarius...
the Jupiter's ring on your finger...
the starchild...

what's your birth sign, pretty...

...that astrological
mojo handin'...
...that prophet's
cakewalk
shit
talk...

& his hair like spinnin' Cadillac wheels
one vine eye perched
hands like the carburetor...

equatorial rain falls...

the poppy kite's in
immortal
flight
& Saudia
is always waiting

On the abandoned viaduct nearby

she chooses the abandoned viaduct
passing
while mime country eyes
sink into
the shutdown
red shattered
sunset
above the work-in-progress
never finished
construction
bird alike
&
fully
aware
of the cut

she chooses to go
& I follow
though that's not
exactly
routine
& we're not exactly on stage
this time

there are many here spirits
that choose not to stay
when sights like these
are eternal
enough
& so very
alluring
to
the altering harlequin's
mannequin
eyesight

& the viaduct opens:
the vigilante
starless
womb

inviting...
cool
& quiet...

just a few drops of sleep
& we're in

& the passing world's
musical
none of our
business

Is gone, man, is gone

every word is a dustroad spirit
suicidal Manitou on Valium
subway
swift
interceptor
always on duty
right on the job

hurlin' investigator
writer's traces scattered
all over
all places
let-downs & give-ups
& who knows
what more
when the insides turn outside
in

primal beasts caught in
breath
caught in
body
the unholy
inquisition
aloud or
enpapered
hot spikes
on jazzy
tangles
& pistols

measured precisely
dosed as
allowed
rain & corrosion
dreamalike pastures
of hell's
drive-in
all ablaze

drive-out
& the beat still
continues

beat out
& the breath
& the body
is gone

One minute long

one long minute ago
one of the
longest
in mind
the insufficient indifferent
footstep
shattered in the mire
residently
exploring
the gut placenta
sideways
while the clock didn't move
at all
& the time was for all
but for
nova
explosion

while she sewed her sunglasses
way back
together
in memory of her drunken cricket
paramour
& roared out "Build me a woman"
& decided to swing back
the past
decided to swing past
the future
to steer me
away from my myth
& my
fate

put my cowboy boots on...
took the shotgun off the shelf...
realized...
shivered in laughter...

remembered the Moonlite Mile
Suite
seven years of daylight
counted her lives in fear
of returning
too early
& shot three times
a day

bit into
the cushion
fell down

& suddenly the room's
mediocre walls
became
eerie Dada
installments
& the gaslamp
a pale
gallery

as the portrait of an artist
as a splattered
liar
glowed

the coming-of-age
the going-off-style
off-rhythm
& into the
vegetable
existence