3 poems, 2023/01/18.

The moon, a story

In every man's prison, the demise of god
the stranglehold of life
death comes nearer
in this sunken theater on Sunday
there are times of drunken perfection
there is bourbon in the moon
there is moon in the glass
there is glass behind the wheel
driving to LA
Friday night
where you hope to find pieces
of cacti sisters waving
in a sudden epiphany of doom
there are some who are lost
and to them you have to offer your dance
dance on the verge
of your car
of love
of a story
when time is running backwards
and all your mind wells are dry
true,
you are the underdog here
but you give hope
and light's sunrise
when the moon is total stoned

Static Peace

There are many visitors recently
in the arcana of disaster
lured by the disco stench
of the post-hippie 70s
there are many wars, and people are dying of hunger
elsewhere on the planet
but here, in static peace
there are chances weaved
and water and beer and vodka
are drunk happily
how long will it last you think
you wipe your ass in the morning
and stare at your wife
her picture in the toilet
there, across the tiles
you are rich
you are well-developed
but I tell you, son
bury yourself with the rockets
your richer cousins are shooting at the world
and soon ricochets will blind you
and bury you below the waste
and then you will notice
me and my friends
gathered inside this house
on real static peace
high like the weeds of the city

Amazing

I once was invited to a room with no windows
green lights flashing
trash on the floor
some shared books
and the scent of weed
there was a pianist there
who said she loves me
and then she told me there was a party, hey
and if you feel like
coming over
you'll do your best
to stay
but I did not believe her
I left this room with no windows
and tried to find another room
in reflections of  a man
I saw a ladder
leading upwards
to a room with no doors
and then I felt enlightened
and I wanted to stay there
unbothered
except maybe some friendly calls
from winos and hookers
but blues has its price
and solitude is amazing
yes, brother
isn't it amazing

The TRANSMITTER Symbol explained.

My new album, "Transmitter", is coming to Ramble Records sometime early 2023. The album will be released on CD and digital, and will feature 20 tracks curated by the Ramble head himself, Mike Sill. The exclusive artwork is by Justin Jackley, and he also designed four symbols for me to use for the album cover. Earlier this year I have decided to use one of them as my new logo.

The "Transmitter Symbol" as I call it, is very European in its nature, and it visually combines everything I love about Kraftwerk and Magma. You might remember the simple yet effective Kraftwerk designs, and the simple, yet striking Magma logo also worn as necklaces by members of the French band.

This simple symbol has a similar effect, and it sums up perfectly all of the "genres" of music I touch and perform since the very beginning. "I am just a transmitter".

So, that's it, the TRANSMITTER logo, my new and long-time logo for all things Kaufmann and Majdecki-Janicki. Better than any photo, or a logo with text, a logo that will never grow old. Thank you, Justin!

You can contact Justin and see his amazing work @ http://justinjackley.com

"Years as Gold Philosophy" complete chapbook. Originally published with Books on Blog, 2010.

YEARS AS GOLD PHILOSOPHY

Years as gold philosophy
sky sailing, restricted much
in sweet wallflowers known to be birds,
bonfires, charmingly cold
after-dinner stupidity
hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works
which handed you the sunset
a flake, sky sea-iris
some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,
spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining
as most multiform scripts
seeds rise, there’s sunlight
familiar rocks, somber love and God
cathedral on press sheets
red at office flanks
glass image  wheels
suddenly without dusk
open you alone,
the way you ripple my eyes,
spread nothing on dead Roman wings
asking the trees for some music – fine jungle halls
to remember
slip poised, together, facing your wings,
conducting the starless sheaf, after all,
we’re finally together

ANIMAL HANDS

World servant on vacation… not my life at all
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet
of the past or things continued… no miserable material
identifying my sovereign  chemistry… I smoke too much
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction
in eternal exercise…  in hearts and lines unknown, voids
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged
dense reincarnation
in animal hands instead

RESTLESS CUBES

Rain falls on our impulses, forbidden formless waves
against sparkles of dancing flowers, shoreward
wet in gallop, hidden along strokes of moonlight
a hopeless song in the wings of dullness

Dead tears, powdered blue gods, furrows of sleep
on bright cruel breasts, beloved rock of sacrifice
never warm, manifold faces of heat, fresh mouths
of bitter rats, terrible children to this country

Dust apples, penetrating the breaking sun, healing mists
of indelicate shining, clamor time, shivering on beds
of frozen leaves, time rises, crying, wistful on fire
to lovers wings, sheets to wrinkled torches

Walking the railway, broke and bridal, unswerving
glades of bohemian roots, square sky fingers, tired
in you, becoming ripples of shell, calm lanterns
vapor of frosty corpses, restless cubes and earthquakes

NOBODY’S BROTHER

Nobody's brother, gray candle in cold sky, burning
dream horizon’s dew, dressed in symbolic birds
fever some more, sighing shriveled, dying
in colder groaning, a beautiful muscle
where roses slept of irrelevant patterns
naphthalene’s bitter vapor cast the day
into full soft deliverance, a mourning summit
I found and sang about, and seeking held into
its demise, waves of impotent walls
pain of roads in stone, healing a whore again
asking for asphalt, stamped departure
of soul, darling black glare, grief beautiful
men… street love, colors of galvanized eyelids
encasing my sand into books of leisure and lanterns
in pornographic pride, shining through my window
vibrating metallic death, stripping again, magma bulk
of ribbon starfish, the rain and spit pools
in playmate brittle collapse
hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams
they’re not my brothers, I’m sorry

DANCER DRAMATICS’ WRITERS

Leaving the country in secrecy
in a cloak of twilight
two years in splendor
or death
the far appointment

two years in hiding
there, in caused perfect harmony
breeding songs
in fashionable verse
to please the vacuum audience

I searched my time
I spent it unaccompanied
I worked in stillness
sonorous pebble
my tables were of gold

why go with dangerous instrumentation
why scribble jazz
pornography
lack of food
angels
biographies
or dancer dramatics’ writers

POET TERRITORY

New walls rise every day, each man is left
shaking, next to the railroad line, Polish
winters are cruel, measuring trains, scraping off rust,
old paint, aluminum swollen eyes, high speed
dancers on linear glass, falling on every mirror:
the next rebirth is closer, a terrible giant
of bathroom wall graffiti, oppression of dogs
in her camera lens, leaning onto each other's
failure, parting ways with beloved folk, fighting
phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends,
delicate urban deaths, synthetic pastures of god,
time zone choking fingers, while cloths of flesh and dust
uncover the room, so suddenly stripped
off its pride, amazed like you, the woman I'll always lose
and learn to lose again... I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, but this here is cupboard wasteland,
uninhabited poet territory

SAILOR’S BREAKFAST

Her relief appears
drums on a highway
in austere script
chew ultra-violet sun
growl
easy to help you
in last minute sea

of relic brass of trees
phased segments of grief
shine parabolic roofs
in oxygen’s diamond
blood ejected, mild
resembling smoke
dying
waiting

I’ll have some coffee, please
and a dreamlike breakfast
pretty
personal
far from the city
ionic calm

draw groups of flare
on the table
miles of the moon
hot-dogs
soothed afternoon eyes
decades left for further sailors

THE PRISONS ARE EMPTY

Sold my collection of old LPs
let the road shine forgotten
allowed the sands to take my name
packed the basics
allowed the pictures to take my face
improvised over the morning
laughed at the immaculate dawn
raced with the night
& won
found my ex in the same old quarter
her favorite corner
asked if she had the will
if the Tarot reads well
if spiders left apartment
found some ancient wine
took her for a walk
met river tribes
seen no policemen
later found my guitar as well
dusted, untouched
knives and candles
buried well in the veil of names
addresses
blood
case filled with lyrics, notes
& sand
staggered, coughed
picked a proper doorbell
rang twice
yawned to the end of night
I know that bitch too well
found an answer to sleep
curly hair approached
velvet breath
fingers of azure
winter coat in the middle of June
that's me, approach the lover
kisses from your brothers
both are now dead
good to be back
the city looks brave
younger
enthralling
perhaps that's because
the prisons are empty

LEGEND

Flame painted sky opens wide
shows nothing
but slow coke heaven
white walls in ruin
prostitute angels
sucking
the Red Flower
dry
shows ages of spirit's
roadblock
slaves' energy
fragmented hands
groping for earth
where they were thrown
immediately after
the Tree
was plucked
shows nothing
but close dementia
messiah madmen
prophesying a very close end
when it's already
done
& this culture
has nothing more
to offer
but stale repeat performance
feasting on swollen corpses
till it's forgotten
what it's like to
actually
create
how it's like
to be
absolutely
wrong
& sacred
in mistake

SIZES OF TIME, PICTURES OF BLACKBIRDS

Blackbirds framed heavy
full on your branch, familiar to you
dark budding pools of fingers
autumn chandeliers on fire.

We used your dead bridal cloth
feasted on wistful hermits.
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,
ripples of shells from rage to pain.

And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied
of return. Unswerving glade, so young
and cold, singing of deep calm space
mermaids and easy Indian time.

Pointed street, the root of our planet
hollow, laughing, sedated in little
quakes,  crushes the old chandeliers
rushes towards the square sad sky
and makes the blackbirds sing
out of frame.

BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL FALLING

In unconscious fascination
while floods go planting the city
and girls hum themselves as hope
pulling in small street tails
west-end truths
intervals of the homeless
and damaged deals
take the cabman where
consternation creatures
wild on the road
involuntarily
attach agonized tears
of neglected, vanished
blocks
to illustrated
remains of eyes
taking the city
by hurt
where broken
is beautiful
falling

LAND YOUR MACHINE

Our houses become a prison…somehow paid
with odd requests – cheerful strings not in store
this is the dawn of true danger – mind games
on mushroom gear and drums, selling ourselves to Muzak
tailored governments…accepting foreign gods
and leaders…nickels on the motordrome…
slob beauty – bumblebee bubble
sun-energized workbench, ribs and powder
young clapping night

Our houses become a prison…god rope girl, floating
fork, the prize and questioned direction – desert out
on gaudy trains, fantastic nipples, frosty vitamins
of youth – alive orbital thing – solid fence airplane
in safe gyrations, American symbol – asteroids mixed
with books, funk prophet wad
obsolete minutes lost in heartbeat, exploring your
ocean… yeah, I could… kiss… you

Our houses become a prison…happening arms
blow jobs – examine recent years, your tingling shirt lifts
illusion, practical, then alone
possible spare parts
mildly protesting own mouths
grounded against the building
gravity slaves
it’s usually Earth, man…
land your machine

OUTSKIRTAL CHILD

Life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

PROFESSION AND THE OCEAN

We had rum and pretty wishes
on island-ideas
of fault, restoration
and time… but you,
my constant surfing angel
slipping on dust, aquariums crashing
into the morning
you saw the details of sky
spoke of sex
Indian massacres
pirate’s fuel
reefs and shark skin… fishes
echoed your grin… then there was
yourself… lost in expedition
with balanced western minds
circling brave for identity
diving in death
of ancient stars, mermaid
horses, drinking cold
salt-water, fading with
a dying nebula – we existed
a thousand tongues and roofs
below… passer-byes to wreck
coast… a year or two ago
what’s the color of town now,
my cordial boat still sailing?

THE SCALPEL

What killed me
was not enough
the holy, clear visioned edge
of a scalpel
lover of god
consuming dreams

Fire or dew
the comfort of my tomb
is a long road
to habit
that grew incredibly young
and tired of thought

Now quiet even sighs
run the dark bright
remembering  lament

My youth has loved the wind
fire unburning

"SATORI IN BERLIN (X-BERG SONGS)" - complete poetry/lyrics chapbook, Kendra Steiner Editions, 2009.

ZEPPELIN BLOSSOM SKY

I can still hear the train at the station
Can still see the kite flyin’ by
Unable to differ directions, now
Utopias real, utopias smile
My deja-vu girl looks through
her kaleidoscope dress and her marmalade shoes
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
headed purity, sanctity, too

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
As some boy learns to play his guitar
The old ones begin to settle the scene
Let the boy, too, win some scars

I can still see the giants in flight
Can still hear the gas in their belly
The beast that one swallowed old Jonas
Spits him out 9 o’clock daily
My deja-vu girl sees the make-up
Considers it fake, considers her break-ups
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed adieu, then be it, it’s fine

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
Well at night you can read by the stars
Suns of all worlds, of all ages to come
Like us must earn their scars

They can still see the beggars in time
Can still hear the whispered goodbyes
The words that echo all mornings
As the giants come over at 9
See, Jonas has fled from his cell
The prison his maker, his tester decreed
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed one night, like a thief

LIEBLING

It’s not all about my diplomacy
Your judgment or given free will
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
See it
His wife, her dog or me
Darling,
I beg of you
Be

It’s not all about a change in character
A change in the weather or Spree
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
Go there
Swim the canal and see
Darling,
I beg to be free

It’s not all about the sleepin’ barge
The cross or the coma or test
Liebling, forget me, resist
Let be
Or let me
Forgive all your best
Darling,
Be secrets kept

Darling,
I’m not a hotel
And neither are you, you’re a lodge
Very few people check in
Liebling, I need to check out
Take the express right now
Swim the canal at once
And rest, rest tonight

GYPSY BOY BLUE

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
The light put on again
Ain’t it so, Marlene
The light you’ll let conquer again
The one that’s always there
For gypsy boy blue, his tired approach
The only true lover you had
The only addiction to date
Gypsy boy blue
Comes precious tonight
But late, way too late

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Your eyelids all heavy with rain
Ain’t it so, Marlene
That „finding the middle ground” rain
The one you liked best
For gypsy boy blue, his vague romance
The only true lover you met
The only addiction you had
Gypsy boy blue
Comes naked tonight
But trial becomes his fate

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Oppressed with your sense of surprise
Ain’t it so, Paradise
That “losing the middle ground” plight
The one you made your mind with
For gypsy boy blue, so clearly exclaimed
The only invisible gift
The only true lover you had
One and only outside the game

DERELICT DWELLERS

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all quite the same, go, look...
Tryin’ to dance like swans
We’re always some worm on a hook...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to time
Yuppie conquerors move out
Derelict dwellers come by
Filling the walls with their lives
The leaves with colors of Spring
Church with the glory of Sky
Empty, you’d say, but look...
Now there’s really a God inside

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all like a prayer, go, look...
No matter the written word
No matter the holy books...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to ghost
There’s something behind this scene
So lean to the highest cost
Scratching the walls with a heart
The leaves with letters of death
Church with the glory of Breath
See how it’s, too, on a hook...
While the House of the Spirit denies

Love drives by a new razor
Love squats the Unholy Divide
As yuppie conquerors move out
And derelict dwellers come by

Love drives by any roadmap
Love squats the highway by noon
As midnight shines over the City
Its lovers fall onto the New

THE ARK

And it’s Shakespeare with a strap-on
And it’s Gracie on a Wing
Lurkin’ in the backyard of a Dream
Longin’ to be sacred
Way beyond belief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The blissed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

And it’s Bourbon with Baudelaire
And it’s Michael on the phone
Lurkin’ in the background of a scream
Longin’ to be wasted
A way to keep things brief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The missed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

Come, it’s penniless and bitter
Come, three pennies ain’t enough
Lurkin’ in the shadows of your cough
Longin’ to be lonely
A way to get relief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The quick

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

BRECHT’S PROUD OF SIN

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
In the stars
In femme-fatales stare
He’s guilty of all their affairs
All suicidal men
Brecht’s bound to be guilty of air

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of pistols
Shot into midnight’s shock
He’s guilty of all little Mackies
All jargon and all pain
And he’s soon to be guilty of pen

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of Lady’s eastern fan
Blurred into distance,
A butterfly splits in vain
Open hearts and dirty deeds
And he’s soon to be guilty of men

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

UNTRUE

You speak to me untrue, speak to me... like She once did
Or else you might only pass by
This house or any other
I’ve happened to occupy
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll leave you alone with your pride...

You speak to me untrue; you memorized your lifetime well
Learned to pick a proper truth, a right-on-target phrase
Speak to me untrue, your memories all fake, I can tell
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you homeless and bare...

Don’t try to fit my world; you’ll never do with who you are
You’ll never get there with chameleon skin
Lips very thin
Fake-colored eyes
They all mean to me farewell,
Aufwiedersehen for good
Without a tear, without a sigh...

Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you just with my eyes

You speak to me untrue, speak to me...  as rhythm fits
Or else the cradle turns
Your crafted trickery burns
And I’ll go last till you’re done
I’ve always been One with the Sun
Speak to me untrue,
I carry no gun...

You choose the proper facts only
Forever, untrue, on the run

TWICE BORN GIPSY
(for Roky Erickson)

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always been here before
You’ve been a hope unturned
A stone never covered with moss
Your demons were slaughtered at night
Your gremlins forever do play
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely on the way
I’m with you – not only today...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always seen it before
You’ve been a coat outworn
A shield for the enemy, bone
Your gremlins have pictures of beauty
You’ve given away those eyes
Blue and green, forever seen
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Livin’ twice the Dream
I’m with you – the Gipsy comes in...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Your circle’s forever unbroken
You’ve been the Saint Electric
The bargain and the token
Your sorrows have colors of heaven
Your words the beauty of skin
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely will it spin
I’m with you – that’s all there will be...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
And sing a Song for me

"Unrepeated Blues"

Well I'm grooving on a Sunday
And my fingertips are green
From a flight, one flight too many
On the London groove machine
And I'm thinking to my body
While I'm preaching to my soul
That an army of forgivers
Couldn't quench my thirst for gold

There's an alley in my city
Where I walked out all the blues
With a woman in her window
That's too old for hanging loose
From a corner of salvation
Throwing coins into the air
I'm a sucker for elation
And I'd like to stay this way

So I walk on light unbothered
As you stagger in the dark
While the fireflies keep floating
In my baby's wooden sparks
She says ain't no coffin big enough
To fit your box of things
Where I keep my poems only
You keep selling wedding rings

It's the scent of morning petrol
That might keep my words unsaid
But I never said a thank you
For the rhythms in my head
You supply and try immensely
Like a set of evening clothes
It's whatever, babe, you fancy
We are now tomorrow's ghosts

So you say so long my partner
I can't help but be surprised
By the way you choose your answers
To this inharmonious plight
Of a spirit once too eager
Now too old to carry on
For the bird consuming madness
From its broken earthly throne

"Box of Air" (2003).

Bring me plastic boxes, where I can put my stuff
Bring me my rockets, bring me my soldiers, son

Bring me plastic boxes to capture the unseen
Bring me, son, the bouquet of fresh blue stream

Bring me plastic boxes, to keep the truth inside
It’s too early, my dear son, to let it all go out

Bring me plastic boxes, to hide all my jewels
Make it fast, make it quick, don’t you be a fool

The prophets have told me once when I was young
That once the night will fall and Judgment Day will come

It shall be released from plastic boxes everywhere
One box for some water, the other for some air

One box for some fire and one box for some Earth
And other numerous boxes contain a lot of hellish pearls

Bring me plastic boxes, to count the pearls inside
The day is almost there, the truth I’ll no longer hide

Bring me plastic boxes, I’m sure I’m playing fair
Along with the forces of water, fire, Earth & air

of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air
of water, fire, Earth & air

Look who’s there

SMALL TALK AT BUKOWSKA AND LIBELTA: A poet in Poznan. - Poetry Chapbook, 2012.

“Krabo”

They say moon is the same for everyone
Streets are hostile or friendly
Nothing depends on your luck
You exist cause you’re taught to be handy

And in such rhymes and meaninglessnesses
I watch my friends perceive the world
their family, spirit, room – they make
photographs of joyous faces
while watching weather reports
from the bottom of a supermarket cart
they produce the trash
they later consume
and shit in the evening
their next morning’s bourgeois breakfasts

That’s why I scream to the same old moon, or sing, or write
on tenement walls
“krabo”
the only word ‘cept “samo”
I find powerful enough
to describe this toilet
called life
on Earth

“Poznan After Midnight”

I’m an actor turned hobo – deceitfully fat on the wealth of the city – sending poems to outer space on train’s smoke rings at midnight, walking to the engine’s high pressure rhythm – that sounds just like bop, if I were educated enough to know it, though now I am, only weaker – I grew tired, tired of river bank lovers, ancient chimneys and tenement stench, weakened by the load of death I witness every day while passing side streets, rural paths and railroad lines, looking for a place, a trace, a lover – but I’m tired of river lovers – as I said before, I’m a hobo, drunkard murderer and a million worse things than that – I’m older than the streets as you know them, and though someone put a stop sign in front of this body, useless heap of autumn-smelling flesh, I go on, dirty container of blood that could save lives if it weren’t contaminated with truth – venomous drops of fish jaw mornings on coughed out sidewalks force my phlegm to form poems, if you call them that, with bits of this blood, the juice I call my own, which will take me to knife fights in the docks, for a woman, a friend, whatever, and everyone will die on such morning, everything will end, there will be no tombstones, mourners or ceremonies – tenement lights go down – just the lonesome whistle of the first, welcoming brightening docks miles away, or last, train, bidding the city adieu – with its wealth and beggars and traveling hobos like me, me – who’ll be far away from death scene, riding the lucky train, laughing hungry with the heavens, cause I’m thin, thin as newspapers soaking in the slaughter of an oyster morning and last black and white cigarette in Poznan after midnight.

“When the Dawn Got Drunk”

Why were you sleeping
when the dawn got drunk
on freezing vines of night
pouring through tenement fingers
stardust women
placing bets
on drooling horses
drawing attention to dust
of pistol wings
shooting over the city
alit & bare
suddenly sure it’s leaking
nightmares into the void
of cruel electric namesakes
shining on bars
leaving the proof
of existence
on ghastly store windows
mirrors to hooker faces
loser matchsticks
bum & writer’s apathy
used to snails of midnight
creeping
over their work
why were you dreaming
when the dawn got stoned

“Last Words of a Famous Sailor”

Write faster than Dylan. Thomas, of course. How fast? How fast? The young poet intents to grab the cloud, moon, a solitary smoker in the shadow of the sun, whatever, whoever. He will never succeed. It’s not a matter of pace. It’s not a matter of talent. Who is it talking? Does my head hurt so bad, or was it just a suburban katzenjammer for a well-fed burgeoning scumbag. I intend to vomit. On your desk, headmaster, preacher, politician, pig. I intend to piss. It was never my, or the young poet’s, intent to write. Do it faster. You’re inefficient. I tried to draw an elephant in my cupboard, rhinos in a field of sunflowers, smiling, bathing in the yellow nimbus of whatever ambient music was playing around. Who put the tape in my recorder? I wanted to make, not listen, and act, not think, but schools changed that. I was lucky. The young poet grabs a cup of coffee from my latest mistress and chokes on blood. Pretending survival. I incorporate a manta into my pot mandala and float with it to kill the whale. In its belly a solitary smoker pretends he’s on the street, trying to grab the young poet observing him from 2nd floor window. Everything is hopeless, but the contestant on a TV show said amoeba is a defunct sailor. Guess he was right, or was it the acid I had for breakfast, including young poet’s urge to write. Faster! Faster! We can almost smell the streets you were raised in this time, if you continue at this pace and amount of detail we’ll publish your book in golden laurel leaves all across the pages, and we’re talking gold, as in golden archways of heaven’s dome, but you’ve gotta use these words. Heaven. Dome. At the edge of infinite quarrel, my mistress yawns and polishes her mirror. I am crazy. So is the intent I had when younger, so is the intent I’ll have in my death bed. Vomit. Piss. Or even shit. Who? What does it matter?

“Beatnicks w/ Parachutes”

Rust
gives rivers
brand new names
dust
shelves people
and their stain
rivers
flow
w/ brand new friends
women
love their
ramblin’ men

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

Landing zone
& who’d predict
wonders
that the fool depicts
angry
art
was heaven sent
angel
screams
his compliments

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

“Bone Yoke”

Seeds were already there. Fishes were swimming round, in sterile bowls of solitude, like plastic christs on judgment day, falling from the seller’s leper box. One for a penny! You remember dogs chewing on chink bones, music boxes swinging moog versions of rock’n’roll standards, flowers incubating in tar. Correct the wavelength. You are obviously sleeping on a rag of tiger eyes, sewn together they watch the sunset. I remember winter. Is it of importance, what you remember? Jobless motors of progress wish they were nothings and zeroes, but it is them to play the heroes when cameras come around on Sunday. Virus fingers type the void word. It is one word. What do you carry – the clever martyrs were levitating a long time ago, and plastic christs aren’t the first totems to fall – fuel that’ll ignite the fire, of what you call an apocalypse, revelation… who could predict the outcome of such a meeting? You were painting your women, I was writing mine, somebody told me our spirits might rhyme – of course, I never wrote this song, though this chorus remained for a long time tucked in one of my notebooks, with an accompanying note saying “slaughter”, and a phone number. I’m not sure who slaughtered who, or what slaughter was discussed, or who went to what slaughter, it only reminded me of Indians, people of the Maya, Inca, all the space-thrown tribes of earthdawn. And I recalled their words of bone yoke. Bone. Yoke. What do you carry? I am a tribal portrait. Complete with wristwatch chains.

“The Young and the Hip”

The young and the hip give thanks
to bungalow hosts
party pigs
lipstick leather belts
vomiting dawn on the world
reaching out
for another bottle of whisky
give thanks
to the wind that shakes fragile bodies
exposed to sun and moon
writing in tribal riddles
dressing in contours of sleep
furious, young
emblazoned
setting sails on sundown
drifting with sunrise, hooray!
screams of birds impale us
pirates execute us
sing us songs
written back when
the world was fourteen
give thanks
to the idol totem
thin on the TV screen
high on milk and vegetable shakes
when we were drunk on beer
cheap intents
& guardians
give thanks
cause we were there
for them

“Cotton Railway Blues”

I thought of a ride this morning, I was muttering through Pisces horoscope, she was naked on the bed beside me – we had good sex and talked nice, I thought of a church choir accompanying these words, if they would rhyme, they’d be perfect gospel, and I thought of the laughing priest who’s done my exercise today, over an empty page, or with an arthouse camera, stunned by the ripple in death bearing heaven – I thought it was going to rain – and if I were a bluesman, I’ll surely sing today, these words could work well with harmonicas jiving, or a bop song, with crazy weird pianos banging on a drumground of coke – I thought of that and a French maid I’d take with me to the railway, we’d work on the Pasadena rhythm, I thought of her lashes, then of the trees in the garden – what garden, asked the priest, and in doubts his debts were paid, no longer he needed supporting the skies, falling in flame anyway, on the day I was picking cotton – black gold picking for white trash, there in the orange container, drawn away from my thoughts. At last. Now here’s the big moment, whole world wants to listen – trouble is, I’ve got nothing to say but rubbish, rubbish I found while drunk or rubbish I wrote on a freight train.

“Bukowska & Libelta (1)”

Negro rhythm? Indian rhythm?
what are they doing in Poznan?
Polish rhythm?
Dock the rhythm
with the barges
French? Spanish?
Mix the language
with the stone
trombones
of our forefathers
space mothers
chalk sisters
coal brothers
What frame? And which
genius painting
needs one?
it is spread around
a few quarters
here, on the door,
there, on the wall
it’s sprayed from Bukowska to Libelta
like small talk
in the pubs and bars
around
in everything we inhabit
we are lucky to have such artists
Art? Art brut? What art? Why
art – and question me no more
for I won’t paint again
until rebirth
maybe then I’ll dip the brush
in small talk, brave talk,
slave talk – iconic volumes
of cave talk
and I’ll try to conceive a new world
outside of the page
but now I’m younger
than mad talk
and I qualify for milkshakes
at Wanda’s – nothing really special about them
only sometimes old sailors come in
and let me drink whisky
in her, I hear the rhythms
and paper knows no limit, like sky or brain
it’s clear, except for cloudy voices
you best learn to ignore: this is small talk
tycoons of death
their hands already upon you
way back from the cradle

“Hep Chord”

First bass note, numb, falls above the landscape of cymbals, walls are erected at instant, of freshly painted faces in war colors – death colors – pain colors, fervently aware and improvised on the surface of moonlit stairs, circling down the theater, and the audience is ready to listen, poets are ready to write down the night, scent of burnt potatoes, Joe’s grandma cooks above, if they have any smell, that’s the smell of this ongoing black, the black on Michael’s lips, the untold tale he yet has to offer, on the altar of sleeplessness angel, vivid break in character, off goes the drum. Shy solos follow. Was it a trumpet? Was anything “sounding”, “pounding”, “pumping”, or “screaming” – are screams necessary now, when they’ve become weapons of the mainstream, once silent in ignorance, now shouting against the flowers – and I’m speaking of wildwood flowers, bare before the wolf’s teeth, and the wolf in Isabel’s song was a rapist, nothing more, for she needed to be fucked right away. We’re hanging, can’t you see that? Hanging from the cliff of compulsory shells, naked to the wonder of creation, waiting for sound, but the first bass note is hovering, hovering still, and nothing really happens except the shy presence of piano and gentle waves of a trumpet, fueled by the warmth of a Negro's hand – a rare sight to see here – I shook it backstage, later on, and asked “what the hell were you doing?” “Shit, man… was just waiting for the hep chord”.

"Cargo" (a poem, 2016).

cult
single catchy bass riff
Cuban djembe, three dancers
sacred mountains/peace guaranteed here
enter at own risk
danger! Danger! Exclaim
pro ditchers roam here
hunting young behaviorists
tempting theater demons
of madness, those brothers
on
Japanese pages on modern
dance
European pages on modern
writing
American pages on
psychiatry
danger! Danger! No strangers allowed
here, those bound by ties
of modern art bring cult
or family
cargo, sexy demons theater
madness, another tiny cut
another future won up
for the bringer of magic to magic
lands unconquered
still free
cult
dance
psychiatry
bring them nothing but pills, chief!

"Andy's Breed" (February 2016).

We all came from a white head womb
Gun wounded chest and Nico's perfume
David's dreams of savior rock
Kraftwerk's beats around the block
Tribute songs and galleries
Catholic nights of memories

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodbye

Influences change like clothes
Gears of mannequins exposed
Queens of night, so masculine
Decadence once feminine
Everything got too confused
Dirty streets got overused

Andy's breed, strange humankind
Curtain sized, a potent mime
Posed in front of Andy's eye
Licked it clean and said goodnight

"Out-of-character" (New poem, 2022/07/05).

„Sister Ray” on the radio-
active
ocean of standard vote/gig flyers
orange juice
soda
just in glass
no plastic
I sigh significant
to other vibrations
of Kosmische silver machines
bikes & planes
of steward-crew stellar
soul
debt

themselves whispering:
respect every Venus
vase & table
no filter fags
tropical plants
& flowers
well-worn LP covers carry
over the edge
of lightning
little world music intervals
more reverberation &
parrots

cut to synthesis solo, zenith
sunbath Sunday

paralyzing
book pages
entwine
murmur American
guns & stars
naive and deathlike
spirit seekers
Lotus eaters

voices deliver no message
there is no message in my lyrics
there are no lyrics
in your message, so
pencils shake rhythm
& voice time as one
again
lunar millions out
again,
out