fact

the soul of every city is revealed through the street people, and it changes as they do…

DON’T QUESTION IT

 DON’T QUESTION IT

sometimes it’s best
to be like the ants
and never ask why
you are building
a castle out of dirt
just keep building it
keep moving forth
keep working towards
that mysterious something:
the reward, as if it isn’t death

The Duke

(on the bridge b/w Miami Beach & Miami on a cloudy Saturday afternoon)

——————————————————–

THE IDEAL

for some reason
they all wanted to be john wayne

he was the ideal

strong
silent “dumb as a bag of hammers”
no bullshit

absolutely no
bullshit

except for the forty pounds of it
they found
hung up in his guts
when
he croaked

Going Nowhere

Going Nowhere

it’s alright to pilfer
from bukowski
a thought or three
(when no one’s looking),
but when you steal
his shoes belt soiled
undershorts typer
booze tombstone bluebird
personality
(along with every opinion
he’s ever
proffered),
it’s like
robbing
a bank in the
nude
with nothing but a
giraffe
for a getaway
car.

get on the horn, asshole

get on the horn, asshole

this rabid pyramid schemer
of fiftyfivehundred “maggot mile”, boca
raton, appropriates in his subterranean boilerroom
two dozen or so ill-spoken telemarketers
dressed in rebuttal sheets
and lousy
self-worth, whose moral
fiber his excellency ineloquently assassinates
between pump-and-dump… when sales are slow,
or perhaps it’s the way his delectable
eminence minuets
on soft-soled crocodile
loafers, the mattress of his plus-sized womanly
arse smuggling
deathly gall, for god and country… or because
you too have witnessed our host’s
nosehairs have grown
a mustache, remembering the time
his dimpled fist choked a fountain-pen
salesman’s festive necktie while showering blue
invective over his sorry balding pate…

i have also boondoggled a pettifogging snit

which is neither here nor there
when night runs away with her dreams
and you
find yourself dead broke out-of-commission
and married to a bullhorn;

i know the feeling

Reprieve

Sunday night in downtown Cologne, and the dark cobbled alleyways leading me hither and thither up down and past little upended cafes and small murmuring restaurants. I walk into an oldtyme jazz bar, the grizzled keep approaches. “Ein bier, bitte.” Above me, a shelf of ancient steins, evil statuettes and colorful flags all around. There’s a three-man band adlibbing with their instruments on stage. A cigartoking bloke in a peasantbeard and fat leathers stands guard, the sentinel of the tipjar, a saxophone case. He puffs puffs, gulps from his healthy mug and peers suspiciously seriously in the direction of everyone. Meanwhile, my draft arrives. I fumble with the coins in my pocket, clap four euros down and sip at the foam. I wipe it off my lips with my sleeve, get a table by the window and feel a little better being off my feet, raw and blistered, primordial things. I feel a little better and yet a little leifer, liver, stormplagued thoughts deepmingling in the scurl of my heart. The veils of my memory slipping themselves off. Stumbling dints of biting consciousness arrest my ears forehead eyes, the wounded emblems of night, disposed of their meaning. I lift my drink, cheers to nothing; this cheap grail mocking all my secret failures and maladies. In the hallway, a papierkrattler mask hangs, and you pay for that. The Mother of God melting of the clock, and you haven’t paid yet. The sweetness of sound, a bass guitar, the Germanic bloodbabble of the libbylush lit hush of people around me. Their forms wavering in all of their quietcreeping perversions. A tipsy frau with bad teeth. Bacillus Cereus in a filigree light. I finish my beer, drink one more and walk back outside into the cold aching streets gently upwardly curving, my sore feet taking me along the Rhine up three stairflights through a squareful of scrabbling pigeons to the floodlit cathedral. It’s the best, I have found, to come here in the evening. The doors are still open, gargoyles lunging over me. The priest nods as I walk past him and sit down in the last pew, halfdrunk. Faraway, the christfigure looks tiny on the cross, a soft reddish candlelight glowing upon his offering – his suffering, wretched humanity. I have given up on Christianity, but not the myth, or the monomyth. And as I sit here, half in darkness and half in light, I marvel over the gothic architecture and the six hundred plus years it took to build this shrine. Stainedglass, nave and majestic columns; softperfumes of gesturing color. I fold my hands in my lap, ask for nothing from any god, but still, I feel warm in here, serene and strangely uncursed.

J.A.C. (Journeyman’s Anti-Chronicles)

The Uncall

It started in the middle of the night with a cockroach. Then came the octave strains and the way it assailed my inner ear – the why of the yauncy and the darcy and the nilly rising melancholy of your murderous nightsea. The one that waves wherever you don’t. The one that foams when your sails finally belly. I’ve been on it once and I’ve been perfectly sundered. I woke up a trinity – three souls instead of one guile, or one spite meaning several and a litany. I prefer the former. I produce the litter and the letter for the lover or the nail. The eight of eleven and ought’s a stranze themes and it started losa wiaze. It’s very straunge indeed.

J.A.C. (Johns and Clergymen)

初当り３２１回

北斗揃いひっくるめてボヌスの期待継続回数は５連でしたっけ？ ３．９連じゃないの？ 北斗キツキツ。やめるかな。 初当り３２１回、総ＪＡＣ１１３２、らおう撃破一回 …

~ Everyone wants to live high up in the music…

Quotes for the Unbalanced

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance. ~ James Joyce

Men have called me mad; but the question is not settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence – whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound – does not spring from disease of thought. ~ Edgar Allen Poe

mindopera

mindopera

on a moth’s brittle wings
my bliss hangs
fluttering among toadstools
and obelisks
in a crumbling town
by the sea 
purple
with sunrise, or suddenly
sometimes
when the strenuous
hours
awaken
fragile dream or lewd and sudden
impulse

a ghostbird sings

and my mind plunges into a clutter of filthy
hours