with anguish
comes art
with art
comes anguish
beat poet travel ing look ing for inspiration seek ing self in the move ment
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
he pushes his finger into the vodka cranberry between us stirs it around and brings the damp flesh to his mouth. i watch and wait for him to respond to my question. i dig a fingernail into my palm nervous, wanting, afraid that he found my question stupid or immature.
"I'd say i dont have much inspiration left." he laughed. his dark eyes avoided mine and he brought his glass to his mouth. the red swirled against the white of his moustache. he was at least 3 times my age. he was beautiful. and difficult. and elusive.
"well you have to have some to come here and play piano every night."
"as much as a pavlov dog, as much as a circus elephant. they get peanuts, i get vodka. and you say here like it's somewhere special, come on now darling, it's a glorified Days Inn, the only thing special about the joint is that i've yet to ejaculate on a bathroom wall, but i kid you not, my time is coming. no pun intended."
"Doc, you ready for another?" the bartender called from behind the bar.
"no Brady, thank you. you darling?"
"no."
the bartender dropped his head back to his scratch offs and continued to finger his own bottle of beer.
"i think people who play instruments, or sing, or 'do' art, are inspired in some way. I mean, if you arent, why not do something else?"
"Im over 70 darling, what do you suggest i do? work at stewarts? be a roofer?"
he has cut through all of my thoughts. questions. interest. i am a mere drunken patron at the bar, and he is the drunken piano player. i take a drink of my gin and he reaches over the table to grab my wrist. his hand is large, thick, strong, calloused.
"why do you do that?" he turns my arm over revealing the tattoo on my wrist. it is a typewriter key. a letter. J. for my mother. June.
"do what?"
"stink up the flesh with this garbage?"
i pull my hand out of his. he is uninterested. i am drunk. he is a jerk. he is old. i finish my drink and slide to the edge.
"what?" he laughs. condescending. aware of his insults and uncaring.
i walk toward the door.
"wait, what's your name?"
i continue. i slip my fingers beneath the handle.
"you've come here every night for three weeks and you can't tell me your name? you know mine!"
i push the door feeling the heat of august on my face.
"if you ever, change your mind about leaving me ... behind, baby, bring it to me, bring your sweet loving, bring it on home to me..." he begins to sing behind me. and i turn. i am weak.
"you laughed when i left, but you only hurt yourself." I respond. i lean on the door still open. he stands. he walks toward the door.
*
"I'd say i dont have much inspiration left." he laughed. his dark eyes avoided mine and he brought his glass to his mouth. the red swirled against the white of his moustache. he was at least 3 times my age. he was beautiful. and difficult. and elusive.
"well you have to have some to come here and play piano every night."
"as much as a pavlov dog, as much as a circus elephant. they get peanuts, i get vodka. and you say here like it's somewhere special, come on now darling, it's a glorified Days Inn, the only thing special about the joint is that i've yet to ejaculate on a bathroom wall, but i kid you not, my time is coming. no pun intended."
"Doc, you ready for another?" the bartender called from behind the bar.
"no Brady, thank you. you darling?"
"no."
the bartender dropped his head back to his scratch offs and continued to finger his own bottle of beer.
"i think people who play instruments, or sing, or 'do' art, are inspired in some way. I mean, if you arent, why not do something else?"
"Im over 70 darling, what do you suggest i do? work at stewarts? be a roofer?"
he has cut through all of my thoughts. questions. interest. i am a mere drunken patron at the bar, and he is the drunken piano player. i take a drink of my gin and he reaches over the table to grab my wrist. his hand is large, thick, strong, calloused.
"why do you do that?" he turns my arm over revealing the tattoo on my wrist. it is a typewriter key. a letter. J. for my mother. June.
"do what?"
"stink up the flesh with this garbage?"
i pull my hand out of his. he is uninterested. i am drunk. he is a jerk. he is old. i finish my drink and slide to the edge.
"what?" he laughs. condescending. aware of his insults and uncaring.
i walk toward the door.
"wait, what's your name?"
i continue. i slip my fingers beneath the handle.
"you've come here every night for three weeks and you can't tell me your name? you know mine!"
i push the door feeling the heat of august on my face.
"if you ever, change your mind about leaving me ... behind, baby, bring it to me, bring your sweet loving, bring it on home to me..." he begins to sing behind me. and i turn. i am weak.
"you laughed when i left, but you only hurt yourself." I respond. i lean on the door still open. he stands. he walks toward the door.
*
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
back road
farm house
short dress
cigarette crushed
wait it out
on a crooked porch
leaning on a crocked doorway
sweat steals down sternum
lucinda spinning
jukebox lust
breath slow
headlight shadow
desperate silohuette
nail flesh
hand mouth
tongue throat
a moon filled
a sky turned on
a field blossomed
an hour lost
an hour found
over before
it begins
alone
on a crocked porch
farm house
short dress
cigarette crushed
wait it out
on a crooked porch
leaning on a crocked doorway
sweat steals down sternum
lucinda spinning
jukebox lust
breath slow
headlight shadow
desperate silohuette
nail flesh
hand mouth
tongue throat
a moon filled
a sky turned on
a field blossomed
an hour lost
an hour found
over before
it begins
alone
on a crocked porch
Monday, February 07, 2011
toast for breakfast
irish mist
felt like family
in a strange home
smells i would later recognize
as
love
and acceptance
approval total
complete actuality for my BE
sixteen
midnight baseball games
with a town full of
good ol boys
and booze
bases created of garbage cans
filled with fire
toe safe
giggle flirt
ferris wheel summer romance
lost in a spiral of
who did what for me
when
and no im sorry
but you can't
see them
again
shake my head
close my eyes
burn the memories
stop the cries
..................
and for ani turn:
you cant sell me...on your optimism
it takes a stiff upper lip
just to hold up my face
i got to suck it up and savor
the taste of my own behavior
this is not who i meant to be
this is not how i meant to feel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRbyE9FVQ-0&feature=related
irish mist
felt like family
in a strange home
smells i would later recognize
as
love
and acceptance
approval total
complete actuality for my BE
sixteen
midnight baseball games
with a town full of
good ol boys
and booze
bases created of garbage cans
filled with fire
toe safe
giggle flirt
ferris wheel summer romance
lost in a spiral of
who did what for me
when
and no im sorry
but you can't
see them
again
shake my head
close my eyes
burn the memories
stop the cries
..................
and for ani turn:
you cant sell me...on your optimism
it takes a stiff upper lip
just to hold up my face
i got to suck it up and savor
the taste of my own behavior
this is not who i meant to be
this is not how i meant to feel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRbyE9FVQ-0&feature=related
Thursday, February 03, 2011
shocked
through the head
the top
the pale blonde
wheat seep through
the floor
bored with the way he traces his finger down my
fore
armed
with a clarity
and a vengence unmatched
stare at me
with eyes small
black diamond cursing pupil
metamorph into something cautious
creationist
keep my in your black book
list
number
7
on weekends
and tuesdays she doesn't come out
too busy with
words
and
phrases
her aggression
her frigid phases
turn the style beg
you come home
before theh winter begins
through the head
the top
the pale blonde
wheat seep through
the floor
bored with the way he traces his finger down my
fore
armed
with a clarity
and a vengence unmatched
stare at me
with eyes small
black diamond cursing pupil
metamorph into something cautious
creationist
keep my in your black book
list
number
7
on weekends
and tuesdays she doesn't come out
too busy with
words
and
phrases
her aggression
her frigid phases
turn the style beg
you come home
before theh winter begins