Taping Asides

I’m a throwback-to,
a cutup of,
a dead, asocial,
intermediate stage.

on a rock show
shown, in a song,
from a Bertha.

Then, I was a kid,
a twin tower,
not withstanding,
for a lot—

then, I would not
a lot to stand for,
back again.

I think, I sink,
in the Pepsi-cola,
in the gallon.

I choke, I coke
out red tan
in white carton.

What can I do,
I can guess?

I’ve tried,
my pocket holes;

I did address,
a book,
to date.

I, once kept
in a junk drawer.

I was not tidily
kept, the junk drawer,
or the little junk.

Holdings on.

I found a
all folded.

I liken and sense if calzoning.

holding on,
silent now.

Just a minitaure,
just impressions

where it
they used to pour.

A black-plaited

a reviving,
lust affair.

I swipe white
cookie dust,
near in my eyes,
in white magic mountains.

I haven’t had,
cooking yet,

A model best,
goes to, a
particular typing,
of childish abuse.

Now my poem,
says, self-

I word, I will,
not have a vote.

I do not dry harbor,
the infinite, or
the manuscripts,

or the poet.

Matricidal middling?

So Christiania
did defeat

I swirl ointment,
over orifice,
over pre-skin,

observing particle,
of accuse, this time
in your curls.

Ay Johnny

I saw a movie one time,
it starred Gregory Peck

and your fall-by-the sword
love affair with Errol Flynn,

I said “Oh, no! no! I’ve been through
this movie before.”

All I really wanna do,
(sittin’ on a barbed wire fence),

singin’ love’s praises, I sung
the song slowly.

I’m on the pavement (muttering small
talk at the wall), only sighing:

I can walk, around the block,

I see my light come shining,
got my back to the sun,

sick and tired of the war,
got a new pony and I’ll lie

in my bed, once again.

My name it is nothing by the name
of Priest; they asked me what my name was,

(his name wasn’t Henry Porter)
I said “Captain Kidd”,

but I feel just like a Jesse James.

I was young when I left home,
I’ll be a long time gone

walkin’ down the line,
that long lonesome road, babe—

I can’t help it if I’m lucky.

When Blindness Does

When blindness does not take hold,
as in the past
and assuredly at an approaching
your voice is a wish to be my anchor—
dark blue and warming.

When your will for water rises onto
my countenance,
cheering through the gray lines of eye-
white evaporate, in
a tiny mirage
of golds suffused,
as a personal
study for salvation-grace;

when shooting dances surround
our conjoined
orange mind, traces crisp,
traces hesitation…

You await by twin endtips cornering
my silent smile.