shots of gordon's vodka
christ i did not recognize
how much of the fifth we
consumed before i launched
my own drink (shots now,
ann is dead in bed,
plastered & just getting over a
flu bug,
she sucked down a lot of this
vodka too.
water chaser.
i need fabulous
gulps of water chasing
the lava of
booze.
when ann gets drunk she wants sex
this is hell. i'm joking.
i have an image
burnt
in the front of my brain
ann sucking my ecstatical
cock saying you
taste
so good.
a few weeks
ago,
wild,
unadulterated sex,
we slap back
a zillion beers &
burp ourselves into
kids -- all virgin cunt & horizontal
hard-
on. our skin hangs like
dead, virgin
pelts of skin,
over four decades
standing against the spin of
earth,
standing against
seasons of
weather with exposed, vulnerable,
insatible
genitals.
cum.
cum.
i better be quiet
in the social facial world of the untied
states of america i remain mostly
mute. america passed me by a long
time ago, i was still a hitch-hiker
heading to milan up
an italian highway 1972 switzerland
stoned on
hashish, 19 years old,
incredibly. that was
my life.
my son jokes what
he's gonna do is steal a car
& smoke dope
all night long with
loose chicks
who like giving blow-jobs --
i say DOUGLAS!
he laughs a deep testosterone laugh,
16 now.
bucks in his pocket,
works at a
small italian restaurant in erie,
a cook,
a dish-washer,
his father's
son. "androla men have never had
anything handed to them
for free. we all have to
struggle," i explain to
him.
add that trait
to the traits of my syrian dna
& to the certainty of a late-
blooming hippy middle 1970's
& you got
a pretty loud poet.
as if i am an arab
my uncle al's
nose is my nose
eventually clumps of
white & black hairs
will shoot out
from wide arab nostrils
above a white & black
moustache,
tho no i do NOT chew
red man chewing tobacco &
spit in an urn in the
livingroom, else gulp it all down
with my fifth-a-day
vodka in my 70's.
but this here
in front of you
is my uncle al's
nose at age 47.
the rest of me
is italian, i imagine.
uncle al's
recliner that was in his
house when he
died of a broken
neck at a
high-school base-ball
game in shenango
township, tripped in a hole
with his cane,
surging off vodka blood,
cracked away
the connection to the neck
& died
instantly.
my neck hurts
for 4 years i've
sat in that
brown recliner.
uncle al
was the one who
took me to islamic
services as a young
boy in new castle,
pennsylvania, sundays,
early
1960's.
to my psychic readers
you are not an enemy.
ways of hate recoil like clues of understanding
clogged by deep swallows of vinegar
with a little apperceptive
empathy & maybe a
peace-pipe. how frontier-expansive
the lands of the mind roam &
roam from years that feel like
minutes -- yr name is on the tip of my
numb tongue. what an asshole
you were. you don't deny it,
entirely. my angel-hood
isn't open
to debate.
it is all extrasensory perception
from
here
on in.
an electrical friday night
3 weeks disconnected from this
keyboard, realizing for a steady 4
years i've been internet'd fairly
daily. a way of living life with
words forming
poems of
love & amazement,
vulgarity & vigor,
words of pixel,
not paper.
we all understand
irony is exactly practical
in this human
state of affairs,
but nothing is really
ironic. no god, no allah,
no shit,
no cosmology.
we scratch
space fabric
but nothing
scars.
little yellow birds
sit inside the jail-cell windows
of our old
eyes,
& they just
tweep, squawk,
innocents.
we're so skeletal
we can't even
say boo.
in kent ohio
rolling rock is being
gulped from green
bottles.
cait is flaming
a gold
pipe.
cheryl is trying
to smile thru
the sadness of her store closing,
& her friends
abound, they
add energy & laughter
within walls & walls
of underground zines &
books.
dave's eyes
are slits
of red blood
but his facial
smile is
huge -- cracked open
by coke &
dreams of
cunt in ohio sunset.
cat's impetuous
books & things
goodbye.
i will always
remember
kent ohio
in ways
more than
student deaths.
poetry is
transitory,
transitory,
we all realize that,
& we worship
it, the transitory
nature
of poetry,
of poets,
of life.
getting it together
i have shaved
my face completely
skin
i am thinking
about
god
evil urges
be
damned
poetry is
not
sarcasm
poetry is
not
questioning under microscopes
i am getting
it to-
gether
& all
will be
well
in
the
world
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