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Beatdom contributors can post their own poetry for review by the Beatdom community.

a vision

I.
behind the heavy doors of sleep
escaped wandering through swatches of magenta air
the parted found the whole and melted
into lumps of solid gold
beneath alien trees on alien moons in alien skies
beneath familiar windows and alien goodbyes
in crashing waves and whalesong they arrived
angry gods we have created and denied and then tricked into dying
found me and pressed me into ice wine with their hammers
made me account for all I’d done
but I could think of nothing
nothing but the nothing I’d become

II.
first I saw the animals
thick ropes at their necks straining against the worlds they’re forced to pull
groaning and braying and speaking in tongues
their paths endless and flat
as I rode on their backs into war
I saw Jesus in the desert eating sand from the palm of his hand
and did not call to him as we lumbered past
still I heard him say to me
this is right; this is real
we eat the skin from the bottom of our boots and march on
we march on
I saw the cities of the future tumbling forever through kaleidoscopes
and sideways watched them gyrate into dust
Jazz Age ladies swung their cigarettes at me
from one direction to the next I tasted burning smoke
only the old men knew what to do;
they let their frail bodies be consumed
by the tidal waves of time machine tomorrows
barely I eluded them, following footprints back into the rain
raised my face and asked if I was finished yet
but I heard nothing
nothing but the nothing I’d become

III.
the deepest dark is that of your own body
the lowest level is the one I crawl
long perfect fingers stretched through years of tunnels
aching endlessly
pressed up against the walls
and at the end I saw you standing in the static
as I have in other visions, one thousand times before
you raised your arms
in false surrender
raised your voice
in gentle timbre
howling helplessly and finally

“I came—

I am—

you’ve conquered”

King of Prussia

Once in King of Prussia, I was falsely accused

Of mutilating my Paw with hammerhead cartilage

So I hitched a ride across the teal Philly harbor

 

I spent all my nickels at Stuckey’s but out of

The dew rolled a pseudo-Dodson handmade of wood

Driven by prepubescent twins with personal sniggers

 

Accompanied by vermilion atop the horizon

A family of three siblings they once had been

Until their half-brother suffered a fatal blow

 

Turns out they had heard of my father on FOX

So they assumed I was responsible for their brother’s death too

Soon, I was chained to the trunk, speeding toward Appalachia

 

The half-brother’s corpse resembled a childhood chum

So I confessed, and the twins were unmoved

They refastened the chains to acquaint me with epileptic fire.

Freeform fuckup

Here we are again labias and genitals let loose from our own personalized bondage to attempt once
more to find the ending to this fire ant’s farm of unreasonable and otherwise unseasonable coughing
fits in this the generic over the counter logic known as the “one and only way” in order to find some
truth within the guidelines set to soggy bass lines in a free form treasure map titled ”untied until tilted “
where clearly scribbled in measure 138 are the rules to total happiness which are stated as followed you
are born you are learned then you are burned oh wait a goddamn minute wasn’t there supposed to be
something about being happy in there oh well

you’ll know what to do when I say

I believe in mystery
and tonight I believe in tiny bottles of red wine
and David Byrne
and waiting
for inspiration to come
rather than pushing the panic button
with cold feet
and cold toes
gripping the cracks in the hardwood floor
like vultures on the swooping descent.
I’ve witnessed their teeth-gnashing dive-bombs
their salivating tongues
that wag in the air like the bottom of the rope
gyrating in a cone of wind.
Speak to me you cheap Cab
you Frank Sinatra muse.
While you’re lying awake
thinking of the girl
I’m lying awake
thinking of the girl.
That’s the time you miss her most.

Truth and Connection of Surface and Soul

An observer of machismo Latino and big mouth braggarts on sun bleached, rusted nail pocked whale carcasses in fetid nicotine. Alcohol and testosterone like teenage street dogs chasing a bitch in heat, who skin deep only, tits and ass covered in blonde and blue no longer captive to glass shelled existential identity. Unrestrained, with words like sex and music, and drugs and dick and cigarettes, and fuck and intimacy. Disgusted with passion and longing in pure lust of a bimbo, prejudged like niggers in dreadlocks with Ph.D.’s. Conversations turn to only two, of her and me and tattered pages of Whitman and Kerouac and naked transgressions. Momentarily touched, but yearning to fuck, not physically, but fuck intellectually like Dharma bums released from public morals and ancient mores in secret fuckeries and fakeries and dungeons of typewritten manuscripts and ecstasy. Mentally masturbating in images of her nakedness rolling in sheets of flannel and Chanel, moist and sweaty, imparting musky scents to share later in dreams of frolicking and literary cumming with Howl. In green cardboard roach shit caves of solitude and loneliness as the clanging of verbally battling gladiators rings, intrusive for a piece of sweaters and panties with cock in hand, overlooking pieces of the real prize of heat forged heart wrapped in clove hard candy and absinthe. I, punished by gods of despair, but too shackled to the capital money hungry faggot of towering plastered assholes, unaffording  time to endure splinters in fingers and feet of the great whale carcass and rusted nail pocked screaming blind canines, soulless and bullshit. On a stranded crossroad of islands and tormented crucifixions in depressed pornography and soul.  So I cannot stay.  I cannot stay.  I cannot stay. I cannot stay, I cannot stay, yet recalling fondly a moment of truth and connection of surface and soul between strangers on beat epic brain sore odysseys and concocted infidelities.

Sons of the Bay

Cobalt blue bubbles like a churning ocean with billowing smoke and scent, a fire breathing dragon feeding on the waves of coal fired inspiration, wailing horns, and jazz fueled nicotine buzzing in the October chill with black ginger tea, hot, my head abuzz with sleepy thoughts and racing heart.

Another wasted grey day of unproductive loneliness and contemplative mood. Rain drizzles as I watch young hip sons of the bay retreat into cliques of unspoken superiority in fast black export cars purchased with the pocketbooks of wealthy fathers and gentry.  Educated at the finest institutions, common sense and street wise knowledge barren in their minds of preconceived fineness and misinterpreted cool. Their pockets full of cash to blow on the best booze and smokes, unaware of the velvet smooth conscious of grey streets and backroom secret hustlers hungry for Polo attired victims like cannibalistic wolves looking for a next meal. The nuclear smell of incense mingles in the organic earthy aroma of cannabis on the third floor as 21st century Gatsbysweateredalcoholics discuss pointless religious rhetoric taught to them by liberal professors.  Tomorrow’s pharmaceutical dependent upstarts blatantly unaware of the lowly masses huddled in corners of back-road bars and jukes. Moody and arrogant assholes with their entitlement, openly defensive, and never pensive, and full of high octane testosterone propaganda, juicing to build their pretty boy biceps in tiled bathrooms with amphetamine covered countertops and high dollar skin products. Arguing their points with misplaced enthusiasm, not giving a damn to hear or listen to counterpoints from highly educated life students and professors of experience and beat struggles.  Unabashedly drone on and on of inbred locals, hillbilly Bud drinkers in camouflaged hunting jackets, bewitched by the boot wearing farmers’ daughters in tight jeans and sweat dampened t-shirts, who in turn, laugh and judge the sons of the bay and their expensive watches and chinos.  Neither perceives nor readily distinguishes the common thread of O-negative humanity coursing through this institute of civilization each day of everyday in Baltimore.

A Willamette Valley Springtime

Posted on Tree at Art, Poetry Fair, Silverton, OR

Under a Crayola sky
and a festive landscape,

we walked by sea or
granny smith green branches,

mustard, even pumpkin,
and cranberry branches.

The sky was a pacific,
midnight, or maybe denim blue.

From a cool evening,
warm melting wax

of laser lemon
oozed on the edges.

White aspens and birches and dark weeping willows
and black oaks were electrified with electric lime,

screaming or yelling jungle,
full of fern and inchworm green.

What is sea or spring green
in a Willamette Valley springtime?

Psychedelia

The psychedelia
of the heartbeats
beat to beat
like a drum
from great to come
Visions of iconic
cultural flowers
in the yellow sky
parks with a genius cry
sing a song on each
piano note
a knew poetic float
flying through New York
on ivory wings.

The Cyborg Life

You spend nineteen hours daily in awe of my mechanical majesty
My radiant robot face beaming light upon your spectacles
I fulfill your every desire, all information that you seek
Give a command and I’m there, though I admit an occasional glitch
Still I beg for some reciprocation—could you cleanse my robot face?
And the parts of me I use to talk can still feel that coffee stain
You’ve got me feeling bluer than my screen of death
It’s Saturday night, go out, human, and leave me to myself!

Egad, you cleansed my robot face, and my circuits feel brand new
You even turned the lights on so I have more things to view
You went out on no benders, you’ve no bigger fish to fry
Let me be your Hermes, your messenger god tonight
And as you fill my Cyclops eye, we will both sigh in delight
Like Farnsworth’s box to Americans, we will harmonize
Together we’re a cyborg, as much man as machine
Let’s enjoy our cyborg life as long as you can watch my screen.

AND THE CORNER ANGELS SANG

And the corner angels sang,

something about Descartes

And decisions.

A swift one at the bookies

Or the same at Ronnie’s Bar,

Upon whose step they sat

Eulogising about word shapes

and if it was possible

To impart the mind of God – in a syllable or two.

 

And the rain had abated but the road was lustred

oil rainbows and petrol blooms

and the corner angels sang about liberty

and the cost of trust

Her hair braided and

The other – eyes heavenward

Mascara and lips all a-pout

And the change gathered like the wages of sin

Little tin at her feet

Like a dutiful dog.

 

Obedient and lost.

 

Oh little town of desperation

How sweet we see thee lie

And the corner angels sang

took smiles

And backward glances

soul eaters

Foot tapping to the mantra

Of something other than now

Hark them – their voices

Spitting in the discord

Of another ceaseless day.

 

Is this it?

 

That’s the question

and the corner angels know it

Sing of it and ask any God – every God

And all the fractured idols

fallen saints and

Reborn lovers

extinguished lives

And rekindled wives

social mores

And lazy afternoons by the TV

old newspapers from back when

And freestyle runners

soap box preachers

And politicians

Decision makers

And lifelong forsakers

Bar upon bar

 

Why would anyone choose silence?