a poem or two

It's frustrating. I'm sitting on a greyhound watching the cities turn to valleys and mountains and watching the sky melt and drip downward until its blue blends with the almost shadowlike horizon or i'm in bed with leatherface blasting and I miss the days when I was punk enough to drink a couple 40s of olde english in basements luminated by the passion of some fucked up kids and a flickering lightbulb and a couple lines of poems come to me. i have no pen. i have no paper. sometimes the lines seem like they were carefully plucked from a bukowski poem and left to dry like laundry out of some tenament window. i often get carried away too. i think of books filled on library shelves and st. marks bookstore with my name on the side. it may be a penname or something but i'll know it's mine. but then i do nothing with those lines and they disappear into the shadows they arose. but sometimes i capture the poems with the help of a pen. it bites and scratches and tries to hide because it hates me. but here's one of those monsters..

in winters claws i wait
for you or it or nothing
i like to think that someday
i'll know but now
i'm still
like a childhood memory
or a dream maybe
of some ferris wheel
turning night to day
frozen with kids screaming
up top
in glee
hair all ruffled
unaware of death and taxes
and love beside the love
of a mother.
winter sucks the life
my obsessions return it
the night is young
as two dogs fight to the death
under stars van gogh painted.

ceremony

Tonight consisted of bullshit from parents about school and getting a job and life and all that so I made a note of taking assorted pills and smoking a large slow burning blunt. I blew some haze smoke into the darkness faintly luminated by white moonlight burning through wispy clouds arching in the purple evening. I kept thinking I don't write enough anymore so I tried to force some poem like scenes into my mind and my mind kept swaying towards the color gray and a childhood memory of birds flying in circles, gray arms outstretched a feathered christ above my head and i was staring into the gray sky and my dads voice sounds like it does now in the memory as he said they fly like that when a storms coming and i shivered and stared and sound dispersed into the gray shadows and all i could see were the birds above and like tears of the willow tree rain fell one drop at a time and the memory fades away entirely. my current life returns and i hum a little to forget it. and it's funny because i can look back upon that memory now but then i couldn't look foward upon this moment- stoned in bed and frustrated at myself and my laziness. But I decided I would like to do something daily, or somewhat daily, to keep my mind stimulated in addition to reading (I'll always be reading, even though I start one book and start another and another and then i'm in the middle of 10 and I read books of poems and crumble). So I decided i'll start writing a "blog" or whatever the fuck you would like to call it. Maybe some days i'll put some poems up or some short stories. but not now. i'm not creative enough at the moment. now i'll just say some bands and albums you should search the internet for. actually i'll start with one.

regulations 7 inch- the musics raw and i wish i could blast it from a tape casette in an old car as i'm driving through some seedy fucking town with a 1940/50's Dick Tracy type car jumping over curves in the street and every male would be smoking a cigarette and every women would be beautiful in a trashy way shining in alleys like light through stained glass. It's difficult to describe the music but the best i can do would be to say black flag damaged era/ chuck berry-esque solos, vocals drenched in piss and cigarette smoke and disgust all crammed together and crumbled like a newspaper ball and thrown high into the sky plummeting like a black and white comet.