OLD BEATNIK

Old beatnik poet have you gone too far?
travelling to the mystic stars
with the flight of your soul
in the backseat of your vintage car

or burning on the docks at Veracruz
with the sacks of coco
smelling like the celestial burn
trying to win but always lose

mad with your solitude and foe
in collision with the lonely planet
stalled in the broken elevator
that would never go

dreaming of the bat with no head
sometimes your open
other times your closed
still sipping wine without the bread

THREE ARTISTS

Haze
three artists boarding a train
the clatter of the tracks
passing Rockefeller Centre
where the mural once was
Frida and Diego
using a glaze of sweat for a primer
and arranging broken glass
for their mosaic
Jackson Pollock standing beside his bottle
stick in hand
dripping
the scorching red paint
to carve an image on the floor
dripping
over the fence
down the post
dripping
on his granular sandwich
the willful ambasador of paint
dripping
showing Kahlo and Rivera
his sublime art
dripping
all the way to Birdland
to hear Charlie Parker
play for Lenin
empty his bottle
and finish his painting


Using words from read write poem ..... mosaic, willful, sublime, fence, granular, post, scorching, carve, glaze, finish

Si Tu Me Miras (watching the sunset)

Setting unevenly beyond my silhouette

the evening of a thousand eyes

searching for the fire

moving like the spooky red horizon

caribbean on fire

burning everything

including my poetry

sitting in the middle

Che on one side Fidel to the left

Kerouac passed out in the sand

discovering the poet I use to be

hating old poetmen

cheering the triumph of the revolution

as the Cuban tide

comes up to our knees

vanishing into nowhere

listening to our intellect

discussing the narcotic haze of capitalism

the heavy weight of the embargo

how the neverdo Buddha

gets addicted to the white lines

and intellectual silliness

how the sea engines from Russia

disapear

where nobody refuses solemnity of slogans

mapped out in their furrowed tongues

and time burries you forever

above the sand

in your soul

where shadows gather beyond the curtains

beyond the opaque light falling

closing our eyes

arriving at the inner sunset

a timeless treasure

si tu me miras (watching the sunset)

IT COMES TO THIS

It has all come to an end
with thirty days of bela lugosi
riding on a gothic streetcar
looking at madonna without her child
and superman in his agron suit
listening to kerouac play jazz
on his typewriter
reading about all the canneries closing
in the city that has too many cats
called fanny and freddy
then tripping over the junkie angels
down on wall street
with eight thousand illiterartes
and their mushrooming visions
searching for a cheap mortgage
before taking a barge across the river
towards some may earthquake
searching for more petrol
with an emppty gas can
applauding the poets

MAYBE

i don't think i can
become the buddha drinking my rum
i don't think i can
believe the dogma my cat purrs
i don't think i can
appologize for the pope
i don' t think i can
dry my lashes under water
i don't think i can
ever say everything is concrete
i don't think i can
swim when bound with duct tape
i don't think i can
write the suicide note for elvis
i don't think i can
replace my knee with her replacement
i don't think i can
believe the truths of the religions
i don't think i can
not become twenty four again
i don't think i can
remember nineteen sixty seven
i don't think i can
forget seeing janis at the pop machine
i don't think i can
experience becoming invalid
i don't think i can
not believe the dogma that the dog barked
i don't think i can
see the classic greek dog that didnt bark
i don't think i can
ever bark again with this sore throat
i don't think i can
write more
my head is a bowl of mush
i am that budhha
and need to just beeeeeeeeeeee

LITTLE RED IRIS

At the top of the stairway to heaven
there she was
standing in front of the stage
beside joltin joe dimaggio
listening to the band
richie valens
ray charles
johnny cash
the big bopper
buddy holly
hank williams
watching marilyn and james dean
dance

now standing tall
no longer alone
the red iris from our abstract garden
was no longer singing the blues

NIGHT IN MONTREAL

The night was dark
she was a happy bubbly specimen
I waved to her
she smilled
I went up to her like a flood of jewels
told her all about my past
and about how noble the police were
about how I just returned from Russia
which was more enlightening than the church
and she listened attentively at my lunacy
as I told her no lie
she laughed
I laughed
will you kiss me?
no no no its impossible she said
my lips are cold
I have ice in my veins
and need another fix
as she hurried away

(using prompt words..specimen, lunacy, impossible, veins)