lamp and silence

you can always find a helper
to dig your own grave,
the logical old mind
that grasps
within the brain
images thick as chocolate,
and arguing heart
will find a place to bury
but not here,
a sky blue vast
ocean of the above
crossed by vents
of expelled air,
it was as if the doctor
pissed in his own specimen pot
a give of gold warmth
to be dipped by another
to let you live by extension,
no more searching,
spade would cut a wound
hole expanding,
an expression of what was vast
keep it to yourself
as earth opens
and you become
what once would of been
a miner

     

Cassandra Dallett a reading

cassandradallett.com.

according to the extent of damage

cotton incarceration
warm passive silence
flaccid dysfunction
waiting for something
that will never happen,
the only viability
a son and daughter,
born before the
scent of burning gasoline

freeway interchange
radio an unordered state
of a music republic

traffuic chaos
with thrashing horns

when metal connects
notation raw
screacming crunch
thrown off latitude
subtle tones become blank
face connects with side window
glass can write and deface
what was naturally placed
as can a steering column

concrete scrape added
to symphony
eighteen wheels raised and flipped

soft cushion supports buttocks
with sores that ache
chair propelled by hands gnarled
by whatever connected with them
my hands
unseen yet rolled me forward
as i sketched in mind
floorplan outlay

yet the anger of memories lost
her face one of them,
she would push
and not complain,
butter toast
roast coffee granules
hear her yet so much is gone

that morning
making love
i think or was that last year
subtle flow interrupted
resistance is dead
we talk
lie in comfort
love that abstract definition
has shown it’s truth
worth more than what
i cannot see

Gregory Corso – Proximity

Gregory Corso

chewing the inside of your mouth yesterday

three inhuman seconds

and his mouth meat bled

one bite stress induced

a soloist on the telephone

making obscene financial calls

scratching a flabby stomach

still held the phone

the woman a thousand fibers away

still howled

fiscal abuse

he had spoken off the script

probing her dollars

sliding inside her head

avoiding indignant sounds

her whole life on his computer screen

a random credit score

he had pushed to far

stench of cheap deodorant

dropping the phone

he ran

red nylon carpets flashed by

everybody watched

as outside the double doors

he vomited with blood

from his cheek

too afraid to return

walked towards

somewhere else

 

 

99% fractured glass

letterman taught liberal arts

bukowski master of the open portal

that caught flies and dirty blondes ,

there where no country estates

or manicured ladies in crinolene,

too much hubbub

and relentless spiral of those

who live in such an octopus town,

that solar flares light the street

and guide those whose frail stories

stumble over awkward words

and metaphor,

master of bliss

with shimmering teeth

and boiling stench caught on

warmer breeze

vigilant for kisses and erotic

composure,

severed happiness from tears

and kept each separate,

behind the doors of our octopus

town the withered languish

robbed of enchanted loins

and their tears now crystallized

as rings for deaths fingers,

clotted souls clogged

as choked diaphragms coughed and

hacked sluices of phlegm,

the doors opened for a moment each day

quick enough for a shadow to be

flung out,

madness was a bomb on every street corner,

diffused as she appeared,

her deceit to entice

and enchant,

womb of silken flotsam

carried nothing hopeful,

yet her heart once orphaned

brought a rising sun

that closed the portal

to bukowski’s dismay

letterman fell aside victim

to iron skies and sanities rent,

heal deep she called

finding it broken

and lambs put together the pieces

with a well chewed glue