jack be quick fringe lunatic

[revolutionrabbit]

God where are you?
jack be quick, fringe lunatic
I'm done with volcano poems
I once wrote about hep cats
looking for a heavenly kiss

my crazy surfer mentor, had
a big pussy cat called saxophone
sax would sit on the note pads of poems
licking his paws of volcanoes
and the box of poetry had cat piss on it
I think sax kept us honest

when poets were swimming
down the sidewalk I walked down
every cup of coffee I drank
in that hang out was the blackest

was a black hole of surreal jazz
a space-time vortex of spin gravity
floating in neon signs like mellow jello
a book open to the page of eternal return
or eternal chaos or some meaningless passage
with all the meaning in the world, coffee stains
and piss stains with cum stains and blood
like the water colors that mixed with the words
I saw in the morning of the stars crashing
in the bars and the dead cars
poets that walked by like grandiose phantoms
in robes of hypnotic trance
in the early hours when the poems are made
like Molotov cocktails in the kitchen
with comrade saxophone watching on

I was looking for the ones
that roamed the streets and the cafes
like watchers of the delirious drama
I was searching for some semblance
of madness & rhythm
so I turned my inner self inside out
disoriented my senses, not that they

were not already disoriented
I consider it does not matter what time
line I am coming in on, or from
poetry is timeless or it is not at all

I'm a bad buddha bard
a fake gypsy teller of big spicy lie
a mark twain vessel spinner of tall tale parallels
I meditate on logic of the six senses
leaping frogs of desire
my mind becomes an empty theater of the absurd
and plane ole irrational surd croaks, barks and chirps
I walk up and down the dark stage like a wild card
and practice an imaginary oratory

a kind of dead king poet shadow
flickering in torch light with fiery words for hair
I begin a monologue with the Momo

o dedi
o dada orzoura
o dou zoura
a dada skizi

I argue with the teachings
of the enlightened one
with subtext of the meditation
on the charnel ground
between realms
floating junkyards and low ghost cities

the center of the house where a flower grows
the stage begins to rock back and forth,
and the polymorphous
speaker shudders in a shape like a scarab
upright like a Jukebox
45 record playing Louie Louie

did I suddenly fall asleep, or wake up
did a roller coaster go off in my head?

strange dialect from the other side
drawings of junkies in stuffed chairs

the refrigerator of sugar cubes

she only listened to Billie Holiday
until the night was about to fly by
and left notes in the mystery novel, she left
the one she bought in the thrift store
for ten cents, she read the mysterious novel
and drew her drawings of junkies and murder

while I was reading a poem by Voznesensky
in the Anitworlds and Fifth Ace,
so that I might be my own seer
and my own anti-poet
an enemy of the establishment
a dangerous and desolate and idle life leader

the only question that can be answered
of the poet is the poet themselves
distance between what is said & is spoken

crazy person on the street gibberish go by
I a star gone mad down flowery black hole
I a lurker in the most obscure books I could find
I read poems by every poet that came to sight
far from my own place of marvelous mutation
I was looking for the street lazy people
that wander around looking for narcotic nigritude
in the night of unhinged doors and falling floors

or stand on a corner staring into the void
of the concrete cosmos at her feet
seeing invisible events passing down there
in ruby shoe rivers of snapping groove
it's in the looks of those that reflects
what circle is coming down the tube
Dante' was shrewd, Dylan was cool stewed
Rimbaud was just lewd and brood of crude
always in the bad boy mood

this is where the poem begins
in the world of strange scenes, blue on blue
freaks on freak, random snooze-paper readers
language lunatic loop gazer greeters
in angry alleys of flash floods of stories that never
make the poop papers, maybe a drifting floater
line or two that makes a poem roam
that reads itself to the stranger then strangers
jack be quick
fringe lunatic
God where are you

[dadio]

my genre of poetry. love it.