newspaper assassin
Posted: June 25th, 2010, 12:02 am
1.
The carnival of silence turns on
the wings of leaves flap in the heaven tree
are talking in long ago oracle's wind
they play like shadow fingers on roads
sigh, wander down forgotten lane
Oh drink the future potions of long sought
notions, that linger
still in days that once fell like stones
in poems, fall like rain as the wind
spins, and by the heart's moans
enter the stages of nocturnal returns,
the cycle of neon masks
flipped back like matchbook covers to rip out
one to light and hold up to the coming storm
I did not have the time to study the flood
In the class rooms of academia, I was born
in the streets of dogeared novels
and pocket sized books of poets
of my rebel beat
mind, I did not have the time's a changing
too little in this found moment of awakening
in the middle of no like a wild flower
in my writing hand, your's
that I would find the words,
work for me
match head's worth flashes into the flame of poetry
nursed and fanned its best or worst
on the avenues of solitude tonight
I came out of some crazy wave crashed
in
bottles and dig
as the transparent days scatter down
this endless riddle rattles like a street poets voice
finding no particular purchase on reason or rhyme
just looking for the door in the floor where the
magazines bleed into the scenery
walking past sign posts that turn into crows
distant desolate cities rose against the blonde
bombshell standing at the end of movies
like a feint question mark burning
and back again twisting into a saint or snake
the American symbol paused with a gun or black
suns she waits for the curtain to draw over
I stumble around looking for the choice words
like
but they elude me like a slow woman around the corner
poetry like this staggers like a drunk or crawls like a
funk through a special designed maze of muse magic
a jazz monk living in a cool floating notes
all them gone boats drunken ones
the beats and
a poetry like appears through the cracks
in the civilization, before it crumbles to circus dust again
the flower child of the Aion plays with lysergic colored balls
as the Heraclitain visual tongue slithers its river never twice
in the same enchantment or spoken wyrd
down in time square the blinking maze of rats all around
crazy people in media asylums stare at the walls of Babylon
as the readers of innards slice and dice their eyes
before they ever predict the angry skies
the barking news dwarfs cut them to size
I began reading as much reverse propaganda as I could find
because I knew In this there was not enough real time
To read Keats or Shelly, Blake, how many unknowns,
others, and then I found Lamantia in a City Lights
pocket copy one day I was then well into it,
became a treasure at the bottom of a gyp-sea
2.
The road leads to rock and roll Rome zooms me in the face
I'm seeing my marbles roll through the black top
seeing the cat's eyes tumble down crayola box
canyons
along the factories of worker ghosts and the bum's truth
I was born with a cheap pen in my hand and writing
what ever came into my mind before I could tie my shoe
laces
Oh, how much is that poet in the window, how much can
that poet be?
I'm runnin on low now, runnin on pure fumes
of the imagination, can't get much lower now, can I see
I'm hanging by a comma and a comb a cat o' nine
Dylan the Bob or Thomas both got that sound
where, green force driven
morsels of fate by chance,
see what I can no doubt and there about-
round and round the go-round goes…where it stops…
nobody knows, I began writing a poem evolving early through
the 60's but the words were still not on the paper, this poem
as I see it on a beach at the age of three or four
it begins where, memory awakens along a lonely shore
that comes sitting in a meadow dreaming
the flowers and butterflies beneath the blanket of sky
and so I can remember a child sees I can see
unfold-wrap around itself like a fallen leaf
I'm looking for the light that exists in that early moment
the one that was there before the child ever knew, blue
3.
oh, that little black magic dog
the one that is lost and found in some long ago pound
yes the language was running around chasing it's tail
before it ever said anything to the dirt writing on the TV wall
I was comin down them gyp alleys of the Egyptian kings,
poet kings too, but before that I looked into the creepy
walked around the joint, hung out back with the frogs
this land of the sleepy where they still wander the underground
come wander with me where the garbage turns into gods
come shine a little light between the pages of written history
not the one that keeps getting rewritten by the winners
or the sinning sinners mythic spinners
something unseen keeps erasing what they come and done
seems winning is not the same as won and its just no damn fun
oh but you keep drawing lines in the sand and sand keeps
moving it back,jack, no slack mister Howl, just surreal deal
them magician's cards on the cosmic table, and pick another
The carnival of silence turns on
the wings of leaves flap in the heaven tree
are talking in long ago oracle's wind
they play like shadow fingers on roads
sigh, wander down forgotten lane
Oh drink the future potions of long sought
notions, that linger
still in days that once fell like stones
in poems, fall like rain as the wind
spins, and by the heart's moans
enter the stages of nocturnal returns,
the cycle of neon masks
flipped back like matchbook covers to rip out
one to light and hold up to the coming storm
I did not have the time to study the flood
In the class rooms of academia, I was born
in the streets of dogeared novels
and pocket sized books of poets
of my rebel beat
mind, I did not have the time's a changing
too little in this found moment of awakening
in the middle of no like a wild flower
in my writing hand, your's
that I would find the words,
work for me
match head's worth flashes into the flame of poetry
nursed and fanned its best or worst
on the avenues of solitude tonight
I came out of some crazy wave crashed
in
bottles and dig
as the transparent days scatter down
this endless riddle rattles like a street poets voice
finding no particular purchase on reason or rhyme
just looking for the door in the floor where the
magazines bleed into the scenery
walking past sign posts that turn into crows
distant desolate cities rose against the blonde
bombshell standing at the end of movies
like a feint question mark burning
and back again twisting into a saint or snake
the American symbol paused with a gun or black
suns she waits for the curtain to draw over
I stumble around looking for the choice words
like
but they elude me like a slow woman around the corner
poetry like this staggers like a drunk or crawls like a
funk through a special designed maze of muse magic
a jazz monk living in a cool floating notes
all them gone boats drunken ones
the beats and
a poetry like appears through the cracks
in the civilization, before it crumbles to circus dust again
the flower child of the Aion plays with lysergic colored balls
as the Heraclitain visual tongue slithers its river never twice
in the same enchantment or spoken wyrd
down in time square the blinking maze of rats all around
crazy people in media asylums stare at the walls of Babylon
as the readers of innards slice and dice their eyes
before they ever predict the angry skies
the barking news dwarfs cut them to size
I began reading as much reverse propaganda as I could find
because I knew In this there was not enough real time
To read Keats or Shelly, Blake, how many unknowns,
others, and then I found Lamantia in a City Lights
pocket copy one day I was then well into it,
became a treasure at the bottom of a gyp-sea
2.
The road leads to rock and roll Rome zooms me in the face
I'm seeing my marbles roll through the black top
seeing the cat's eyes tumble down crayola box
canyons
along the factories of worker ghosts and the bum's truth
I was born with a cheap pen in my hand and writing
what ever came into my mind before I could tie my shoe
laces
Oh, how much is that poet in the window, how much can
that poet be?
I'm runnin on low now, runnin on pure fumes
of the imagination, can't get much lower now, can I see
I'm hanging by a comma and a comb a cat o' nine
Dylan the Bob or Thomas both got that sound
where, green force driven
morsels of fate by chance,
see what I can no doubt and there about-
round and round the go-round goes…where it stops…
nobody knows, I began writing a poem evolving early through
the 60's but the words were still not on the paper, this poem
as I see it on a beach at the age of three or four
it begins where, memory awakens along a lonely shore
that comes sitting in a meadow dreaming
the flowers and butterflies beneath the blanket of sky
and so I can remember a child sees I can see
unfold-wrap around itself like a fallen leaf
I'm looking for the light that exists in that early moment
the one that was there before the child ever knew, blue
3.
oh, that little black magic dog
the one that is lost and found in some long ago pound
yes the language was running around chasing it's tail
before it ever said anything to the dirt writing on the TV wall
I was comin down them gyp alleys of the Egyptian kings,
poet kings too, but before that I looked into the creepy
walked around the joint, hung out back with the frogs
this land of the sleepy where they still wander the underground
come wander with me where the garbage turns into gods
come shine a little light between the pages of written history
not the one that keeps getting rewritten by the winners
or the sinning sinners mythic spinners
something unseen keeps erasing what they come and done
seems winning is not the same as won and its just no damn fun
oh but you keep drawing lines in the sand and sand keeps
moving it back,jack, no slack mister Howl, just surreal deal
them magician's cards on the cosmic table, and pick another
