got the stink of a few months on em

If We Could Only Find Our Sheet Music Again

Truth and sand and boys who forget girls when they’re gone
Mud up from the bottom of beer cans
To kiss cigarettes with and we love poems about drugs
Drugs and poems and flavors of eastern philosophy
Ringing truer with each passing puff
Puff pass passing that truer ring
That warm sun we all really wanted to fly to
And let its every color seep deep into our skins
Our ability to embrace anything beautiful slowly
Eroding with every conformed movement
That we let break against our beautiful bones
Our harp string spinal chords
Our hides, better for stretching across drum heads
Than let waste sallow
We await playing ourselves
In the same notes, in the chorus of vibrations
We forget that for a time our mother’s hearts and organs sang to us
And played us like church bells
where we hung like clappers within


Salute Before You Slap

You, shirt-sleeved deity
Look down towards that great, expansive
Inner elbow,
Some last frontier.
Spreading like deltas,
From a divine view
Your veins are to that
Mosquito which pushed a flag
Down softly into your skin
Claiming your blood his own
His winged body waving like a windsock now
Filled, the color of his nation’s patriotism
Always red.


Legs On The Beach

Airplanes advertising from the skies
selling a brand that sells you fries
baking your skin in front of your eyes
you forgot banana boat was selling you fries


Playgrounds in Your Coffee

Gum drop,
All the pretty candy colored
Compliments
You give
For a quarter
For a quarter
You gave a dollar more
So that I’d kiss you with a
Purple tongue

You Can Sit Here If You Want, or Give Me You're Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses...

"My name's Forrest, Forrest Guh-ump."

>Forrest Gump: American Spirit personified. Walkin', talkin', marathon-running American Dream -boat.
>Jenny or Jen-ayy: The Actual American, living or trying to live with the American Dream.
She is wed to the idea of this dream (as well as fo reals in the filum.)
She <3s the optimism, but does not embody it herself. Instead, she runs away from it in phases of rebellion (the '60s yos,in both peaceful + panther fashion) and welcomes it back when she needs that indelible presence (cause she got knocked up with the spirit O'76)
She = the reality of the American trying to live in this "spirit"- she's addicted (yayo), naive, (thinkin naked bob-dylan-guitar-skit was a legitimate road to baezville),and passionate (about Playboy or something and singing) only to become: oversexed (via yayo and peace) and unmoved (via yayo and panthers) and ends up falling into the true American reality of suicide, motherhood and AIDS. (1980s= bummertime)
She dies while the American Spirit lives on, in a big plantation house. He keeps on, to keep on fostering childlike hope for the next generation with books about a simple life with monkeys and feathers and things. Old Mother from the Gentile Past taught American Spirit these values, and they shall be passed on.
I Am Sam is the sequel to Forrest Gump or something, Forrest Gump II: The 90's years, with more Beatles and more dummy-pops/prodigy-child pairings. That or FG was the precedent case that allowed for the former.


this one goes out to that famous autistic savant that drums in that band The Beatles.
R-O-C-K in tha U-S-A you guys

ode to the watermelon

a good poem to ring in the summer....

Ode to the Watermelon

The tree of intense 
summer, 
hard, 
is all blue sky, 
yellow sun, fatigue in drops, 
a sword 
above the highways, 
a scorched shoe 
in the cities: 
the brightness and the world 
weigh us down, 
hit us 
in the eyes 
with clouds of dust, 
with sudden golden blows, 
they torture 
our feet 
with tiny thorns, 
with hot stones, 
and the mouth 
suffers 
more than all the toes: 
the throat 
becomes thirsty, 
the teeth, 
the lips, the tongue: 
we want to drink 
waterfalls, 
the dark blue night, 
the South Pole, 
and then 
the coolest of all 
the planets crosses 
the sky, 
the round, magnificent, 
star-filled watermelon.

It's a fruit from the thirst-tree. 
It's the green whale of the summer.

The dry universe 
all at once 
given dark stars 
by this firmament of coolness 
lets the swelling 
fruit 
come down: 
its hemispheres open 
showing a flag 
green, white, red, 
that dissolves into 
wild rivers, sugar, 
delight!

Jewel box of water, phlegmatic 
queen 
of the fruitshops, 
warehouse 
of profundity, moon 
on earth! 
You are pure, 
rubies fall apart 
in your abundance, 
and we 
want 
to bite into you, 
to bury our 
face 
in you, and 
our hair, and 
the soul! 
When we're thirsty 
we glimpse you 
like 
a mine or a mountain 
of fantastic food, 
but 
among our longings and our teeth 
you change 
simply 
into cool light 
that slips in turn into 
spring water 
that touched us once 
singing. 
And that is why 
you don't weigh us down 
in the siesta hour 
that's like an oven, 
you don't weigh us down, 
you just 
go by 
and your heart, some cold ember, 
turned itself into a single 
drop of water.

pablo neruda