A couple of Poems

"Interior Glow-Smile, Ha!"

O fat boy exiting the all-night cafe:
You glanced my way and I flinched
inside, remembering. I too know the white
death paths of sculptpowder addiction.

Yesterday un tin de biscuits Anglais
hovered in peripheral awareness all night
at my 24-7 workplace, blinking
sugar-flour morsel codes of fraughtness.

A glance their way: Indeed, as sculpture
cada bizcocho, exquisite perfection, each
one a serpentine ribbon I followed back before
baking, to its pasty-powder origins not-yet ovened.

O fat boy, beguiled by the snakesome cords
you have yet to experience the glory
inside your aliment, your own conduit
to the galactic goddess of your own understanding.

We experience a poverty of soulfulness,
our ready-made, self-justified petri culture
of the dead and dying. We celebrate bleaching,
party to the sounds of vacuity and cancer poppage.

I see in you the twilight fellow I held myself
to be, hostage to malevolence itself. Evil
finds expression in surprising and indifferent
modes, I'm afraid. 300 pounds, I thought myself fine.

O fat boy! I see in your saudade my own self.
I now inhabit the place of Mr. Unavailable-to-you,
a painful prick of recognition punctures
my consciousness for this poemful moment.

My own Gaia-conduit, the freeway to the Sun
and my geosolar liaison position knows
I have a lesson for you, although not a bedding
rompful activity, touching other whole-cocked.

No, my lesson could be one of leading the way
to your own Rosemary-Awareness Version.
Salads carry a new belonging place,
and I know walnuts seal up some cell wounds!

O fat boy! I want you to know the not-fat
self I see ensconced amid the lipid armor
porous only to anger, sorrow, rejection.
The glanced look I saw spoke of your clenching,

your tightly guarded, easily-wounded heart
only too ready for self-abandonment before
I sorry-punch you. I've stood in your flip-
flops, yearning after Chelsea bodies sin Chelsea tudes.

A life without refinement, orientation toward wholeness
earthsome animates my days. One wouldn't think it, I fit
into this efflorescence, where Monstrous-redundance
Modernism eclipses the effortless glory that are willows.

(At least to the untrained eye!) Psychic vampires
decunt our food, our environs, our interior spaces
of real nutrition, until we put our chosen drugs aside.
Discover the Interior Smile Glow, o fat boy!

Know that echoing unearned gladness a-ringing in your guts!

*****

"Summer Paradox" (StairStepStanza Poem)

Cock
Fire
Want
Wet
Ick
Sigh
Need
Sad
Drought

Jully
and I
scope men
in shorts
sandals
ankles
cute feet
stud legs
honest.

I hunger
think of sex
pheromone
all that sweat
liquid goo
stickiness
congealing
why bother?
I wonder

Look at the men
think of fucking
doesn't compute
some odd reason
I do desire
crave manly touch
but the damn heat
discourages me
from sharing skin.

I want a fellow
imagined passion
in my head autumn
fantasies playing
September idylls
not July hothouse
oppressive linens
strangling and stifling
burgeoning desire

Do I then put it off,
my lustiness, my need?
I mean, it's been five years!
(Another summer manmate
Last time I opened sheets
a winsome, willing guy.)
Attracted by odd jaws,
a torn pant-leg, showing
fleshy kneecap, startle...

Enter into the chaso
I must instead plunge right in
ride my desire, encounter
someone else's mapped passions
real congruence or in-,
discover an alignment
or more on to the the next guy
Perspiration no factor
in this business of getting laid.

*****

"Disposable Pen"

Hart do believe
the instrument in my hand
a toxic remnant for the future.

It's so pretty too,
this golden shaft, see-thru
the ink in the inside straw.

When I'm done with it,
I'll set it free to the trash
where it will sit,

neither decaying
nor sitting still really.
Eventually something will bust it.

Smaller half-lives
scheming their way through time,
a lifeless eternal present.

What it must be like
to contain isotopes.
Zombicus nuclearis.

Ethyly
deathel-death Bat man Bat Man
Now it means something...

*****

"On Reading Wallace Stevens #1"

Words mean a lot to me
Some people's pens envy inside
kindles, a verdant fire to eclipse
the messenger of compared despair.

This guy worked for THE MAN!
This guy wore a suit to work
and did THE MAN's soiled grease-bidding
abstracted at that aerie of course.

He could write poems, good ones.
God said Hitler went to heaven.
Others cut off their dicks to declaim
their worthiness. What a world.

*****

"Odessa 5:15 a.m., a day in June"

I walked past a gaggle of pain
on my way to brinner at the Ukrainian
diner. A congregation of goths draped
their wraithiness over a PT Cruiser.
Some bouncers and barkeeps
started their shopclosings as two young
men, high on blankfill guffawed
as one flung some flimxy car
part across four parkeds. The Arab
graveyard shift guy at Ben's spoke
nervously in Arabic on a cell as he
rang up my cashews, a dollar-nineteen.

On Avenue A, the sorrow continued.
Addled homeless guy asked me for "food."
(Maybe he was hungry, maybe it would
burnish my karma to hand him some munz,
but I could have rather gone into Key Food
and bought him some protein and a package
of carrots if I'd know he'd take it.
I don't trek down that pat 5a.m., however.)
One woman hovered over her unconscious
boyfriend sprawled in front of Opaline.
Various toughs and their boyfriends
powered their panties to more private sprees.

In the diner, another set of characters extend
a continuous drama. Nightfolks nourishing
themselves for wherever their days will take
them. A fourspot of johns, pros sitwith pancakes--
one loudly and proudly-in-pink proclaiming
"We were not arrested, only booked!"
Across the aisle from me, a guy I know
who struggles, sits with other inebriates
pondering salt versus sugar. Sense he won't
acknowledge me, that for now I'm a ghost
of his booze-moment. I don't mind this willful
disregard of my presence. Not here to judge.

Awake to the sadness permeating,
I wonder about my own isolate status.
Other than my meetings with other addicts,
sponsors and fellows, I've spent all my nights
singly. Tuesday morning, two gents crossed my
path and one amoured his hello in my colpid
direction. My skittery "hi" fled into false
headwinds, farted with vulnerability's fear.
I ponder my list of others harmed, teh Scorpio
Step before Sagittarius amends and my despair
over reinserting myself into relations with others,
transforming carnival glass phantasy thinking.