sunder the self

–

–

under duress

utter chaos

obscures the light

–

blunder and shame

sunder the self

with wretched blight

–

desire’s dark lie

requires assent

grimly withheld

–

reviled and shunned

desire withers

hope is beheld

–

–

GJK

23MAY17

–

–

gravity ceases

–

–

in truck-stop diner

i hit the pisser

with tremendous speed

i evacuate

two pints of water

so i may proceed

with diligent haste

to fuel my brain

with coffee strong as

a locomotive

that bursts unhindered

off a curving track

into a canyon

where against all odds

gravity ceases

the massive machine

is then borne aloft

by cyclonic wind

that is my bloodstream

fuel and blood meld

awakeness occurs

awakeness endures

metaphor abjures

bladder signals full

with furtive glances

and a hunter’s stride

i evacuate

to the outside world

–

–

GJK

23MAY17

–

–

a simple thing complicated by thinking

–

–

scraggly grass is curiously clipped

uniformly by an unwieldy

and aggressive machine.

the scent of gasoline melds with that of tree pollen

and the internal fluids of innumerable

bifurcated herbaceous dicotyledons.

wending its way through that melange

is the aromatic certainty

of rain-clouds drawing near.

–

it is the first mass torture of spring.

–

i grin impishly at the dirt

between the green, severed blades.

do your work, soil

i say.

–

i laugh, walk away

and slay my evil minion

by throwing a dead, vulgar tarpaulin

over the top of the hulking beast.

–

i congratulate myself

for a job well done —

(a ridiculous job that offends

my neo-tribal philosophy,

but this ain’t grad school

and my philosophizing is sporadic

and incoherent at best)

–

so,

the trouble, i suppose,

is simply some vague fear

of incurring a fine from the city

for allowing grass to be grass.

–

the deeper reason, though,

for this botanical violence

is the bloom of happiness

i see upon her face

as i brush the dirt from my hands

and the first drops fall upon our skulls.

–

–

GJK

11MAY17

–

–

haiku (11MAY17)

–

–

vivid stained-glass pales,

sun saps slight, frail pigments – HA!

vitality fails.

–

–

GJK

11MAY17

–

–

attached to (black and pink)

–

–

sneakers, black and pink

with white laces, slink

sexily across the scratched

umber hardwood floor;

–

sneakers attached to

vigorous feet who

sensually bend and glide —

strides of an angel.

–

feet are Sunflower’s;

she has Sunflower sneakers.

–

–

GJK

23APR17

[mutant sonnetized haiku]

–

with apologies to J.R.R.T.

–

–

the immortal Robert Jordan is

my best dead friend.

regarding fantastical pantheons

i must

insist

that he

is profoundly supreme

(and almost entirely inimitable)

throughout all illimitable, incomprehensible time.

–

–

GJK

12APR17

–

–

4.8.2017

–

–

human  leash  canine

tethered spirits ambulate

humans  chains  corpses

–

–

GJK

4APR17

–

–

(yes this is a protest poem yes this means stop the war,

stop the violence without and within)

–

–

the English language is a gibbering imbecile

–

–

fire up the machine and start

going down

the lists

the scribbled notes

on envelopes

and matchbooks,

index cards

and torn-off portions

of cigarette packages

grab it all

throw it in a pile

on the musty couch cushion

and go

without thought

glancing thru the detritus

of last week, last month,

maybe even last year.

–

and don’t forget to include

today’s list encoded upon your palm,

the marker strokes barely legible

thru the grime and sweat

of the day’s contortions

–

a smeared, bleary reminder

that you are alive.

–

go thru it all

for your own sake

(to slake that ephemeral thirst)

you are a writer

and you matter,

even though your tools

are puny, pathetic

and downright stupid.

–

A thru Z

in every conceivable combination

and permutation in not nearly enough

to express what you feel.

–

but you try.

–

you are almost as stubborn

as me.

–

GJK 5APR17

–

The 1st Step, or, God’s Love

–

WRITTEN BY

ANDREW LARSEN

–
If we use we’re going
2 die!  No need 2 cry,
(I didn’t make this up!)  Go
2 a meeting, “reach out!”  Call
someone.  (Whatever it takes!)
2 not pick up, call Sally
even though he’s a guy!
(Whatever it takes!)  Whatever
it takes!  When we STAY
ALIVE it helps the newcomer.
It would B a bummer IF WE
WEREN’T there 4 them, wouldn’t
it B the same as killing them?
Upon this morbid reflection,
it is worth the clean
connection.  Clean 4 another
day.  It’s good 2 B OKAY,
it’s good to be OK.

–

–

by

Andrew Larsen

24JULY2016

Menominee, MI

–

–

habit and rancor

–

–

–

GJK, 16MAR2017

from WRIGHT THE BOOK

–

–

–

–

‘habit and rancor’

–

–

–

–

hello, predictable. hello, habit. hello shitty diner coffee

that i do so love with every fiber of my mortal being, every mote

of the ephemeral essence that is not me, yet, in truth, is entirely

me and you and every living thing that ever was and ever will be (which means nothing because time is a fiction) and because, as we have learned and understood for eternity — time is not real.

–

–

conversely, timelessness is also not real. confusion enters

the mind and sugar is stirred into the ‘brackish black liquid’

and down my gullet it goes and once again i proclaim:

–

–

Sentence structure be damned to the deepest bowels

of the most foul, vile and wicked lake of fire

that sentience itself has ever imagined within

the rancorous confines of earthly existence!

–

YAWP! grammar, to hell with thee! freedom, expression, caffeine! exaltation and liberty!

–

–

* * *

–

–

ignoring all

–

–

i sit contentedly ignoring all that surrounds

and focus only upon the internal realm

of consciousness in all its infinite, formless

and unknowable grandeur.  i am beauty and ugliness,

i am order and entropy, i am all

and i am nothing.

–

i laugh aloud and startle my neighbors in this common room

of this public house.  i alight from my overstuffed chair

and exit abruptly to smoke that cigarette

that awaits me in the shotgun seat of my own truck

and damn it is wonderful.

–

the sun shines on the smoke

and i disappear

completely.

–

–

GJK

9MAR17

–

–

no-name poem-ring

old, old, old… great but not quite there or right; there is no perfection…

poems by GJK

——————

no-name-poem-ring

　

[dj spooky is flowing from the speakers]

——————

within the pen-named ego-aura of gjk

i let it all go

i let it all float away

there’s that tenor sax i’ve been wanting

there’s that beat man

that beat man

that beat woman over there

knows what is what

and what ain’t worth her time

there’s that bass that upright bass

those finger-plucked notes of tones

of tomes of pomes of books of jazz

yas yas yas

there’s a nod to the jack kerouac-e

(hear it as jack care-oh-wacky)

madness spookiness angels and light

and dark and paved moons of planets of suns

of systems of galaxies

holy moses holy cow holy god holy human holy

john coltrane was right

‘n’ what i’m talkin’ ’bout is

outta this world

set the controls for

the heart of all hearts

the mythic hart of old

that cannot be slain by…

View original post 388 more words

stones and stumbles

for Maus and me and also
no name poetry
milwaukay riverwest
Michael bret n me and you
and Sleepy too… yo Sleepy !
AND, dedicated to Calvin Grandaw

poems by GJK

—

waiting for you to call me back

i stumble upon a stack of notebooks

written in my hand,

the hand of me from two-thousand-and-three

and 2001

and many other years.

it is heavy,

that whole stack,

heavy as stones piled precariously close

to the edge of a creek in the night

where shadows move

the shadows of young women and men

who walk slow and talk soft

and mostly sit

listening to the night

the water

the owl

the engines from the city

that surround this peaceful place.

i don’t remember exactly who was there

but some of them could disappear at will

all they had to do was sit still

and my eyes could no longer see them.

so now i am there,

no longer awaiting your call.

i see you in a shadow

as a satyr

as you and he

once saw me

by the dock of…

View original post 60 more words

shadows subterfuge

poems by GJK

shadows subterfuge elegant mystery coiling in smoky trails

upward shadows history misery only falls grace does rise

the crash of swarm of words that fail flailing futile

all the ideals of ages swallowed by tides of blood

of holy wars (the most insincere of terms) the dead

philosophies the worn footpaths of sandaled feet

all shadows lovely dark recesses in unconscious

manifestation flying forward now breathing

flowing forth ah Beauty oh mistress of sunset

the shadowed hours stretching time of cool

moist winds of sand scattered by barefoot

lovers oh Love ah Pain where has

Misery gone ??

(how i miss her anvil touch)

——————————

GJK

2003

View original post

i type with four fingers

—

and that is enough.

the others work well enough,

but with four my mind has time to float

a bit

yet remained tempered by focus

as sharp as a bushido blade.

—

GJK

3JAN17

12:24am

—

to the wounded

to the wounded

i say that i hurt too and it doesn’t matter what kind

of hurt it is,

i wish that i could wish it away,

but unfortunately we have eons between us

and i am only human.

—

we have all felt that hollow pit in the stomach

or that stabbing eye-glare

that is perhaps a misperception

on either end;

or it’s real and agonizing physical pain,

perhaps it’s war or abuse of any kind

and i certainly do not know your particular struggle

but i can tell you that i am hunched over this machine

with terrible posture and it hurts but i NEED to get this out,

i NEED this figurative device to survive until my next breath.

—

so i breathe, and i notice the cat staring at me.

‘you didn’t forget about work tomorrow, did you?’

no, kitty-cat, i didn’t forget.

so!

this particular piece of automatic writing is at its end,

and i am thinking of you,

the wounded.

—

GJK

30DEC16

—

from Jack to the Aesir

—

at one a.m. sleep had already come and gone my mind was

rapt upon itself i had only to smoke a cigarette to once again

feel entirely human and the foreground of consciousness was full

of Kerouac and the Saint Teresa bum in the shivery gondola

clacking from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara each regarding

each other’s bumly sainthood and angelic nature as the tokay wine

passed between them as a sacrament of the rails and also

the image of Gary Snyder the mountain-man scholar reading his poem

of Coyote at Gallery Six amidst all the intellectual fops and

hepcats with their cultivated images of counterculture while

Jack and Gary the true bodhisattvas purely manifested Tao-essence

with Jack of course being responsible for everyone’s drunkenness.

outside windchimes jangle, sounding not their usual music

but instead the dread arrival of Oktober’s first jarring frigid wind

with its teeth of dead winter cutting the night

like so much dumb meat to be devoured by some Nordic beast

of demon-nightmare.  three cats luxuriate on the couch-back

behind my shoulders as the windows shudder with the

frosted breath of the devilish autumn gale.

the gravity of encroaching winter is inescapable

and the stark, magnificent autumn night

is full of unassailable and insistent vortexes

of overwhelming foreboding and fleshly truth.

bright burns the diamond-heart of the hunter

beyond the cloud-swathed sky,

bright burns the hearth-fires of the immortals

in their cavernous mead-halls shrouded in mists

of the disbelieving human mass that shivers

beneath their benevolence, caught here in mired minds

and the miasma of time.

—

GJK

15OCT2014

today

–

i found myself wandering around the house

looking for things to clean or arrange or improve somehow

i found myself burning sage in the basement

to purify that dank space

found myself eating mung beans with garlic and chili sauce

eating standing in the kitchen

straight from pan to mouth with the wooden spoon

that i used to prepare them

because why in the world would i make more dirty dishes

for myself to clean

i found myself feeding first my son and then me

scarfing down what was left

i found myself concerned with the brutal weather

the bitter wind

the frigid storm looming above

thoughts of

what if the truck breaks down

what if my love and i get stranded

what if —

then i stopped, stretched my aching back

and sighed

(holy shit i need to find a job)

(holy shit what am i forgetting)

i wished for more coffee to pour down

my thirsty gullet

but no i’ve had enough

my fucking brain can’t take it

i’m bordering on frantic as it is.

i found myself today being an adult

a husband

a dad

and how sad that it’s so unfamiliar.

forty-one and finally grew up.

goddamn.

—

GJK

16DEC2016

—

torment

—

thirst

plagues me

torments my calm

ruins peace of mind

tremendous desire pervades my bones

razor blades lacerate my milky eyes

brain stem throbs like a withered root

all i want is one more intoxicated moment

all i want is one more ecstatic cresting wave

all i want is the beauty of fervent feeling forever

thirst runs rampant in my desolate brain like frantic fevered vermin

lust for drunkenness writhes through brambles of consciousness from dawn to dusk

moonlight has lost its luster and coyote howls have become screams of demons

i am split asunder by the thundering blade of clarity that exposes my weakness

i shudder under the weight of the knowledge of time and its passionless lethal grip

my ability to love is hamstrung by the discord that rages within my bleak denuded soul

i feel forsaken and lost as i am set adrift on an ocean of sobriety without sails

i ache for tranquility and lightness of being but i am severed from this peace by ubiquitous need

—

GJK

3DEC14

—

angels are not [appears in self-published book Chokehold]

—

grinning mouth of chaos,

alluring glass conduit to numb realms –

silver-lipped cherubs falling from acid sky

screaming, severed wings trailing behind –

silver-lipped cherubs impacting ground

splattering into bloody mounds of flesh

crawling with flies

—

angels are dark demons in disguise

—

gaping mouth of chaos,

clear glass circle of stinging poison

swallowing flesh and bone

grinding marrow to dust

—

snakes in the mouths of mute infants

—

bloody lips of chaos

curiously beautiful

as they kiss

the foreheads of pious traitors

—

angels are dark demons

—

vultures fill the boiling acid sky.

—

GJK

22AUG02

rev. 18JUN03

—