no-name poem-ring

——————

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 those arrows that

that blowhard shakespeare was writing about

oh what am i saying middle english is oww-right

but i am here and now motherlovers

brotherlovers sisterlovers fatherlovers

lovers

lovers

and then silence and the knowing that

there too is darkness and death and all that

horrid chaos of greed and

oh shit here i am reeling myself in again

i’m a fish on my own hook

fighting

fighting for breath

this isn’t a joke this is me dreaming

inside

inside the words the type-e-writer

the visual prattling the poetic imaginings

of a vagabond-turned-home-body

oh my people

can you see me

can you hear

annie i think this is the poem you’ve been waiting

for me to write

all the stuffing-down of laughter

the choking-back tears

the visions the realities it was compressed

for so long all that putrid self-loathing has lifted

the smog is separate from the fog

the mist the voice of tree

and corn and blacktop and oh hell

every single thing in all my living years has led me

here

the music is long gone

i am utterly alone in this room

my back aches but that’s nothing

it’s not like i’m bearing a child anytime soon

yes bless them

but back to me

and my muse here in the next room

my lover-healer

the one that married me

here is my dreaming

my vision of the world

oh it’s way too big to ever see all of it

those astronauts amaze but what about the deep

the cavernous seas

now there’s that beat i see maus nodding

in time

out of time

i’m two years late

and ten dollars short

my pits stink

sweat drips down my back

but my crack is safe

me drawers will absorb that salt

from that noodle

from that place where people go to eat

to not die

thanks be to the cooks and ovens

of the world of this here state

of this town

and now i slow down

been holdin’ my breath forgot to breathe damnit

hold on easy now boy

what am i

a horse

no

i be a water carrier.

you thirsty you call me

be you woman or man or canine or feline

call on me the water is clean

all praises be

the water is clean.

——————　

GJK

5 AUGUST 2010, 3:04am

Advertisement

phantasm

—

gotta get past the world

surpass the horizon

gotta fly away

on wings

i suppose

i must summon

from the beyond

—

gotta leap to the moon

and further

amidst the stars

gotta mechanize

a way

an alternate

dimension

gotta fabricate

a new infinity

in which

to reside

—

gotta dive

into the deep

gotta mutate

gotta dig to the core

become a molten being

summon forces

that will reform

the earth

—

gotta get past this world

gotta invent genius

and dream that

everything is

golden.

　

— — —

GJK 2JUN02

— — —

even her

—

liars.

psychos.

doctors.

they are all guilty.

—

guilty of misleading

everyone.

even her.

even my lovely

lovely wife

has been

beguiled.

—

he’s not right

they all said

about me.

he has an illness

called bipolar

BOLLOCKS!

IT’S CALLED

MELANCHOLIA

and there is nothing wrong

with that.

we all hurt

we all have problems

so what if mine

appears in the DSM catalogue

of misnomers …

—

phuck you, doc.

i’m fine.

and thanks fer all the drugs.

—

you’re a doctor

you’re a dealer

and i use the zy-prex

recreationally.

it’s phun to trip

so which one of us

has been mislead?

—

ah-hah

ha ha ha

the joke

is on

you.

—　

　

GJK

6SEP10

calling all nomad poets

—

—

this is a continuation of “Plea”

(by me), which was published

 in the UW-Marinette Arts Journal

Northern Lights (2005)

—

—

　

 

peace

harmony

compassion

these are not words,

they are realities

we very much need

now and here

and always

and everywhere…

and here

is where i rant

against wrong-thinking,

the psycho-babel

that keeps us all

in fear

of everything

in distrust

of everyone

in loathing

of our selves

and here

is where

i begin

the letting go…

—

—　

　

mi madre,

that sage teacher

who i love

and respect

is, at times,

a hyper-attentive

alarmist

and this concerns

me

because she too

has been lied to

by the psycho-babel

establishment

and she, being a mom,

tends to over-react

every time i under-react

so, if we understand balance

and The Middle Way,

we should be able to

get together to

find the essential pivot

that will bring

peace-of-mind to bear

in our inter-connected

lives.

so here

is where we begin

with all of our lives

intertwined

manifesting harmony

which is

essence

of Tao…

—

—　

　

　

　

　

GJK

September, 2010

write like a ____

—

1.

—

go baby go

says my bro

that muthafucka

wuz right

—

when years ago he said

if you wanna be a writer

just be a writer

—

and what he meant wuz

stop yer bitching

and write

—

write like yr life depends on it

and it duz…

—

it really does.

***

2.

—

in the flesh

in the mind

in the spirit

it is one

and me is poet

there’s no way around it.

—

god knows i have tried

to be other things

but writer is

the only true me

—

once when i told a____ that

i got a day job

she said

why did you

give up?

(cuz i needed money)

but i knew what she meant

and what she meant was

don’t ever put your pen down

don’t ever hang it up

pack it in

roll over and die

—

don’t you ever leave me

all alone out here in the wasteland

that’s what she meant

and now

here i am

with her on my index finger

my best woman-friend

who isn’t my wife

my best encourager

(other than Yello)

my one-of-four great emboldeners

—

it’s all about the word

the flow

Yello

a____

m______

and me

—

and Maus,

the first one to truly

love me

and

set me

free.

—

now he’s in Colorady

and Yello is here,

in the next room,

just being she

and me here, typing,

being me.

—

　

　

GJK (29 August 2010)

 

 

 

line by line

　—　

my only courageous act

is now

to put pen to paper

to write

this is trite

and easily dismissed

by many and by myself

but the truth is

it’s been over a year

since i’ve allowed myself

to bleed.

—

i’m drinking

watching a PBS program

about volunteers that greet

soldiers

a program

about the goddamned wars

about the wretched and beautiful ones

who, for whatever reason

have given themselves over

to the choice

to become the walking dead

—

so i have no reason

or excuse for having

avoided my self

and this horrid

unreasonableness

for so long.

—

on the screen

is some old geezer

giving his waning days

and nights

to women and men who

insist upon calling him

sir

but all he wants to do

is share some smokes and bullshit

over coffee in a snowstorm

in the shadow

of some podunk airport

terminal.

—

i feel selfish and small

to feel so joyous and grand

for this effort,

this pittance of craft.

—

this tiny poesy

is mean

and crude

and, by outer observance,

crass.

—　

– but i must remain proud

  in this moment

  regaining my self

  line by line.

　

—　

GJK

13NOV09

—

 

thank you mr. oldham

—

so this guy walked into my house 

with this woman and he sort of

hugged her then fell on top

of her on my couch

and started to

dry hump her

—

he was a friend of mine,

you see, and she

i had just met

for the first time

and we,

i mean he and i,

had been drinking

good old domestic beer

and she a bottle of wine

out in the yard,

feasting on hot dogs

popcorn and whatnot

and when it was near dark

we all went inside.

—

i walked into my own house

and saw this man

on top of this woman

they were laughing

i was laughing

there was rageful music

blasting from the speakers

then, as they were play-hump-wrestling

something happened and she said

—

oww yer hurting me.

—

the laughter stopped

and he said he was sorry

and i turned the music down

a little

and quickly

everything

settled down.

someone picked out

less angry music

and it was back

to all grins

all around.

this friend of mine

is one of the kindest

and most thoughtful souls

i have ever met,

and so full of joy

loving-of-fun

and empathetic

to boot.

—

this just goes to show you

how even a pacifistic

man-child

can get carried away

once in a while,

if the time and place

is right,

and if the hurting

really was accidental,

which it was.

—

and, after all,

i had said to both of them

my house

is your house.

　

—　

GJK

30JUL10

hover, 2006

—

60mph northbound into town

both palms damp on the wheel

a fast pearl jam song churns

spills thick and loud

from four speakers

bounces from pane to pane

captured within glass

sound crashes in my thirsty ears

pierces deep into my guts

incense smoke drifts up

from the dashboard

(a thin stick wedged

in the panel below the a.c.

drops ash to the carpet)

and my foot presses down

with urgency matching the song

surging now to 70mph

then i hover motionless

above the highway

the car caught in freeze-frame

as everything else slides by.

the road beneath moves as water

and the fields float as clouds

past my eyes that stare blankly ahead

disbelieving and entranced.

the world falls away

and i am rising

out of my self

lifted without form into the sky

expanding high above the earth

and flowing with impossible speed

i burn toward the sun.

—　

　

GJK

9JUN06

an argument for simplicity

 

—

the foundation is set and the roots

are well established, the stems

are thin but healthy and the petals

are all purple yellow white black

and blue. the fire in the back

burns orange-red and hotter

toward blue-white and then

green, where it all began

for me, day-dreaming on the grass

in the yard between the house

and the shed. the smell

of manure from the barn

was muted by the hay-fever

afflicting my nose and throat

and all i could see was blue

and whitish-gray streaks

in the floor of my childish visions

where up was down and left was right

and everything depended on

mom and dad selling their livestock

and cash-crops and to me

happiness was the smell of October

because most of the corn was in

and the coming winter meant

nothing more than more cookies

fresh from the oven

because momma had more time

to bake, just for fun,

just for the sake of feeding her kids

something sweet because spring

and summer had been nothing but

toiling in fields and shoveling shit.

—

here, and now,

my love and i

have a few plants

of our own.

we have learned

to bake our own cookies

and make our own almost anything,

and there are six fresh tomatoes

ready to be plucked from the vine.

　

—　

GJK

9AUG10

to a lonesome wanderer

—

i see you there, i see i here

i hear you there, i hear me here

—

my

breath is belabored

stanzas stagger

car drives

toilets flush

cats feed

wife is in love

beans are boiled

plans are foiled

(fuck that rhyme)

—

i

is twosome

is we, me and she,

we sits before computers

lounges on couches

fucks in beds

loves together in seclusions

(solution, dilution)

—

we

sounds dependent

sounds bound

and is bond

—

i

had that dream long ago

that you were already dead

and shouting atop a mountain-

i wept

and she held me

(just a dream baby)

—

and there you are now

alive and singing.

—

i

is listening.

　

　

— — —

by GJK, 2010

for MausIsI

— — —

hawk-eye hover-craft

—

tonight i am a nighthawk

guiding the car

that is a bus

that is a boat

that is a ship

that is a submarine vessel

moving thru the murk of midnight

here in this noisy little city.

—

the eye sees the roofs of dwellings

and roads

streets

avenues

trails

and loops

some of which are

illuminated by

street-lights

(i mean street-lamps)

—

people walk

skip and flow along

frost-quaked pavements

wearing flip-flops

(thanks Maus,

 just say this out loud

 “street-lamp-flip-flop”)

—

these words are hard to pronounce

so just feel the percussion in them,

listen to their sound

not to what they mean.

—

nighthawk has eyeball above this sound

not so much interested in noise

but keenly aware

of deer-bed there

rabbit-hole here

fishes all over the below-land

that is Lake Michigan

and the connected watersheds

that feed us all here,

tonight.

—

which pill

which potion

which fix is it that you need

to join me here

in this

sky

—

GJK / summer of 2010

i am a buck

—

a male whitetail deer

 

with antlers five-pointed

roams the night

and his lovely mate

his doe

sometimes follows

sometimes leads

sometimes stays

in their home

a soft mat

of grasses and weeds

within smelling distance

of the bay.

—–

they forage for food together

in secret places

and in open fields

of wild vegetation

where berries hang from branches

an offering from the sun

to the soil to the roots

to the trunk to the branches

to the blossoms

to the fruit

to the mouths of they

that walk quietly on four legs

and eat only what they need

to survive

and carry on through

the seasons.

—–

many creatures surround

these two mates

and she treads lightly

not disturbing

or upsetting them

as does he, most of the time.

—–

there are tough times, though

and on occasion he will burst

from the tree-line and bound across

small streams and roads

to deliver a message:

—–

pay heed with all your senses, human.

slow that vehicle down

if you don’t know what

you are doing.

—–

GJK

4AUG10

stones and stumbles

—

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 a larger and noisier

water-flow;

and you are humbly forming a word

in the cavern that is eternity.

a finger gently taps my forehead.

it is Bindu, face floating and mouth smiling,

waking me from sleep.

the rivers are gone

and i am back here

transmitting this to you

someday when you find me again.

—　

GJK

July of 2010

the eleven

 

the eleven o’clock train

sounds its horn through the mist

as smoke lifts above the porch

pluming up from my lips

a record spins

voices and instruments

bleed through the door

and meet ponderous train-horn

with lyrical trumpet-speak.

i muse myself and imagine

what graffiti is displayed there

on those boxcars, what art

and whose vision

is being hauled northward

this november night,

what hand and mind and spirit

is moving there

on the steely slate

of those driven containers.

what hand might i meet

if i were one with the mist

and the horn and the paint

what voice is this now

nailed down on the page.

　

　

GJK

2006/2010

shadows subterfuge

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

weaving paths

my peculiar vision
and mannerisms of self-mythology
manifest themselves in fitful melancholy routine
straining toward unformed unknowable joy
fretting and frowning over contrived troubles
shining muted hope with unsettled contentment
yearning to break free
into wide open space
of unfettered glee.

subliminal happiness is
buried beneath volcanic strata
of constricting external pressures.
convention and conformity
crush liberty of ideal mind.

supposed knowledge defines limitation
and eyes burn thru the shadows of time
seeing a glimmer of purity
beyond the shackles of mankind
beyond the physical realm
of possession, attainment, and pride.

my individuality
recognizes ubiquitous dual forces
that divide mind from mind,
mind from self,
and self from other.

my weaving path winds and twists
upon itself, resolving into one
straight line of sight
as i walk forward, determined
and alone.

wanting to bring you with me,
i strain to understand
we are but parts

of the same being.

——

GJK

2004

so what’s wrong with mania

 

i stand in the driveway barefooted

smoking a cigarette

pale skin burned by the july sun.

an ant climbs my thigh

a horsefly tries to bore its way thru

the trashcan at the curb

and i have an idea

i have a thought.

it splits, twists, multiplies, fractures.

it wants to be chaos but it doesn’t have the steam.

first it whispers then begins to scream.

it is what a psychologist

or psychiatrist

or any other brand

of psycho

might call racing or intrusive thoughts

and though to me that sounds like something great-

something rare and valuable to be explored,

mined, marveled at and exploited-

to the psychos of the world

it sounds like a problem,

something to manage,

something to get a handle on

and shit!

something to medicate.

to those who might wish

to stifle these ecstasies

with rubber-stamped drugs

i say

back off motherfucker

i got this.

my cock

is bigger than yours

and my drugs are union-made in milwaukee

picked from guatemalan forests

cultivated in carolina

and grown by badass neo-tribalists

in colorado

so suck it

fuck it

roll up your diplomas

stack them in a pile

and set them aflame

as if you were

the inquisition

burning the heretic

that is your own

maniacal desire

to control

and to know.

the thought started with a horsefly

and a trashcan.

it ended with burning witches.

who in their right mind

would want to sully that

with something as perverse

as a prescription?

shrinks,

those silly bitches.

　

　

GJK

14JUL10