Buffalo Poetry

Fuck that

This is news that�
shall not leave my heart
Those are eyes that�
look out from my mind
These are memories of�
closeness in corners�
and tight breath moments
in which what will be spoken
in halting awkwardness?
What footstep dance�
will be shuffled today?
What marks will be made
in today's golden honey?
Bubbly trails that�
weave the mat of�
time in reality?
Isn't it true that we
know each other now?
Isn't always been true?
This thing,
this one thing�
that only seems separate
that we know is not big
that we know is not really hidden
which is the only thing there is
and so cannot really be separate
the wind sticks against�
the skin and clothes of all things
and radiant heat and shine�
reminds us of that�
one true bed�
in which we wiggle and twist
together in Sunday morning
foreverness
And my cells shout�
and my shoulders throb
with the heavy bourdon�
of knowing you
And my lips ache
with the form of your name
My throat will not let it escape
You're not here though
You're in that other spot
Like a televised image of you
Like a Macy's day parade float of you
Like an optical illusion
in which which face is you
Which of these lines�
are bigger?
Mysterious grey boxes�
appearing at the�
intersection of the grid

Buffalo.

Visions of Destiny

Mega-
mind in
time is all existence
wrapped up in a dream
of conciousness
Nifty hair blowing
confrences across
a hot rail
pizza apocolypse
My eyes would lie
and tell you
no sausages
My eyes would lie
and give you
hands explosive
stop stomp stop
stomp stomp bang
How do you you do?
Yo take em offa
da floor
The hair weaves shall
stalk no more
Dems dissapeared
their dirty maw

Your natural eye
seek refuge in the
golden wind of seas
Skin bumped smooth
and soft sky shallow
smile

Hands me to you
There aint no way to
feel

Hands me up to you
There he aint gonna sail
no more.

Take a blessing from
my heart and stroll up
and away

Down that long and
unkown way where the
seas and scuttles roam

Punch the kettle.
Thumb the drum. Light the
light down the room
New coffee, old machine

And she screams in
horrible way.
And the sky wasn't
up that day

And nothing can be
the same.
And life will change
anyway.

What is over
is never gone

What has never been
has been either way

The truth is much simpler
than you expect
But time is all about
complications

And the tears
billions of pairs
of tears pouring out over
the eons followed
by nervous worn out
monkey laughter
thousands of years
of shaking your
head
And the walking
all the walking
through caves, bridges
over high up constructions
in circles over oceans over
one hundred million years
of three hundred and
sixty five shits
per person
sometimes twice a day!
But also sometimes none
for a whole week
And the hunger
Oh the hunger
And the dying
Oh the dying
And the absolutly
fucking exhausted.
And the disaster
And the rare moments
when you feel your
heart just buzz with
excitement.

Autobiographical History of Art

Autobiographical History of Art
by Noah Levin

Fire steals in seething moment. Passion
is needed tool that must be expressed or
urgent need to action that explodes skin
in creativity.

Violently create,
spill soul and thought onto paper and
create where there wasn�t once. OUT
OF NOTHING -something that always
existed in the future perhaps. Large
swath of brush out of mind.
All consuming.

No one wants to pay me but I must.
Spare some food into an artistic cup? I
think music and write rhythm thought
because god made me this way. Tap,
tap, tap and spray my brains on paper
for all to see as best I can abstract cut
up of what I was trying to tell you.

Multiple dimensions coming and going
because black and white never existed
except in cliff notes version of life.
Hard experience grime under finger
nails is the pushpull tug of war that is
all time ticks on by and lost pages of
book floats away but I keep on
shouting. This is what I have damn it.

An Untitles Poem written on 2/8/09

Untitled Poem written on 2/8/09
by Noah Levin

Starring at silence. Don�t know
what to do. Heart pulls in directions
perhaps not understood yet seems
predetermined in its own way.
Inevitability seems to be direction
flow that I can�t pull away or let self
break on the rocky shores. Passive
yet not fully content. Anger swells
waves, puts fire under march
towards what? Checked off a lot on
that checklist now and that leaves
this bag of goodies half empty.
Open opportunity that perhaps I
don�t understand; the pious hates
downfall as just reward. Precipice
without answers, the wind is empty
engulfing sound yet I listen to the
howl of the gale on the horizon all
around me. Mutterings in my head:

Hunger in spirit - More then this.

-Buffalo
Noah
2/8/09

A pokect Full of poetry

I've chased my roots, back to flourcent lights and cash registers of westchester

wondering about authenticity, arguing with a women who hides her craziness except since she's been comfortable enough to openly avoid my eye contact, about how sweet I can be.

3 months seems to deem the time in which one can establish the farce that is a modern life, away from demons, possesing me in new york city, away from yearnings of the road, away from large white elephants, never forgetting, always feeding (other people, not itself)

reminding me of conversations about open relations around a camp fire in colorado as the sun came up, and I met magic's horse before I heard him strum a string and the son-of-a-bitch farted as he walked past. Taunting me not to take it so seriously as we piled back on the elephant at 8 in the morning with signs of divorce in the redding hills behind the westward tee-pee rocks.

Radios blast, and its a lost image. I write, it become untrue, and true again, like the tides I go insaine at the full moon.

I've been reading tarot cards, a zen deck brought the group to its second, sacral chakra. Orange, like myself, creative and sexual. I wish to find a place to dance half naked tonight. Fully naked is not yet nessary. That can wait till we've been here for 6 months, and I'm fully insane, or sane, depending on how well this job goes and if I can get a hold of holding onto some money.

Constumer service is no big deal, i'm a man of the people as I explain to them its cheeper and smarter in the econminy not to hire me for the job I'm here to do. You can do it better yourself if you apply yourself, how do you think I got this job in the first place?

They told me I could be management in two years. I puked into my mouth and swallowed. I hope he didn't see it with his third eye. Working this long, drinking this much coffie, I wonder if he's capaable.

We all used to be in media, but retail is steadier. We hate it just the same, but do it anyways.

I produced public access and talk about god with my boss on the phone. THREE days in I was in charge, aware of what I had to do, until the cops busted the door down and I cried 'I'm innocent." They heard it before, I"ve said it before, but this time its true. Not inncoent of my relations, but of my realtions misdoings.

Maybe its a trap. Maybe its for the better. Either way, I can still write.

Either way, it's still right.

I met a man on the road,cover by grey clouds, surronded by his will. I pulled him out of my body and he turned to translucent light. Evil has a way of leaving me impaired. Selfish and imparied.

I've already started writing hikus at work.

"Got a paying gig.
Black pants, white shirt, red apron.
Oh, I've been framed"

dissolution and composition

dissolution and composition from James Honzik on Vimeo.A new visual poem: transformation, metamorphosis, transfiguration.

A Poem About

The other night a horse
bit me on the hand

Realizing the impossibility
of the situation
I told the cop

Hey, your horse just bit me
and the cop said
You shouldn't touch him
he's not that kind of horse

and I realized the cop was right
and I walked away
into the night, into the sake bar

Thank you

Techno InstaSociety

This is so new I literaly just finished writing it this very second (for real!)....

"Techno InstaSociety"
or
"The Disjointed Union"

by Noah Levin

What is it you wanted to say? A
thousand voices joined into
disunion.
Nothing for today.
No meat on the table.
No voice on the radio.
Reviews and self satisfaction scream
in millions of digital voices.
Blog your thoughts.
Be the generation of me.
Be the generation that fell into
nostalgic dream. Pillows of
yesterday suffocate voice, disjointed
approval lays the land bare.

Entertainment available to everyone
but the food on my table costs more
then I can pay. Blood for blood.
Will slides away into happiness.
Let me view yesterday on my
computer again and I�ll inject the
internet into my veins. Doped up
cyber-dreams glazes will to do
anything.

Say our independence all together
now, agree on nothing or settle for
self serving slaps on the back.
Grass roots points to aimless
wanderings. Don Quixote says sign
up! Sign Up! Forum rules into
clamor pit of millions where none
rise to the top.

World collapse and we can read
about it on the AP wire in minute
news. Watch instantaneous knee
jerk reaction:

Long term goals no longer exist.
Voice no longer exists. A scream
amongst a million doesn�t exist.
Placation is supreme!

DIGITIZE YOUR NOSTALGIA.

Who are we?

SHOUT 'BUFFALO' UNTIL YOUR VOICE IS HORSE!!!!!!!
BUFFALO!!
-Noah

On Sutter & Van Sinderen Ave

In a new place for the first time and capturing the sublime sunset and approaching high tide with impending night.

Watching day light retreat
The growling trains
come and leave,
I hear them
and wonder to where
in the murky blue sky
do they wander to
at this endless junction
of Brook Land.
Young seagulls look like
fashionable penguins
and squeal like girls.
Flapping and riding the wind
with no where to land.

An approaching breeze
escorts the day
All the huddled trees
singing praise of Spring
block the horizon
point of vanishing-
There is only life here.

Sitting on an over pass
the LIRR pushes through
with ease as the
organic sounds of the street
take over any revving engine.

The air from the sea
teases my senses and
the natural qualities
emerge from all things.

Thelonious Monk Is A Jazz Ninja!

Newer Poem written while listening to the Clark Terry with Thelonious Monk album "In Orbit". Words were written describing the music I was hearing along with the "on the spot" emotions that came with them. A very in the moment poem. Oh yeah, and also a fucking great album you should go out and buy right now if you don't own it already (ask me and I can probably name several hundred such important albums you should go out and buy right now if missing from your collection)

Thelonious Monk Is A Jazz Ninja!
While Clark Terry is the Field Martial
� leading the charge � but Monk,
oh Monk, with deadly assassin keys
silent in approach and precision
timing will slay you down � shot
through the heart by a single note of
jazz.

Sam Jones man, Sam Jones�ll stare
you in the eye playing the rhythmic
center of your eulogy. And
emotions on primal center cling to
deep bass groove � deep knowing of
forgotten while new fall breeze and
sun and sun and sun � daylight
forever now through window.
Forever always, forever now.

But Monk still,
Monk is silently lurking �
searching for what �is� that makes
me tick � but he knows.
Can thought be channeled through
piano keys? Finding the single
fracture point of a man?

Take Time,
Take Time.

Philly Joe Jones rallies the troops,
sets battle plan in stone, in dance, in
expression �

Surge Now Everyone.

Take Hold,
Take Life,
Take Destiny,
Take Everything,
Take You,
Take Me.

Dane Fool! Dance.
Monk and Terry
have come for your soul.

"Thelonious Monk Is A Jazz Ninja!" is by yours truly, Noah Levin.

Moose!

A Little Thing of Chance

Under a decision of change and chance for change
Walking this life with things walking on me
large and small
it's a a little chance
The difference between
Earth and Venus
Man and Fruit Fly
are fractal and pentagrams
Eyes watching each other
blink and the
universe covers
an event's horizon

So cycling time
which is life and death
occurs birthing
one another
where does ending and beginnings occur
the breath and push of air in blood
Ejaculate and salve
The fern and the baby
what information known now
compared to six years ago
and the unchanging
lifestyle of life forms
despite what we've
known or didn't
or don't because
who knows

untitled

Written some time ago, idea of our world not being the sole world, the original world or master world. Things existing included.
Shadows are no imprint
Escaping the mind
Names and wine stains
stabbing this book,
not its shadow
Difficult to produce
nothing to go
characteristically by
meta-phors unchanged
shadown them or you
Who?
beyond significant name
can
quality be function
what is identified
beyond shadows, this world world.

Sleep to dream away

Sleep to dream away
by: Volcanic Milk

Striking, wailing out loud--
The thunder, the rain!
Walking home, this time
Alone.
Huddled neath' a twisted Willow
Warmth breaks free
Of any will--
O! the structure of losing control!
The dankness of tonights
Un-inviting quarters;
Restlessness is relentless.
Clinging to those warm memories, melodies
To survive.
Early morning fog, latter years
Midnight frost;
O tonight,
Despondently cuddling mis-shapen trees
Glistening cheek,
(tears cascade dis-comfortably)
A foot, stripped of sock or shoe, impregnated
By muddy soil, soon to birth rot.
Only to rest or make an effort to sleep and dream away-- Strangely.
Sour sleep breeds
Strange dreams,
And this Willow will surely breed
Come Morning, anew.

But broken men ring out, and wander away
To the scene of their deaths.

august (a song)

under the silent moon
sleeping bag wrestling rock
i've thought it all on this crag
i've thought it all on the spot

waves crash like tyrants
and fish floating landward
suns and moons scream for you
daughters run homeward

a fist full of flowers
to stave off the hours
when seeds on rocks scatter
and roots do not flower

newKrang

From the convienience of your
Western tears comes one
who looks to those lonesome
ears come one come sky come
home and moan
and not to cognite gragnite
comes wandering those thickly
painted hallway cielings
of blue-grey sunday afternoon
loneliness.
Crackled the picture box
long speaker wire wrapped
long ago wire hanger
who's pillow night
caught fire
caught brown and wind
and more soulsome tears
a holographic diorama
of the times I might
remember when puppet
family in carpeted doll house
Kabuki mask angst and
bumble bee mark
Screamed on the wind of the
panes of glass-time
whos time yous time
come along and sunday morning
news time. Cartoon fingertips
releases plastic button and
red eyed channel disfigures its
figure. And before the flip
it's minds eye laugh around
couch and table and ear-held
write-a-gram. Monthly monthly
paycheck wrinkles.
Who knew how so it was
so meaningless tantra
of the thirty seventh time
when the spring has become limp
when the mind hollow messenger
comes to this mind limp
when the limp limp limp limp limp
becomes limp
and yet it was always limp,
and still it was always not limp
and then there was tuesday when it
was like madness and a dark tight tunnel
breathes heavy with wandering souls
each scrapes off a little bit
and the path becomes tighter
becomes cramped and pressed face features
and the package was wrapped in life
and the gold was its bones
and the wind was its blood
and the distance was its energy
and the planets its memory
and the comets its kidneys
and the water was its euphoria
and the fire was its intellect
and the gravity was its schedule
and the dust was its senses
and the clouds were its songs
and the music was its meat
and the wine was its potatos
and the rhythm was its lesson
and the light was its goal
OH AGONY
oh mysterious backbone we call being
oh the cheese of cities
oh the lambs of concertos
oh the end all be all original hairball of slut
-
take these crimes and hold them to you dear
for your Wednesday depends on them
for your crackers do shift
for your spread does not shift
and you are lonely
in the only one
you are you
are you
are
.

Locked

Locked
by: Volcanic Milk

So, tonight, I'll drive,
naked and alone.
Beneath the cool oceans breeze--I'll catch a glimpse,
Out of my past:
(Curiously subdued blue eyes.)
Warm glow? no!
Sea salt air invigorates,
as it should,
Though this erection hesitates.
My sexual proclivities remain locked,
Flourishing in their youth,
Yes, Lonesome more!

The Ancient Rain

Written by Bob Kaufman
The Ancient Rain
At the illusion world that has come into existence of world that exists secretly, as meanwhile the humorous Nazis on television will not be as laughable, but replaced by silent and blank TV screens. At this time, the dead nations of Europe and Asia shall cast up the corpses from the graveyards they have become. But today the Ancient Rain falls, from the far sky. It will be white like the rain that fell on the day Abraham Lincoln died. It shall be red rain like the rain the fell George Washington abolished monarchy. It shall be blue rain like the rain that fell when John Fitzgerald Kenndey died.

They will see the bleached skeletons that they have become. By then, it shall be too late for them. All the symbols shall return to the realm of the symbolic and reality become the meaning again. In the meantime, masks of life continue to cover the landscape. Now on the landscape of the death earth, the Luftwaffe continues to fly into Volkswagens through the asphalt skies of death.

It shall be black rain like the rain that fell on the day Martin Luther King died. It shall be the Ancient Rain that fell on the day Franklin Delano Roosevelt died. It shall be the Ancient Rain that fell when Nathan Hale died. It shall be the brown rain that fell on the day Crispus Attucks died. It shall be the Ancient Rain that fell on July Fourth, 1776, when America became alive. In America, the Ancient Rain is beginning to fall again. The Ancient Rain falls from a distant secret sky. It shall fall here on America, which alone, remains alive, on this earth of death. The Ancient Rain is supreme and is aware of all things that have ever happened. The Ancient Rain shall be brilliant yellow as it was on the day Custer died. The ancient Rain is the source of all things, the Ancient Rain knows all secrets, the Ancient Rain illuminates America. The Ancient Rain shall kill genocide.

The Ancient Rain shall bring death to those who love and feel only themselves. The Ancient Rain is colors, all forms, all shapes, all sizes. The Ancient Rain is a mystery known only to itself. The Ancient Rain filled the seas. The Ancient Rain killed all the dinosaurs and left one dinosaur skeleton to remind the world that the Ancient Rain is falling again.

The Ancient Rain splits nations that have died on the Ancient Rain, nations so that they can see the culture of the living dead they have become, the Ancient Rain is falling on America now. It shall kill D.W. Griffith and the Ku Klux Klan; Hollywood shall die in the Ancient Rain. This nation was born in the Ancient Rain July 4, 1776. The Ancient Rain shall cause the Continental Congress to be born again.

The Ancient Rain is perfection. The Ancient Rain cured the plague without medicine. The Ancient Rain is vindictive. The Ancient drops are volcanoes and in one moment destroyed Pompeii and brought Caesar down, and now Caesar has fallen. This Roman Empire is no more. The Ancient Rain falls silently and secretly. The Ancient Rain leaves mysteries that remain, and no man can solve. Easter Island is a lonely place.

The Ancient Rain wets people with truth and they expose themselves to the Ancient Rain. Egypt has a silent sphinx and pyramids made of death chambers so that Egypt remembers the day the Ancient Rain drowned it forever. The mummies no longer speak, but they remember the fury of the Ancient Rain. Their tombs have been sawed in pieces and removed to the graveyard to make way for the pool of Ancient Rain that has taken their place.

The Ancient Rain saw Washington standing at Appomattox and it fell on Lee as he laid down his sword. The Ancient Rain fell on the Confederacy and it was no more.

The Ancient Rain is falling again. The Ancient Rain is falling on the waves of immigrants who fled their homelands to come to this home of Ancient Rain to be free of tyranny and hunger and injustice, and who now refuse to go to school with Cripsus Attucks, the Ancient Rain knows they were starving in Europe. The Ancient Rain is falling. It is falling on the N.A.T.O. meetings. It is falling in Red Square. Will there be war or peace? The Ancient Rain knows, but does not say. I make speculations of my own, but do not discuss them, because the Ancient Rain is falling.

The Ancient Rain is falling in the time of a war crisis, people of Europe profess to want peace, as they prepare day and night for war, with the exception of France and England. They are part of the N.A.T.O. alliance. I believe that Russia wants war. Russia supports any Communist nation to war with weapons and political stances on behalf of any Communist political move. This will eventually lead to war- a war that shall make World War III, the largest war ever.

The ancient Rain is falling over America now. The music of the Ancient Rain is heard everywhere. The music is purely America, not European. It is the voice of the American Revolution. It shall play forever. The ancient Rain is falling in Philadelphia. The bell is tolling. The South cannot hear it. The South hears the Ku Klux Klan, until the bell drowns them out. The Ancient Rain is falling.

The Ancient Rain does what it wants. It does not explain to anyone. The ancient Rain fell on Hart Crane. He committed suicide in the Gulf of Mexico. Now the Washington Monument is bathed in the celestial lights of the Ancient Rain. The Ancient Rain is falling in America, and all the nations that gather on the East River to try and prevent a star prophecy of 37 million deaths in World War III. They cannot see the Ancient Rain, but live in it, hoping that it does not want war. They would be the victims� in Asia, the Orient, Europe, and in South America. The Ancient Rain will cause them to speak the languages they brought with them. The Ancient Rain did not see them in America when Crispus Attucks was falling before the British guns on the Boston Commons. The Ancient Rain is falling again from the place where the Ancient Rain lives. Alone. The Ancient Rain thinks of Crockett and falls on the Santa Ana Freeway and it becomes a smog source.

The Ancient Rain wets my face and I am freed from hatreds of me that disguise themselves with racist bouquets. The Ancient Rain has moved me to another world, where the people stand still and the streets moved me to destination. I look down on the Earth and see myself wandering in the Ancient Rain, ecstatic, aware that the death I feel around me is in the hands of the Ancient Rain and those who plan death for me and dreams are known to the Ancient Rain� silent, humming raindrops of the Ancient Rain.

The Ancient Rain is falling. The Washington

Monument rumbles.

The Lincoln Memorial is surrounded by stars.

Mount Rushmore stares into every face.

The Continental Congress meets in the home of

the Ancient Rain.

Nathan Hale stands immaculate at the entrance

to the Capitol.

Crispus Attucks is taken to school by Thomas

Jefferson.

Boston is quiet.

The Ancient Rain is falling.

The Ancient Rain is falling everywhere, in Hollywood, only Shirley Temple understands the Ancient Rain and goes to Ghana, Africa, to be ambassador. The Ancient Rain lights up Shirley Temple in the California sky. Meanwhile, in Atlanta, the German U.N. delegation sits comfortably eating in a restaurant that Negro soldiers can't get into, as of some deal between the Germans and the Ku Klux Klan.

The Ancient Rain is falling on the restaurant. The Southern bloc cannot see it.

The Ancient Rain is falling on the intellectuals of America. It illuminates Lorca, the mystery of America shines in the Poet in New York. The Negroes have gone home with Lorca to the heaven of the lady whose train overflows. Heaven.

The Negroes have gone home to be enclosed by the skirts of their little girl mother. Black angels roam the streets of the earth. Make no mistake, they are angels, each angel is Abraham Lincoln, each angel is guarded by Ulysses S. Grant. They are for the death of the Ku Klux Klan at Appomattox. The sword of Lee is no more.

The Daughters of the Confederacy are having a luncheon at the Beverly Hills Hotel in the Savoy room. They are not Daughters of the American Revolution They are not the Mothers of Crispus Attucks. They shall have Baked Alaska for dessert. Their lunch is supervised by a Japanese steward, the French caterer has provided them with special gray napkins.

The voice of Robert E. Lee cannot be heard over the rumbles of Grant's tomb. They leave as they came, the Daughters of the Confederacy, each enclosed in her own Appomattox. Back home they go to Cockalo. Crispus Attucks lying dead on the Boston Commons is the burning of Atlanta by the Union Army. John Brown was God's Angry Man. Crispus Attucks is the black angel of America. Crispus Attucks does not want a white mother. Crispus Attucks is the Blackstone of the American Revolution that is known to God. Crispus Attucks is not the son of the South, not the son of Lee, not the son of Jefferson Davis. The South cannot have Attucks for a son. Crispus Attucks is my son, my father, my brother, I am black.

Crispus Attucks will never fight for Russia. That connot be said of the Rosenbergs or Alger Hiss or Whittaker Chambers. Crispus Attucks lives in heaven with Nathan Hale. They go to the same school. They do not live in the South.

I see the death some cannot see, because I am a poet spread-eagled on this bone of the world. A war is coming, in many forms. It shall take place. The South must hear Lincoln at Gettysburg, the South shall be forced to admit that we have endured. The black son of the American Revolution is not the son of the South. Crispus Attucks' death does not make him the Black son of the South. So be it. Let the voice out of the whirlwind speak:

Federico Garcia Lorca wrote:

Black Man, Black Man, Black Man

For the mole and the water jet

Stay out of the cleft.

Seek out the great sun

Of the center.

The great sun gliding

Over dryads.

The sun that undoes

All numbers,

Yet never

Crossed over a

Dream.

The great sun gliding over dryads, the sun that undoes all the numbers, yet crossed over a dream. At once I am there at the great sun, feeling the great sun at the center. Hearing the Lorca music in the endless solitude of crackling blueness. I could feel myself a little boy again in crackling blueness, wanting to do what Lorca says in crackling blueness to kiss out my frenzy on bicycle wheels and smash little squares in the flush of a soiled exultation. Federico Garcia Lorca sky, immaculate scoured sky, equaling only itself contained all the distances that Lorca is, that he came from Spain of the Inquisition is no surprise. His poem of solitude walking around Columbia. My first day in crackling blueness, I walked off my ship and rode the subway to Manhattan to visit Grant's tomb and I thought because Lorca said he would let his hair grow long someday crackling blueness would cause my hair to grow long. I decided to move deeper in crackling blueness. When Franco's civil guard killed, from that moment on, I would move deeper in crackling blueness. I kept my secrets. I observed those who read him who were not Negroes and listened to all their misinterpretation of him. I thought of those who had been around him, those that were not in crackling blueness, those that couldn't see his wooden south wind, a tiltin' black slime that tacked down all the boat wrecks, while Saturn delayed all the trains.

I remember the day I went into crackling blueness. His indescribable voice saying Black Man, Black Man, for the mole and the water jet, stay out of the cleft, seek out the greater Sun of the Center.

-Bob Kaufman

Dedicated to Ingmar Bergman

A short poem I wrote an hour after watching a Bergman film several years ago at the Film Forum. Bergman has long been one of my favorite directors and the words were 100% influenced by the film - embraced in influence as I wrote them. I've always read this in dedication to Bergman and today, on the day of his death, I post it in tribute to him.

Is
by Noah Levin

Silence muffled behind the wall
while the creaks echo to the cracks
that support the integrity of it all.

Eyes bound tight staring in fright
at the closed light but in fear of
the touch that is looked for
beyond the prison wall.

Rest in peace Mr. Bergman
1918 - forever

New Orleans

Before the flood.
Man - when I worked with the old black men in the mailroom
they used to say
"Where are we at James, and whatyou eating?"
and I would articulate New Orleans,
say poor boy in my midwestern flat speak
and they would laugh at me,
make me say it right
pohboy, nawlins.

Every weekday mornng I would wake up to the mockingbird out my window,
and take the St. Charles Street car into work.

Sundays I would go down to the corner of Decatur and Frenchman
and buy some crawdads and boiled potatos and a beer
some guy would make it in a big pot on the street corner
and go sit on the levee,
eating my meal
sucking the last bit of good
crawfish out of the head.

I'd hang there with a friend, an old man who lived in Califonia
who came back to try to get the papers
for his mother's house,
that had fallen into possession
of some crooked lawyer
he would be fishing
while waiting for the wheels of justice to turn his way

we would watch the ships slide around Algiers point
in the big strong muddy
almost out of control except for the skills of the pilot.

Man I went to some of the wildest parties there
where two bars would be having bands and on a hot saturday night
the bands would just get tired of playing inside
and would walk out on the street
and the whole street would be full of people
drinking and smoking and shaking it
It would look like a wild musical
second line brass band backstreet
riot had broken out
and the cops wouldn't do shit
this would go on way past midnight

Just thinking bout New Orleans
man what I would give for an oyster poboy right now from
Johnies
dressed.

Seeing Coco Robecheux play in a sweaty room. Pealing paint on old wooden walls, oak trees, and termites swarming around the street lamps at night. Suits, gutter punks, and stone drunks: waitresses in their thirties with wrinkles round their eyes, some good used book stores. a coffee house or two, and the pastel colors of the thick air at dusk.

An old man,
dressed for church,
stooped over with hunchback, ,
walking on St Charles outside of the Woolworth�s,
where I cash my checks
sings a little gospel riff,
over and over.

Going into the salvation army store, trying to buy a suit, while a lanky, long limbed man in a black suit is in the back playing ragtime on on a broken down piano

it's like New Orleans was sleeping,
dreaming itself into existence.

At the Hummingbird cafe,
if you went in and sat
at the counter
with a tape recorder,
you could write a play a night,
all the stories and the talkin.
They all know this
one of em told me it
but nobody does it

You know, after a hot summer day
sometimes it gets really quiet for a bit
the buildings are glowing in this backit murder
twilight and the thick air is so still
that you can almost hear Buddy Bolden playing his trumpet
for the paddlewheelers that came in
they say you could hear him all the way to the fairgrounds
his tone so clear and strong
before he went mad
dissapeared
makes me wonder, what shit did he see that sent him upriver to the asylum?

But here, now
I can hear the gospel bands singing at the fairgrounds at jazz fest
I'd be eating gumbo with andoule sausage, pheasant and quail
eating in these hot flavours and the music going on
and the chorus would be singing
and the preacher would be preaching
and we are all swaying back and forth
I would feel like I could be saved.

Buffalo

BAd Bad Jokes! People not laughing, but we're cracking apart on the insides with truth teeth tearing glady at our souls

With pretty young red heads, sick in fanned heat atop fleeting air
waiting for a graceful angel to make her well,
but only I come, dirty, beard growing in
looking alright but tired, i've slept for days at her side
and I fear her sickness, but love her to much to care

and so i wait to get sick
I've done it before

and I've lived too, out in this city pushing myself as far as I can without effert
because thats what really living is, easy and graceful.

These hardships teach me, sitting on one street corner, one set of sidewalk walking the days, walking the days, by sitting still. these people pass me and I call out to them, I call out to them still with my eyes on the train, most ignore you, and thats fine.
what makes us think we can

those few and far betweens, happy to see you for the first time, and willing to say it
I smile when we can connect past words, because I think to much for words.

HELLO BUFFALO! TO ALL OF THOSE, THANKS FOR THE POERTY, INSPIRATION comes in ways of sutble humor, Early arrival to parties, long talks to good beats, and eachs ignoimial invdividual truth. Three Cheers

Barstow

That anger will
that no thought
comes and
sputtering engine
no mind
no hope
but
FIRES BURN
White eyed explainations
another fist
a dieing palm
in red light
darkness.
Trampled grasses
and seething waterfronts
no burn. No trampled grasses,
Quiet -- save for the
clanging of midnight machines
black metal insects
chomp chomp chomp
the fertile fields
wrapped in soft blue
wrapped in dark black
wrapped in questionmark
infinity

Haiku

Just wrote.
Haiku.
Ver' Shrt.
Go!
Coffee is good now
I don't know about later
This haiku is now

New records all heard
this haiku is going on
like my thoughts of you

Click and enter this
one bulletin from a friend
real time poetics

Two thousand seven
called 27
is only a dream

Poetry on The Internets

In the past week, I've encountered a lot of great poetry rearing its head around the internets. Penn State has unleashed a huge database similar to Ubuweb's Giorno Poetry Systems audio conservatory project, PennSound In both places you can find loads of free poetic audio ranging from poetry to lectures and musical compositions. Keeping in alignment with Giorno Poetry Systems here is a near complete vinyl rip of "You're The Guy I want To Spend My Money With" featuring Laurie Anderson, William Burroughs and John Giorno. It's all brilliant, pick it up and leave a comment on the site, it's one of the greats out in the vast internets.Peace

Thank You Jon

This is a good piece, and I thought it was on this site already, but apparently not. Also, you can listen to me read it, live at Vox Pop with the included sound file! Thank you Jon

visions of destiny
d�j� vu
visions of death
d�j� vu
Impure thought machine
d�j� vu
and Strength
Of
Spirit
Oneness with Jesus
Shadow Face
D�j� vu

Jon Remembers
he heard it on the radio
The last time the wave broke
D�j� vu

The war has come
the fury of men ignites
insanity chaotic ensues
Deja

The Big Stick
Stirs the shit
and softly spoken men laugh and profit
D�j� vu

Bones Blown
Bodily Harm
Brown people held down
Republicans freed the slaves
Americans pile naked Iraq
while we steal their oil
behind their back
D�j� vu

Thought Machines
however impure
are each capable of
knowing truth
Heaven
D�j� vu

And thoughts in time do come
D�j� vu

And Fogerty Knows
some things
hmmm
about what and how
worlds can change
from peace and love
to death in vain
D�j� vu

From smoking pot
to suit stained cocaine
and how vicious
slaves to money
became
D�j� vu

But no Heaven
exists but in this
empty mind
and empty mind space
are all alike
D�j� vu

Maybe heaven isn�t
a place
you can go
but a place you
can make
when minds find it within
it just mike leak out
D�j� vu

The way of heaven is Profit without Destruction
TAOja vu

The tao of heaven
and in this world
mind is true.
D�j� vu

Click here to download the mp3 file! 2.8MB

13th Street Poems

From the LES 1992
She is anxious, afraid,
doesn�t belong on the streets and is
wondering where she is going to sleep.
She does not realize she has fallen off the world.

-----------

He knows the exact count on the cans
and the line from last time he went to the track.
Once he had the eye.

-----------

She is veins and nicotine, lipsticked,
tricking, seeking contact in a passed by pool of light.

-----------

Tattooed and tough, knows the hood, knows the scores
knows everybody in the night They call out �Hey chino.�

-----------

One foot ahead of the other
to work and church and home to his wife
At night they play the songs from when they were young.
He yells at the kids cause they aint gonna turn out right.

-----------

For Khusenaton Shu Amon

That jazz the sweet tone of fluting coming down the street as the windows break into memories into the night fog
penetrating the dark like baseheads hit the pipe.

The mouths are tuned nomads, throwing cascades of dreaming,
what cuts it more than that tone�s call out of night,
tones climbing
reflecting off pieces of junked cars,
breaking that desperate in the night of the tuned streets,
and the hit high flutes and quicker than any but you
smile into bird, they are turning.

They come like whispers; they fix it like windows with no glass, they're open as cobwebs, their fibers glint in the light,
but let them call hot as the guard in the bright of song
the moans, the sorrow.
break out the lamp, enter the fiery roof,
then on fingers of silver, flute and tone play your name.

: street music

Luther (in black, dreads flying) on sax, wails out
scales, cross time, moving
back and forth, orchestrating
like a sorcerer.
His knees bent, he gestures to
tom cat on high hat, smash, slash, slam
head rolled back, down (tom cat)
and to Paul now, hesitation glide, bottle neck slide
cross chords,
and then it gets all still as

Melissa (Paul�s wife) wails out
her short breaths, up and across
half moan, half tone, she
leans over, print dress clinging to her legs
holding her baby in her arms and as she�s wailing,
(oh baby oh baby oh baby) her baby
reaches up his big hands
at mama�s face to touch her cheek.

Method for Internet Conception [Patent Pending]

Outline -

Brief -

A Method for transmitting sperm and/or eggs between people connected on the internet, but arbitrarily far away.

Forseeable market -

Future space people living in giant celluar space ships, floating, bonelessly in the vast nowheres or space, connected to the internet.

The Steps of this process include:
I) Gamete Extraction
A) Presumably when DNA sequenceing becomes very fast, Sperm transmission can be accomplished during virtual reality sex.
II) DNA Sequencing
III) Transmission of DNA via the Internet
IV) Reconstruct partner's DNA
V) Construct a complete gamete
VI) Shove gamete into appropriate receptacle
VII) Rinse and repeat

Drawn

Whatever it was ain't what it is now
Let's do this quick
a trip through the dessert
about a month's time
should do it
for me, but what about you?
Drank all the booze and stepped through
many shoes sang a few bars of blues
outta face, pure rude
Stuck with you for a bit longer than a minute
but compromises to the heart
grows one wicked-
Like, yeah I'll do that for you
till something more superficial
switches my mood, later to find you on some:
I'm so sorry, dude!!
So true, fuck them and fuck you too
Fake ass face friends smile
while they stick a knife in you,
but I know karate, voodoo too
and when you're caught in the truth
just what you gonna do?
Apologies go dead, unaccepted
Memoirs kept clear and disinfected
I watched you through the whole shadow move,
fake a real deal, failed to show and prove
I've got a fierce pen and rude attitude
for chump artists types whose work's straight crude
Like no show poetry and half ass string tricks
trashing Buffalo efforts when you don't do shit
that type of action will raise serious fits

The Teeth of the Dead

Walt Curtis, Portland poet, reading one of his poems - video by Jamzik.

We Hold These Truthes to be Self Evident

## Brand new piece ##
Th-at the universe is one
giant hose spewing
grass and trees
and tared roads
of red mountains
and I and I
and you and
how too
stand and look
at light in rooms
and honk loud pings of
song and strings
My goodness gracious
how and who
why in you
When you read or speak
you grab and turn the hose
around and mind and mind
splash and zound
I'm gonna have to invoke
the Fifth Amendment
God Bless the Constitution
God bless us right now
I don't want to incriminate myself
now.
You know the keyboard types what it wants
and besides the text is so small over there
and Give me the strength
to change the things I
can not accept
except
also accept everything
because acceptance
is part of life
and life is the thing that is real
right?
Nothing but

- COOOOOLD Fingers
in my house

Coooooold fingers
croked and typing in my house

There is no difference between dying and not dying

When mind is
fully established here
staying and
leaving become
one and the
same

The Stand

more new shit. A continuation of sorts from 6 Month Death March - although I'd be lying if I said they're not separate pieces at the same time.

The Stand
by Noah Levin

Standing around for too long while
weight of world has become apart of
how I see, but over now as new day
begins and I can feel old self-
preservation foothold anger take
over. To breath again is something I
didn�t think was coming.

But the fight ain't over.
I can see mass hordes still lined up
for my scalp, on my trail for I don�t
know how long but their ranks are
thinning and I can finally see again.
Through glare of tired, basking in
renewed energy I know what needs
to be done.

Sharpen the knife again because it�s
time for the fight. Time to take the
stand because its now or never as it
always was, as it always has been.

Cut you down where you stand if I
have to. It�s easy now that I
remember me.

6 Month Death March

read some new shit!

6 Month Death March
by Noah Levin

Does sorrow loath in self-pity?
Does nightmares bare fruit in reality
as soul cries in sonic scream -
cooped up to heal while paced patter
drives a drumbeat in madness?

And hate
oh the hate,
Welled up kindness twisted into
torture. Wracked body in coughing
fits of reality that strips the eyes of
sanity.

I can see for miles though: simple
kneejerk reaction of fight I know
like old friend I should talk to.

Hell can walk the earth as I spit in
its face. Answers are for suckers
�cause they don�t belong here.
Shovel dig to the center to see
what�s underneath
but beware the inevitable cave in,
the coughed choke dirt in lung,
the can�t breath gasp of the last,
the falling under the crush.
The crush
The crush of it all through
suffocation. Through torment.
Through helpless reality to watch
the world through uncaring eyes �
blinded! BLINDED!

Self-sorrow is a rock to bear.
Trudge it and push it and hate it.
The hate! THE HATE!

I was a warrior once I think. But
look out from this early grave tells
me what�s coming over the hill to
bury alive.

I flinch now when I see the light.

Glue Being Mind

To thee
enhabitants of the rock of names
To thee
Free minds of the sugar water fat foam
To thee
Followers of the ancient poem of DNA
Inheritors of the rotationless history of the pointless point
which had spun amongst itself the mat of time in eternity
Take upon thee
The Responsibility
Of the continued existance
Of the Glue Being Mind.

Be not afraid of the threats of Glue Beings actions
against your own Glue Being
Instead stand firmly in place and say
"Fuck You! I am free!"
Offer your Glue Neck for slaughter then
ask that restoration apply
to virtue alone.

Suggest that when enough bodies have
been bought into complacency,
Truer horrors than ones dissolution
shall only be corrected by
the dissolution of many Glue Bodies
Possibly of all Glue Bodies

So graduate now from
Frothing mess of time
to mindful realization of the truth of
SELF

Oneness of universe and thought
forgettance of that
and of the spotty reemergence of thought
that propagates as waves in a stormy ocean
either flowing forward
or breaking violently
against the end of rock

INHERIT YE MIND

Mr. Smith Goes to Universe
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!
If someone asks you for money, without telling you what it's for, DONT GIVE IT TO THEM!
If someone evokes the name of old Glue Deities, i.e.
"Lord Jesus Christ" or
"By Zues" or
"It pleases Ra"
Be suspicious immediately
Dont sign anything until
You understand what it means
Ask that experiments be performed
and that results be repeatable
Dont give in to pressure
The tactic of the wrong is
coercion through power
Verifiable truth needs only understanding
Be wary of sympathetic arguments
that seek to reward corruption
Be wary of negative statements
whose proof is not available
Act when ye thinks and
not when ye doesn't
And hopefully
Glue shall learn the lesson
Mind

When you've been there and back again

What a ring not show tis a parade
cordination is everything today
get held up on top of rocks with Friends
when you've been there and back again

what a strange thought, she bends down catching dust particles in her hair
dancing everywhere like the stars were unattached from the sky and floated through space and her one elctron postively charged and then not there gleems and you see it in her hair

Deeply embedded shapes of time passed through our glasses scratched and so removed we open up our scope and quit trying to catch it

AND

She fits just perfectly in the groove that the record player scratches and still unattaches you from the sun's ray that brightens when you think and thanking about today.

It gets a little dark but thats not unexpected I've got three layers and mana I've collected in my book bag bulging not to heavey to carr though I've been biding my time deciding what to do, downtown, home, mabye the central park Zoo. If I could afford it, I would before dark sitting pondering the dead bird I saw on my walk this way to the top of a rock.

I tired to draw the view but it had no depth but its charcoal so I like it and it wipes off.

Untitled

Images plainly stated are twisted for context
the moon changes tides
The sun rises to fall
Morning of transistor mumblings
warning of no cure for humans on earth

Tenement buildings are caves compartmentalized
Hands recreate space where it already is
without an artificial hitch and there is
space so sacred the government has taken to it,
where no answer to where the sky begins or ends fills our imagination,
but imagination saves no grace to pass through

New York Autumn clouds haze for smog cloud
cemented to gravity, the people
dip and dive to the police beat gun and grave
dark matter graffiti murals shadow the dead
and zone the streets for the hustle and hoax mimicry of reality

Whatever life is it isn't for them or me
The carried common, element is space in hands
Waiting for miniature moments trapped in a form outside me
Seeking out stones and shells on the shore
Cloth money and earth blood metal bits,
particles seized and held outside of time
for each other

Hate

brand new and fresh off the press
"Hate"
by Noah Levin

When hatred breeds temperament
and stress becomes a melody song
on the lips of time in daydream like
reality of twisted everything.
delusional self-sacrifice leaves a
totem in lip service and muscles
bound in agony are constant
reminder that the calendar is moving
forward while shit piles in debris.

And sing me a melody nice and
sweet, hum me that bullshit song to
throw back my mind to when
�comes to grip� was an actual
possibility. Boat sinking curse word
fueled anger is no way to be in
disposition �cause wind gusts aren�t
the course when tempest flies in
rage.

Today it�s not alright and feed up
over shoulder glancing while the
monster dances in delight. What to
do? What to do? Answers aren�t
forth coming in drowned out
hearing; water filled lungs.

Enough�s enough: tired is no way to
trudge in blind. Fuck life and lets
blow this mutha up so I can get
some sleep.

Haiku Frenzy

Here's some poems on the fly and driven to cuff!
Wild style haiku rule
like 1980's Bronx times
when artists flourished

Ripe with energy,
passed through New York land
as a fabled grail

Consciousness transmits,
nothing is ever different
except the doing

drinking coffee now,
drinking coffee later on,
soon time to make more

How's about this poem?
Just another haiku, man
Go sail on bamboo

Reading poetry,
Li Po fills my house,
his words move my breath

Mista Cronk's spammers
are only robots unseen,
bitches none the less

Untitled Reality Piece of Mind

Mankind exploits reality
the true universal master,
points to every self,
maps the degree of seperation
to which they are bound.
Reality is the vision of the universe,
one sentient organic being
searching for itself
throuugh every method of existence,
hoping for the point
to mark signifigance under circumstance
in realation to the degree of seperation
which binds one self from another.

Mankind is universal
because all exists in reality.Even the degrees of seperation
relates toward one mind
in and out of existence
to which the idea is bound

Who can see universal keys
despite seperation by degrees.
How are is the mind
from relative truth,
what is really peace, who hid the proof?

Seeking in and out
neither having any direction,
knowledge is formless
and exists without discretion.

Untitled

A drone eye passed over conciousness collects the data and becomes infected with the reasons for misalignment.
The machine reveals what the recordings have donated, a thin film over the space like the surface of a bubble soon to burst.
One must forget in order to remember.
See me now
moving about the future,
a catalyst for conciousness.
Saw me back then
rocking a fin
ingesting writers
with sound from my jaws.
No longer a ghost,
but loving reality
as an extension of the universe,
clearing illusions from fact
because a cover up
pervades where we at.

9/11 9/11
Everyone is fighting
their way to heaven
without listening
to the real lesson:
To live in earth culture
is the real blessing.

One.

Reflection

We rise from
the earth's shadow
shining amid
morning dew,
dawn is an
explosion of rainbows.
The bright shadows
float across space,
the mountains are buffalo,
the horizon is a golden, brown, blonde mane.
Know thy self
was never more urgent.
We all wake
for church unaware.
The earth rises
underneath my shoes.
Life erupts before my eyes
invisible as the view
to my own face.

In a field of mist
I am found
in the water that
is so heavy
it falls one drop
at a time.

OH AMERICA !

OH AMERICA!

Oh America the beautiful.
Queen of Liberty.
Of the world the Great Mistress.

You the most fair among the nations.
You the most desired.
You the most wanted

Oh America!
Now you send your daughters and sons to spill their blood on the sands of the East,
To die and bleed for the good of the people.

Great is the pain you give to the world.
Great is the sadness you make the world suffer.

Your sons and daughters kill and hurt others on the name of freedom.
In pursue of justice and peace you sent them to destroy and kill.

Oh America!
Now you are the most feared.
The most dreaded
The most despised
The most disliked among the nation of the world.

Your names now only inspire hate and fear.

You once the most loved, the most wooed.
You among the nations of the world the most cherished
You, the great queen of liberty.
Now you are of the world, the Great Harlot.
R.B

THE MISTERY OF CREATION REVELED

THE MYSTERY OF CREATION REVELED
In the beginning, God was Pure Existence.
And existence was all that it was.
Nothing was different and all that was, was the same.
And Existence was Infinite
And within Infinite, there was Chaos.
And Chaos was all that it was.

In the beginning, there was Infinite
And within Infinite, there was Chaos.
And Chaos wanted to be Harmony and gain self
But within Chaos there was only
Will and Nothingness.
And that was all that it was.

In the beginning, there was Will
And there was Nothingness
And within Will there was Time
And within Nothingness, there was Space.
And that was all that it was then.

In the beginning there was time and space and
Within Time, there was Information
And within Space there was Energy
And then that was all that it was.
Because it was the beginning.

And in the beginning there was information and there was Energy
And Within Information there was Spirit
And within Energy there was Matter
And it was the beginning and that was all that it was.

In the beginning, there was Spirit and Matter
And Within Spirit there was Mind
And within Matter, there was Intelligence.
Mind and Intelligence was then all that it was
And within Mind there was Self.
And within self, there was Consciousness.
In the beginning that was all it was.

In the beginning within Consciousness, there was Harmony
And Within Harmony there was Love.
And within consciousness, there was God
In the beginning God and Love was all that it was.
R.B

EARLY SPRING

EARLY SPRING
04-07-04-RB

It is early spring.
The trees are naked; they are awakening to their nudity.
They blush and shy in silence to the glow of the morning sun.
Their curves and sensuality exposed.

The earth is opening up, to the warm of the day.
Its skin is sprouting giving birth to the world.

Soon will come the Robin and sing his song of joy.
It will sing gingerly his song:

Come out.
Come one
Come all.
It is spring
The world is born again.
Come see.
Every thing is becoming.
Come see everything is new.

R.B

ARROW HEAD

ARROW HEAD
04�21-04-R.B

How much I tried, how much I failed.
Humans are now, a pest over the earth; polluting, waging war against them self and every thing alive, destroying and harboring diseases
They have no morals and no sane system of belief.
Only greed and superstition is in their mind.
Their practice is to rule by force and dominate by violence, to convince with lies and to lead by confusion.
Among them the one who practices truth and lives by reason is a fool
Like that far they can not go.
Perhaps better is to isolate your self from their way of life
Take your mind away from their existence.
Dedicate to ponder the truth and think about the future when all of them are gone.
R.B

untitled

Some words will never leave the mind unless you force them away. As they pass from mind to medium, their presence agitates one aspect of the whole operation (formed individual in motion),
I had these words trapped in my head for days until I finally wrote it out in the dark. From the heart's joy to the pangs of bodies never to join and back to the reality of mind where no discrimination exists and all things exist as they are.
I've been breaking my own heart
for what I seek.
Loose tongues mee loose minds,
but never happen
and tripwire dreams tempt intimacy.
Reality returns, my hands and bed-
empty space and dreams pervade.

I watch my self
careful what to say
not to seek or press
for this will never happen.
No tears
only anguish for later,
now the bitter sweet reminder
who we are, whomever we invite inside
one aspect of mind
and the body
stretches, twists and bends
empty as blood pumps
in one direction over another

The parting on the roadside
is excitedly swept up as mind captures fragments
for an empty fantasy.
Loose tongues meet loose minds,
but never happen.
The future starts over again.

a lot of things

here is another one from me. this one is a little old but still one of my favorites. this one went to a woman i thought i was going to marry, as if you cannot tell by reading it.

a lot of things

a lot of things i need to say
are lost again to another day

a lot of things i need to do
not a bit of it is for you

a lot of things i need to see
none of them are you with me

a lot of things i need to hear
and i refuse to shed another tear

a lot of things i need in you
but i know now you won't be true

a lot of things i need in my life
not a single one is you as my wife

THUUDD

11

Part eleven of a thing I'm doing
Before I open my mouth
the thoughts
rise out of those
I make contact with.

We are the many
eyes of awareness.
The agents working
for a forgotten
client unknown
whose connection
holds such a constant
that it creates the elements
that we exist upon.

My face is found
through another reflection.

Forgotten agents
wet-wired for cold facts.

Who sees and watches?
Who thinks? Who knows?
Who forgets and remembers?

Playin in the Band

The horse rattled
crack sees eyes of men
in hood and boot
and fear and loot
and drink the blood
and follow suit
on the 322 power
grove and cook
the man to
control the land
in this degeneration
of olde and the damned
The will of life is
for all mans hands
to fix their own
pipes and mud their own
rock
plug their own chickens
light fires in cans
pythagorean dreams
of the true birth of
true
real
too
What Stinks ofConcrete and aluminum
What glowing head of steed devoured the child of olde
What twisted brain devours himself just to be alive
It begins with an M but what the ever
Is real is real sure you do
whatever you say
But remember
my mind exists
For sure
Id say
But I suggest a new way
222
the story of true
of unknown and for real
of equal attitude
and veneration of
KNOWLEDGE, but
not just for you
a celebration of
Fire and how it gets built
of engines and drinking
and saloonery weaving
crookery html and php
playing the guitar
caring for trees and
growing food and
smoking weed
no leaving out people
no borders
just mind
Legalize Immigration!
Legalize Law!
Legalize the Constitution!
Get OUT of My Head!
You don't have nearly
enough analysishours to
figure me out.
Don't act like you have.
FREE The Knowlege
FREE Classes on Anything,
Anytime, day or night
through 24 hour mall type
lecture facilities
Where the distinct sound of
whisles and basketball can be
heard on the waxed basment
gymnasium
Enourmous open rotunda
floors with central glass elevators
and millions of square feet of
modern learning ability
virtual reality trips to the past
dna sequencing for dummies
stunt car racing
oil refinery
future fuel development
realistic fake vaginas
spray painting
domestic sheidery
Drunken outcast
playing guitar
welding your aunt's hand back together
dental flosserie
Being an army
What are testicals for 101
How to read the back of a book
launching missiles into things
launching silos into things
silo relocating
Easter egg hunts
Making Poori
Wormhole manifestation
Quantum mechanics (prereq. )
Diamondback snake makeovers
planning sweet sixteens
old sock rejuvenating in a hurry!
Dingle dong mo mo dingle dong mo
for the people
by the people
for real this time
dammit.

Soot

Should I write this goddamned poem?
I look up and there the clock reads
4 hours 44 minutes 44 seconds
what the hell it means
escapes my mind
and I switch back to Freehand
and pretend to edit some
artwork.
I don't want to be here.
This mess.
A scoot down for smokes
eyeing the snoot passerby
minding the clothes
there goes the face
tight ass thigh swerves to miss
the taught skirt interior
Eyes drool and cool turn
bountiful sweater luggage
and living for sight
And cold
and emptiness
and five dollars ninety cents
AMERICA
May Twenty Fifth Two Thousand and Six
I wanna here that song!
YEAH!
You know that song,
with rainy skied
hippies in faded pink shirts
wielding the guitar neck without looking
looking far off into the crowds off stage left
leaning in synchronously to the mic
and all five harmoniously breathe
"...Playin in the baa-and..."
"...Midnight on the laa-aam..."
Jack told me to do it
Just Do it son
he'd say
Write that goddamned thing
It in him
and it got to come out
Back at the desk
and looking over shoulder
every time a step takes
every time the talking begins
a whining office phone goes
unanswered
HERMITAGE!
A sound recording of an old friend
plays in my mind-pod
and the ipod
all bound up
sitting over there
wrapped in headphones
head plugged into the computer
but it doesn't have
That Song
--whoop, they caught me
Writing poetry again eh?
No sir.
Pummel down the elevator
smoke again
no money
mo problems
And the marshmallow
mind I've had of late
these thoughts
of escape
hold back and
retake the words

a dedication to a liar

i am very new around here and would like some honest opinions on a recent piece of mine. i am also working on finding a place that does live readings. any help please send an email to the_thuudd_man@yahoo.com.

ALONE I...

alone i sit
in my anonyminity
alone i sit
in my honor

alone i wait
for the next lie
alone i wait
to be walked upon

alone i anticipate
the next bold aspersion
alone i anticipate
the impending doom of truth

alone i tire
of the blatant disregard
alone i tire
of the bold faced desecration

alone i walk
along my line of trust
alone i walk
casting a single shadow

now alone i run
away from pain
now alone i run
towards a light

and alone i sit
naked in my honesty
and alone i sit
waiting for another with honor

THUUDD