Wednesday, September 30, 2009


The cascade is long dry, hanging on a wall.
So much for the rent…
as to say- in side joke

"If you're pissed, urinate."

(Yours truly, R. Mutt.)
Mongrel dog, laced with rabies
A receptacle to hold defecation
In a Modern Art Museum
In America.

[So today's poetry will be a readymade of sorts.]
[As most of my poetry resembles]
[Some junk]
[Someone found]
[And called art.]

As defiant as a loose canine might be

But that's besides the point.

later, in Ney York:
The now deceased
Max Roach
Gets his ears wet.
Plays with The Duke
When he's 18 years old.

So, of course there's envy…
Improvisational little jazz drummer boy
Bebop/hard bop

And I'm filled with deceit.
Maybe I was dreaming
And my legs just are not
Long enough
There is no distance
So distant
To deliver me
Far enough
To forget about the good days
To jump start a heart
Which has since refused
To beat.

Packing the drummed drum set in the trunk
Tree trunk bark falling off the tree
From the long nights rain
Dogs in the distance
Barking at a haunting

The moon is
not the moon
nor is it anything
that should concern you

My lips are dancing alone
Talking consistently
with the hum of the coke machine
In a big empty room
Sensual lights
Dim and detailed
With a sash draped over top
Gliding across
A new suit
Tailored specifically for me
(is it safe to keep,
All these secrets?)
My arms holding on to big balls of sheets
Eye holes
Old time costume of a ghost
The memory of the tattered house
We called a home
Where I felt comfortable writing countless love songs
And read William Carlos Williams
On the back lawn
When night came and the day was done
I'd sneak into bed
To reach these arms around

A body


… a sturdy snowball in hell that melts so slow you can't quite recall the old and trivial differences. A steady change that is monstrous…after so long. A creeping that haunts you in your sleep like a death certificate with your name misspelled or your first rejection letter from heavens publishing company that took 6 weeks to appear magically in the box nailed to your house...

Let's just say:

Mornings are lonely
And memories are concrete
Hard as nails
On chalk boards
Youth as you'd like to forget it.

Life seems
relentless when
reminds me of
the beginning
of "you and me"

I write
simply to have
a written collection
of my own handwriting

So when I'm old and bored
I can count how many times
I actually wrote the letter 'E'

It seems suiting then
That after Duchamp was long dead
His "Fountain",
(the urinal
that he placed in a museum
after writing R. Mutt on it…)
was selected nearly 90 years later as
"the most influential artwork of the 20th century"
by 500 renowned artists and historians…

But that's not really the point.

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