Side Effects of Sea-Bite

We're sitting down by the dock
watching the sea trying to settle down
having our silent coffees, some of us
even exhaling smoke into
the haggard waves. The sea bites,
but can only tickle our feet feebly.
Someone sips their coffee and says something,
but it's not good enough to murder silence
so we say nothing,
but some asshole just can't keep quiet -- just as
there's that asshole that just can't keep quiet
who generally is me but this time isn't --
and they go on about how the sea
used to be more calm in the days
like their grampas on heated June noons
sleeping in a state of consciousness.
The sea takes another bite. Someone
swears, which I don't know if it's a
profanity that would hopefully soothe the sea or a
lamentation for the massacre of silence at
such a young age, when silence itself
hasn't yet soothed our minds.
                  My mind.
It is too busy of a mind to care for sea-bites
or coffee or smoke or whatever the assholes around
have to say about velvet jackets or life. I think
of your beauty, which hit its peak, yet
never seems to deteriorate. It is the most
excellent kind of beauty, surviving through
ugly times and silence and bullshit and such;
and once some blissful man said that
it will never pass into nothingness, and your
beauty might never pass into nothingness
but it is no better use than nothingness
when it does not reach out to me; I am just
reminded of it now, not touched and troubled,
and the beauty is as good as the memory,
no better. I find myself thinking
of gods and of your beauty
and of how I had it
for a moment
eternally
and here I am still going on and on and on about it
not caring for sea-bites and assholes, and as
days by the sea seem to permeate into the silence
I'll find myself like this almost all the time;
except when I see her,
who seems to have stolen
your beauty somehow,
and your beauty -- a monster reborn
in the glitter of her eyes
and the depths of her dimples.

telegram

all your life
you've been told Boy!
Oh, silly boy! You must must must
absolutely and totally must
think before you speak!
were they so afraid that you'd have
something very clever or heartfelt or beautiful to say
right off the top of your head

     all your damn life boy
     all your goddamn gift of a life
     they growled into your
     clever heartfelt beautiful face Boy!
     Oh you stupid boy! You thought
     life was a joke! Life ain't a joke boy.
     were they that frightened
     of you being easy with life
     -- and life being easy with you back --
     were they that envious
     of the fun you had

          all your friggin' life
          all your useless friggin' life
          they wanted you to time time and time
          time and time and time
          until none is spent and none is yours
          and you're a mere reflection
          of your mind which is
          a pathetic slave to the time
          until the most fun you ever had
          became the twenty bucks
          you've found in your jean pocket
          and you did time and time and time
          just like they said
          you did just as they said Boy!
          Oh, you good-for-nothing boy! You
          just spend your time! Time won't
          come back boy! It sure as hell won't.
          and all you wanted to say
          was but sir oh good sir my dear sir
          time might not come back
          but i can't pile it up
          time ain't no fish sir
          i can't pile time up
          time is all but you have
          in the blink of an eye sir
          and i want that blink to be mine
          i wanna spend and spend and spend
          until time is no more
          until i am no more

               you wanted to say
               but you couldn't could you boy
               so you did just as they said
               knowing you're right and they're wrong
               hating them secretly
               (and sometimes evidently)
               but you never hated what they said
               more than your helpless silence
               so you shut up and did just as they said
               hating yourself

                    boy
                    don't
                    sun still shines
                    lights up and up and up
                    your clever heartfelt beautiful face

A Little More on Practicality or: The Microwave Oven Ode

We all are forced to wait,
either for a bus
on a rainy Tuesday morning
or death, for that matter,
in white satin bedsheets.
I guess some of us
have the fortune of
not having to wait for death,
or meet it when the bus that
is supposed to take us on
the rainy Tuesday morning
rides over us. You could
say that as the bus rides over
all the meaning and efforts
towards squeezing a meaning
out of life is overridden.
Is the meaning idle?
Is the journey subtle?
Is death no more serious
than shoe shine? One must,
I concluded, really zero into
practicality of actions.

Should I recycle on a planet
where trees serve nothing
more than scenery? Should I
get married on a planet
where males scoring, self-indulgently,
models as sex partners are
celebrated and renowned?
Should I leave a grave behind
where my coffin is the 
most misunderstood airplane?

Should I be good?
Or, should I,
for that matter, play god?

All this g/babble on practicality
and all its preliminaries makes
me a hungry boy, and thankfully

the most practical thing in my life
melts gooeyness and tastiness into a bread
as it forces me to wait.

invitation

"Would you like to come over?"

I'd love to. However
it's always the same case
with you. I am too
restrained
held back
and all the synonymous verbs
-- you get the idea. You see,
I really would love to come
over and in and out of you,
but I just can't.
    I'm getting a haircut tomorrow,
           Thursday I'm at the grocery shop,
                      Friday I'm in love.

of all the things 

that make you go on with your life

death is no less practical

than a teacup

Resemblancitivity

I'm unlucky
    not to remember my
                         first love

but as I've grown
     I've grown quite fond
                      of my memory

and the sticky bun
i had this morning
reminded me of a love --
a burgundy kind of love:

her name would be Sheila
        for no specific reason whatsoever
             the first kiss would be at a pennycandystore

no less magical than Ferlinghetti's
and the meeting of our eyes would be
sweeter than the candy and the falling leaves

/our love eternal-our beings temporary/

later, i'd run into her
     upon Pont des Arts
          she would have boys (such beautiful boys)
                 and i'd have my daughter

but our eyes would meet
   no differently than
       the pennycandystore, breaking
           the lock of our hearts

i'd say hi
  she'd smile back

we'd catch up
eat some burgers
dream about making love
dream about childhood
dream about the preserved innocence of our mutual feelings
dream about dreaming the same stuff

we'd say our farewells, then
   such monstrous farewells
      that is actually a wish
          to never see each other again
              but also a wish engraved within that
                  which is to run into each other again

and we would too, later
 -- but not too late

in front of the Cloud Gate
  we'd take pictures this time
    see a baseball game or something

and i'd kiss her
and she'd let that happen

Sheila would be the first
                          and the last
                              and everything in between.

oh, how i love sticky buns
and how lucky i am
not to remember
my first love.

A Rather W.B. Yeatsesque Morning

It's 6:00 AM
and there's a peculiar smell
of goodbyes and farewells and please don'ts and
oh honey we'll meet agains in the air. There
is a plenty fish in the sea,
but you see, there ain't many
like that one. Like raindrops from
yesternight
broken promises vanish into ground, and
I realize -- I am (all) over her (again).

I am the sun-kissed child of the
humble autumn morning, let alone
to grow up in his own solitude, not lonely, but alone,

until growing up reveals as
the merest recognition of the social isolation
and the illusion that I was past it.

I take a deep breath
and especially the it'll be all overs in the air

love is all
ravenous
that devours the whole
of body and soul
          cope with my hour
          if you claim me
          i can take your
          night we into pour

scared i hid
your eyes my awe
far from the look's lid
love a mere bid
          can you do me
          can you make me 
          and beyond all that
          can you have me be

I am the old bishop,
knuckling under the divinity
of the cumbersome morn

and the sudden reality check turns the corner
as the old car does:
"That's certainly the case."