falling slowly

I fell on the platform, the poet kept writing,

now the scar on my knee looks like Queens

Irish cream and shots of screaming lunatics

Queens Blvd/ Fortieth Street devirginize my drink

take it alone at age nineteen, never barfing what was given;

seven and I am gone into colorless vivid dream

constellations against black box theaters

are the dots on tourist subway maps

internet tubes are streaming, punks fashion thorns

and the poet's thought record is filed on bathroom stalls

organic virgins grown for strawberry picking pimps

the red flesh so sweet;

gentlemen with pens rip off the green privates

night is awake, be gone in the morning

nineteen twenty, Louis flush away my tears

put a penny in the slot and the pony moves-

inflation blow up, time lobotomize this town

let the sailor song be sung

my religion raped little boys, sweet hand-holding period of puberty

scrambled eggs of adolescence, Father sanctify me, hunger not satisfied;

eat apples of ripe men attracted to girls of porn

Santa Maria, madre de Dios call over the future mothers

subway noise passing, the 7 line coming

excited flowers popping up; how flattering

lunatics

drink

when given

dream

subway noise passing, the 7 line going

beauty excited to pop up beyond this rough skin

muses, wicked witches of eastern land, bless us tonight

stardust and broken stain glass fall over Sunnyside

fantasy exists behind the stand of tacos

but first practice with the Cubano your Mexican

laugh because Fidel lost his politics

Fox you’re Bush’s cat!; white chicas frame Morisot

the rest frame le impressionists on nails for protection;

ten knifes scratch and slice

dive those nails into his back, he is tired

make him soup and love him with your sex

forever and together

lies and bills need mending

work, die, breathe from the diaphragm, born again, now drink please

reincarnated by vibrations and philosophies of music

jungle-faced people

alone and in love survive

subway noise passing, the 7 line coming

the shops have rose tinted windows; go buy strawberries

dream alone at nineteen and do not barf colorless

when given seven shots, take it on Fortieth Street

drink it's vivid screams; we are gone to the blvd to see

lunatics devirginize Queens

subway noise passing, the 7 line going

vulgar to you; our lust is tinted love, look at us survive

keep writing; look, Queens likes the scar on my knee

but the poet will take credit for my fall

[still a working process for this one]

again

cheers, i have to start up again
maybe i'll start here, slow
it won't go away, but slow
and well hydrated

swing swing, swing me

be a dancer
a singer
for me

this is the way you are suppose to love me

swing swing swing me

change my crooked mode of dance

with your elegant jumps and leads

your speech is too slow
be with this beat

swing swing me

be in a suit
or jeans and leather jacket

swing me
away and back

i know this club where we can go
to dance this swing
just
again do it again, swing me

my voicemail is broken

the things she says, i write up for her to tell him

what Chloe told the world about Geof ; here it is Chloe i think this is what you meant to tell Geof when you were drunk. Doesn't his neck feel nice, i used to kiss his sideburns too, when i was drunk. he never cared for me either, but it didn't hurt like it does for you.

I feel the need to hurt you

All plots are futile

Although never executed.

I somehow know you might not feel.

A simple stab could

Produce a simple scratch.

I fear your attention and yet crave it.

When I rest my hand on you,

I feel less than

When I am restless over being around you.

The touch of you, that you give me

Is not you;

You leave your body as I pass my arm against yours.

I can never truly touch you

Sometimes you give me hope in your grin,

But then you correct my perception of

whether your grin was ever actually a grin.

Flawed, I call out to you to help me;

“Save me”

And you do;

For a while.

I think it was only as an act of kindness,

And act easily expressed for any stranger.

There never is a flinch on your behalf

for what you make me feel.

And I see you with her,

But I doubt whether you

See enough

To escape her.

And I fear again,

I cannot read you;

And it scares me;

Frustrates me.

I send you smoke signals,

From the cigar of

my current affair;

unfortunately second hand smoke

cannot kill me.

So I need you to do me

A favor

The kind you’d do for another stranger

Stab me

With the knife I scratched

You with.

you're welcome Chloe

my lover Johnny

my lover is like Johnny Cash

like Clyde he stole me away

like Bonnie i did not protest

i am no June, more like the fall

of Cat Power

without the suicidality

without the beauty

without the voice

but

with bangs, with bottle

by the callejones; we live in bars

and dance, doing the washing machine on tables

we are believers

part of the Joy Division cult

we sweat, dehydrate, and robotize our arms

and these rings of fire meet to kiss

and it burns, burns, burns

do you hear

the Echo

it’s

the Underground,

the punk'n'drunks are baptizing us

and it burns, burns, burns

it's something more than two scorpions

our horoscopes predict

how we will venomize each other

oh but my Johnny boy is golden

and this will last past dawn going down to day

oh how my Johnny boy, wears thumb rings

his metal cools my blushing

Mark Twain, you should see us blush

we are human, so human

when i fell into like

i looked at his hands

when i fell into love

i was drinking red wine

with seven up

and he was swinging his guitar

without the suicidality

without the cardigans

without the grunge

but

with voice, with depth

and those angels, they're going to envy us

they can't eat hot dogs de la calle

wrapped in bacon, grilled blacken onions

steam puffing out against

the chilling and killing

acid rain

smear the ketchup with jalapeños

without the mustard

without the diet

without the napkins

but

with churros, with bottle

two please

oh my Johnny boy drives me in his carcacha

to Santa Monica pier,

always buys

me tickets for the shooting games

and his

guitar playing hand

takes

my harmonica playing hand

down to the end of the boardwalk

mmmm, my Johnny boy

mmmm, squeeze me tight

we know, Ian and Kurt know, Buddy, Ritchie, Bopper know,

Selena knows; the day the music dies,

love will tear us apart

go ask Naranjo como, voy a explotar

until then, look at this kingdom by the sea

this is as political as i get

Oh say, can you see blind Mexican immigrant named after Jesus...

By the fog and smog’s dark.

Hail fell around twilight.

Black stripes on badges after a fight,

Internet tubes streaming, the gallant screaming.

The Russian rockets in red Communist glory, confetti balloons popping over greasy Iraq,

Gave proof overnight that the flag on the moon was a fake.

Jesus wave the white towel!

For the land of Guantanamo and the cardboard box home of the brave

it's raining ice

the pebbled ice against my window makes the same sound

as the rocks that lovers throw at the windows of girls

ffffound picture

the greatest love poem

1849
Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

This poem appeared in The International Miscellany.
"Annabel Lee" is generally credited to represent Poe's
young wife, Virginia Clemm.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


{it is my opinion that this is the greatest love poem ever written}

It's valentine's day; voy a explotar

if they put the hot wire to my head
even then i'd wouldn't be able to stop my fast pace
i could also be wrong, but i believe i am right

Roman, no, i wouldn't press the button, i don't want anything to disappear;

if anything i want something to appear. They might define that as optimism.

new movie from Gerardo Naranjo

a sestina

my sestina

mother and father did not feed you; they wanted to, oh well, too bad.

joey ramone, we were not born with a plastic spoon,

just hands, with them ruined the right and brought the wrong.

three hundred in bank, lost house; a baby broken born still,

DUIs and bar tabs: bad investments like phony loans and real-estate suits,

fuck that, some tragedy; histories do not haunt; just that sometimes i cant sleep.

what are nights for, if not to get addicted, yet you want no sleep.

never beat, but we were hit, the thing done when children are bad,

educated well by parents of blue collar, working for the suits,

they bandaged you good with a townhouse, Ramen on the table and a plastic spoon

walked by, went through anger, transformed to blunt, and holding smiles still

you, had to fuck things up again with a semi-truck, you, complete damage, totaled -back to wrong

wake up, stay awake, good morning, cruel world, fix your wrong

i'll sing you a lullaby if you promise not to sleep:

the wheels on the semi-truck go round and round, Barney loves you still

oh my darling Clementine. lost and gone forever. dreadful sorry, but don't make a good thing bad.

let's buy you a mocking bird, to laugh at you. Crate and Barrel has a sale on the golden spoon,

change your bib, stop the barfs and bewitching nights, time to wear suits.

retire father from the 3am wakes and overtimes, it no longer suits.

put yourself aside, there are duties and salutes ahead. why does it feel so wrong.

don't take the NyQuil, you aren't sick, seven holy sinful green shots on a spoon.

studies of biological well-being to endure, like hell your getting sleep.

every bite of the tongue holding back vulgar stories, five cents; hide the semi-bad

soon the piggybank will buy a degree, then maybe if you still-

remain: well-paid, awake, and fed, something great but in complete damage, you may still

be in luck. vacation-time is given to white collared degrees in suits

your nails trimmed clean, your wrist naked of the fuck you tattoo you wanted; but not all is bad

mother and father are fed, and sorry for the past but it's the present that is wrong

it wasn't malnutrition that kept you up, ask that semi-truck, it's because of you that you cannot sleep

so count cutlery; how plenty and so refined, a cupboard of copper, silver, and golden spoon.

a cup of tea caffeinated, use a coaster, turn on Food channel, add a cup and a spoon

of vodka, sugar, honey, sprite and holy water; then see if still

you can walk, or have hunger for sleep- sssshhh sleep, please let me sleep

i want no more talk of you, i don't know if i am you or you are i, don't you know i stain suits

ssshhhhh, my eyes are falling, there is something wrong

quiet, please, sssssshhhhhh, but i dont know if it is bad

mother, father, they'll wrinkle, i can't sleep in these suits

should i bear children: broken and still with golden spoon

in hand. wrong answer, goodnight. i just want the semi-truck to explode. i want no bad.

(it's still not right, its just a poem that i can't get right)

Not Always

it's not always the way you want it to be.

sometimes you just stay in, because you need the fix.

Life and Love and Le Cafe

life is too good to be bitter over petty things



but it's okay to be cynical, angry, aggressive, sad, tired, drunk, asleep, and happy

photo: ffffound