Hey Dexter, Feed Me The Empire Through This Glass Pipe

Danced my soul to pieces
In front of the ten foot speakers
At a free outdoor concert.
Never have I felt so alive
As I did unhygienic,
Trapped in between five thousand
Sweaty, insouciant college students.

One Spring

An older woman on the 4-hour bus to Boston,
(we shared a smoke back in Albany)
shrieks softly and scrambles to the bathroom
at the back of the bus, swelling with a damp red blush,
brushes by passengers through the tight aisle squeeze.
Shit and Marlboro as she passes.
Poor woman. Poor bus.

In the meantime...

Chill on this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EGJuxe2c0M

ATTENTION FOLLOWERS!

I want to start using this blog more regularly. I am thinking about writing a novel and posting chapter installments on this. Any thoughts? Anybody even out there?! Or I am contemplating just posting some short pop-cultural critiques. Haven't completely decided. But a poetry trilogy debut is soon come out! I will update with details hopefully sooner than you can say 'bob's your uncle!'

Cheers,
cgs

looks like grass from here

the radio plays an oldie, a sweat and firework summer
hydrocodone behind the beer shack, kissing barefoot
leaving tracks like the veins of an addict, wallowed in the grass
i hear only water, feel only ground, dissolve like sand
in the swirling pit of this giant basin, i'm heavy.
I'm heavy like depression, weightless like a lie,
sharp as the corners of a word never removed
from a circular conversation, record-like, jazz
without the sax, swoons without the heat,
an empty note, like a three dollar bottle of wine.
yeah, heavy heavy. loose in arkansas,
down by the crooked crag shoreline.
awful entries, notebook stilettos,
city bimbo lipstick drags all teethmarks and smallpox
left her name on the worn out leather.

Starting the Kiln

soft sliver thread vertical and descending by the window, mother spider sought the storm from a chipped white paint perch, black clouds and swirling purpling wind, a violent violet hush shut up the forest before the rest of the birds could zoom back to whatever hiding place they've been keeping for years, ground is grumbling, earth is shaking, the place is filled with an immense darkness, something serene in the vast hollow, almost like space in the way it is void of life, emptied the whole acre with an exhale from the ice tipped mountains and now the mohican death dance begins with lightning and crashes, kitchen plate shattering romances, everything gone in a whisper, gravelike in the winter. its not spring, don't believe what you heard. it never will be again.

sorry that was awful. nobody reads this anyway, so it doesn't matter. all of it is really just mind slate. vomitus i can't keep cerebral. pain i can't medicate. sound that refuses to remain silent. but the last ladybug of the season keeps clinking against my lightbulb and wonder when she'll die, or burn the fuse, or call her gentle mantis to take her away give her a couple of larvae for purpose. accident. i would have said something more refined, but i cried the last of my intelligence into my sweater. sat sobbing for the blood of people i never knew and still i felt the metal split between my ribs. what they love is farce, what they breed is fear.