The End of Flowers

The End of Flowers


the sticking stuff

is bankrupt / the churchs

have been fleec’d / their pockets

turned out / two old men

are drunk in the alley


it is eliot and marx weeping / like bulbs

of an hour glass



there is no fusion of elements / we are

not units but systems / our poetry is

like digestion / we are meshed

in the veil of maya / falling through

the eternal yawn / devoured by

time / we seek some break from this lease

in our head



the dead

do not rise / the living

do not age

they are

mollested by terror / we lust for

the golden age , fools’ gold / we whimper like

old dogs for some gesture / we seek applause

on an empty stage

in an empty hall

with empty words




This is the end of Crowd Noises. I like most of what is written here, work that goes back almost 40 years. If it was a young writer today, I would say that he still has to find more fun in the work. All the poems seem too serious. But then that is what it is to be young.

The Manhatten Project

October 29, 2008


god is not dead

he was merely blown up beyond all proportions/made light of

dropped into a glass of water

where he burst into a million tiny bubbles

with the hope

that he would bring fast fast fast pain relief

from historic indigestion

and ise eno esc ape

noe sca pe

nof ork int her oad.

the ad-men sit in a trance at SAM’S

ironing out their problems

business is slow

a spider is spinning his fine web of suicide across their eyes

the janitor is sweeping around their feet

lifting the left leg when necessary

lifting the right leg when necessary

the dust continues to collect

piling up history

he files it away in green plastic bags

that bleed internally

god had tired blood

he was the multiple million eyed monster (incl. cable)

with multiple million cataracts

surrounded by crow’s feet

that slipped up on him at night – sorrow stalking sleep – ambush

god became irregular

short of the holy breath

tired of sticking his nose in other peoples affairs

pensioned off

lost forever

swapped for ‘dialectical materialism’.

in the back of SAM’S the pinball machine is rigged

the ball leaping and shuddering like an orphan from pin to pin

in perfect retrospective patterns

“A thousand times i have recalled it

and a thousand times it remains the same,” smiles richard

richard bought out sam

but is now haunted by SAM’S habits

like the prisoner of a photograph

ica nse eno esc ape

ica nge tno ans wer

the exi tsi gns pum pou tth eir neo nes cap e


our psyches have been burglarised


small bugs have been planted in the mob

small boys with their fresh pink bottoms torment the frenzied thought

love became the INFORME(D)R HEART

who will pay the ransom ?

the barbarians are at the gate

you can hear the crowd noises .

the barbarians have been inside the gate for some time,

their standards well in hand

tapping their toes , “who are the hypocrits coming back ?

must be the lawyers dressed in black.”

SAM’S place is hopping

some sassy gals are dancing up a storm , dancing to a tune


richard rubs his head that is beginning to swell like the

entrails of a puppet

the rest of us sit , and order , and wait

hoping to outlive the funeral rites



radio stacato – fingers falling along piano keys

floor lamp bleeds over the carpet – radiators weeping

cock roaches the globe

pace up and down drifts aimlessly

the lining of the room through the universe.

like soldiers comets

of the third reich. over forgotten paths

crawl across

like a sniper the world’s skin

the cat waits memorizing like mosquitoes breeding

the roaches paths on small ponds.

and laughing like a gattling gun. the flood has returned
somewhere – noah is a computer analyst

in between I sit staring

into a mirror

fingers barely touching , interrogating myself

the bed is unmade

a crucifix over the bureau – a ward of the wall.

an ashtray filled with cigarettes in chains

the room is quiet , listening

these walls have become my Jury

these words are like a rope.

Lust Between Cripples

October 28, 2008


Snow: our national quilt that we pull up over our barren land

like plastic over new furniture

so that it won’t get worn out

that we pile up at the side of the road

like trenches

in case the yankees invade

love at first night

the polar magnetism

ending in a slushy affair

like lust between cripples

snow: the avalanche of light

that blows and swells around

like dust in a vacuous skull

between sky and ground

built in obsolescence

the sticking stuff of small friendships

fall with rabies

the child’s playground that haunts armies

snow: whispering messiahs wearing earmuffs

filling every crack and crevice

in the days wrinkled face

with the same old promises

oil heat , life insurance , and frost bite

the brides veil

stretched like a sheet

over a field of corpses

of hidden triumphs

and victims sunk deep into night

the mana that tosses us around

in our sleep

that drifts and piles

up between

angel wings

snow: the fluid key
under investigation
for possible leaks

a spy ring

and agent of spring

sorens balancing act


ice and smoke

snow: drifts down like pearls

through night’s oil

as if the moon had wept

releasing the cure to our poison

and rendering our hearts

available once more

to joy.

abandoned to the divine

all eyes are turned inward

unlocking the vaults

of magic shadows

that torture mad men’s eyes

snow: impenetrable individualism
melts on finger tips
like whispers in tall grass

or memories in eternity

blind thought through the eons

electric circuitry (heraclitus)

burning in the white heat (gt’um – mo)

glaring like a neon sign

the legend of einstein

as an abominable snowman

snow: the sacrifice of the sky

one dimensional


the vanishing point

birds screeching in my head

clawing and scratching to get out

spring’s seasperm shipwrecked


the mute image

struggling to speak

exhausted, weeps.


much of this poetry is filled with looming death. (The 70s) Like death was a savior. The paradise we were all searching for. A release from our worldly pain. And yet I don’t recall feeling that much pain. Loneliness perhaps. But not dread. Or hatred or his kin. Maybe this was a young writers quest a romantic edge to life. As if romanticism would give life a meaning. I like this poem. It’s like a third cousin I’ve just recently met.


I am punk icarus in the green polaroid shades

filled to the brim with eyes

cut away the heavy stones of my feet

let my eyes rise like balloons and head south

the carnival is bankrupt and Dylan’s lost his mouth

let my eyes be as sad as the Great Tramp’s

let them fill their silent film with light

let them flicker like candles in the night

let the evening take me as a lover

let her blow my eyes out

let the smoke rise

let it slip up her skirt

let it reach the lid,

gorge the moon and spread across the sky.

the ceiling lamp is fumbling with its sight

the darkness is glowing like a mirror

I see what i am. I didn’t mean to be nosy.

emptiness slides into a hole

in the door

like a key.

i sit in this room like prometheus

grinding my teeth and chain smoking

her love is like a tyrant’s reign

there’s panic in the streets

i should have taken my love and hung it

like a womb on a hangar.

let me file away at my lips

i can rent her face as a rasp.

time – is like a wheelchair

her love – has crippled me

let me hang under her balcony

kicking up my heels

and laughing at the knot

let me be the poison in her dreams

the moon and I lean against the glass

trembling like two old friends on an abandoned floor

moving through the night in slow measured steps,

holding each other close

feeling our pulse

growing weak.

I am jonah

let me sit here in my face behind my eyes

waiting to get paid off,

waiting to be set up in practice by Lockheed

let my muscles melt into dew

let me plant my root in peet moss

let my hair fall out and cover my shoes

let my sap ooze out and plug up the parking meters,

cause mass confusion in the transit system

be fought over & divided amongst the roaches

let the night steal my dampness and catch a dose

there seems to be no shelter from my thoughts

and just when I was sinking into the JAWS of the electronic


i was belched out through windowes and through curtaines by the rising sunne

i looked around me twice, multiplied my blessings

& clenched my jaw like a fist

i turned on my bed. the pillow caved in beneath my head

i fell into a dream

where i was thrown on a stage

and left for dead.


green stems lose their footing


fall out of the ground


an old indians fingers


into the moon

mother of trembling lips

that fondle the wasted audience

fumble the darkness

that mumble and mutter in rented rooms.

mother of jaw crippling words

leaning like garbo in slender doorways.

mother of light brail years away

mother who bore us

in the beginning of all things

on an abandoned staircase

in smoke rings.

sunlight slips


through shattered glass


a crucified silhouette


scatters across the blackened sky.

mother of the long legged fly

that soft shoes across the mist

mother of prisoners

in skin strangled ribs

mother in dark panic flight

dietrich eyes through fastened gates

mother of the last men to fly the world

william , and butler , and yeats

sleep rises from bleach’d out bones

words crumble on his tongue


what is this place i have been lent

teach me to fly

and when my breath unwinds , bury me in the sky.”

mother of steel breeze and borrowed rain

mother of lepers and hollywood skin

mother of scarecrows

who talk to themselves

and towers that rise up

and weather and bend

mother of bardo weekends and birds that prey

“is there any resolution

to stone but sand –

o that more profit

could be shown

to weakened eyes

and crooked hands.”

Let’s Go On A Honeymoon

October 25, 2008


i hid beneath your bed

waiting for you to arrive

found some holes in the wall

you painted from sight

your fist the brush

i put my fingers inside.

and when you did not show

i crawled into the closet

and prayed to the walls

lets go on a honeymoon

I want to die.

Chet Baker was such a tragic figure. It was said that he died falling out of a window. Suicide or an accident? He was a drug addict.The following poem was written about all those young people who grab onto an identity. Like a suit of clothes. Better than not knowing what you are.  And then wear it for the rest of their lives. And sometimes those lives are short. And sometimes you just get fat and lose your hair. And have children that could never imagine that at one time, you were someone.


she was born in the yawn of a wave

biting her lip

she never laughed

met a man on the magic train with silver hands

who turned her lap into dust

left her stranded on drifting ice

she got hoarded up by a man with a whistle in his mouth ,

he never lied .

they took a trip to find out where they had rusted

got tangled up in a legend

he thinks he’s woody guthrie

she thinks she’s oklahoma.

flowers 3

flowers 3

listening once again to chet baker. this poem reads like one of his songs. melancholic. quiet. a touch of  youthful cynicism.


told irene everything was hopeless

nothing was real

everything was a sham

said to beverley there was no cure ,

the sjckness is between us

nothing is pure

like a tyrant

i sieged my own isolation

fondled my hardships and sins

demanded clarity and precision of insight

figuring the dieing would never end

picking up my eyes where they had been downcast and bent

i saw an angel

passing thru

two of my friends.

Sitting here eating Bridge Mixture and listening to Chet Baker (is there a stranger voice in music?) and becoming sentimental. I’ve decided to show some of my early work. The pictures are a series that I called Flowers because there are flowers in all of them. And then there is a book that came out from Killaley Press called Crowd Noises. The poems are written by a very young intellectual whose loneliness is hanging in every line. Although I remember loving the writing, I hated my life. I kept falling in love with women who didn’t love me. I kept thinking about ideas that were either beyond my abilities to understand or which were dead end streets to begin with.


bought a blowtorch

at 4 thirty

at the hardware

to clear the cobwebs away

yesterday found four spiders crawling

out of suzanne’s mouth

said that if it happened once more

she would no longer

put up with their shortcomings that which may

be spoken of

and thought of

jimi’s buddy is what is

is a Sniper

on our block ,

feeds his alligator slow fingers

haven’t filled out my income tax yet

eyes r cryin’

legs r cryin’

arms r cryin’

whats going on

‘wonder if its living that makes you sick or gets you better.’

last words grandpa said

before he let the razor rescue him

we pulled on our galoshes

carried him up from the cellar

into the backyard

took him behind the abandoned cars

shook his bones like loaded dice

and scattered him over the egg shells.

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