muziek

the aliens

you may not believe it
but there are people who go through life
with very little friction
or distress.
they dress well
eat well
sleep
well.

they
are contented
with their family
life.

they
have moments of
grief but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.

and when they die
it is an easy
death
usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe it but
such people do
exist.

but I
am not
one of them.

oh no
I am not
one of them
I am not even
near to being
one of them
but they are
there

and I am
here.

balloons

today
they shot a guy
who was selling balloons
at the intersection.
they parked their cars
at the curbing

and called him over.

he came over.

they argued with him
about the price of a balloon
they wanted him to come
down in price.

he said he couldn’t.

one of them started
calling him
names.

the other took out a gun
and shot him in the head.
twice.

he fell
right there
in the street.

they took his balloons said
“now we can party”
and then they drove
off

there are also other guys
at that intersection
they sell oranges mostly.
they left then
and they weren’t
at the intersection the next
day
or the next
or the next.
nobody was.

blasted apart with
the first breath

running
out of days
as the bannister glints
in the early morning sun.

there
will be
no rest
even in our dreams.

now all there is to do
is reset broken moments.
when even to exist seems a
victory
then surely our luck
has run thin
thinner than a bloody stream
toward
death.

life
is a sad song:
we have heard too many voices
seen too many faces

too many bodies

worst have been the faces:
a dirty joke that no one
can understand.

barbaric senseless days
total in your skull;
reality is a juiceless
orange.

there is no plan
no out
no divinity no sparrow of joy.
we can’t
compare
life to anything
– that’s too dreary
a prospect.

relatively speaking
we were never short on
courage
but at best the odds remained
long
and at worst
unchangeable.

and
what was worst:
not that we wasted it
but that it was wasted
on us:

coming
out of the Womb
trapped in light and darkness
stricken and numbed
alone in the temperate zone
of dumb agony
now running out of days
as the bannister glints
in the early morning
sun.

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him
I say stay in there I’m not going
to let anybody see you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him
I say stay down
do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales
in Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too clever I only let
him out at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say I know that you’re there
so don’t be sad.
then I put him back
but he’s singing a little in there
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it’s nice enough to make a man weep
but I don’t weep

do you?

in the bottom

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the smoking claw
the red train
the letter home
the deep-fried blues.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the song you sang together
the mouse in the attic
the train window in the rain
the whiskey breath on grandfather
the coolness of the jail trustee.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the famous gone quite stupid
churches with peeling white paint
lovers who chose hyenas
schoolgirls giggling at atrophy
the suicide oceans of night.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
button eyes in a cartboard face
dead library books squeezed upright.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the octopus
Gloria gone mad while shaving her armpits
the gang wars
no toilet paper at all
in the trainstation restroom
a flat tire halfway to Vegas.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the dream of the barmaid
as the perfect girl
the first and only homerun
the father sitting in the bathroom
with the door open
the brave and quick death
the gang rape in the Fun House.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the wasp in the spider web
the plumbers moving to Malibu
the death of the mother
like a bell that never rang
the absence of wise old men.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
Mozart
fast food joints where the price
of a bad meal exceeds
the hourly wage
angry women
and deluded men and
faded children
the housecat
love as a swordfish.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
17.000 people screaming at a homerun
millions laughing at the obvious jokes
of a tv comedian
the long and hideous wait in the
welfare offices
Cleopatra fat and insane
Beethoven in the grave

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the damnation of Faust
and sexual intercourse
the sad-eyed dogs of summer
lost in the streets
the last funeral
Celine failing again
the carnation in the buttonhole
of the kindly killer.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
fantasies tainted with milk
our obnoxious invasion of the planets
Chatterton drinking rat poison
the bull that should have killed
Hemmingway
Paris like a pimple in the sky.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the mad writer in the cork room
the falseness of the Senior Prom
the submarine with purple footprints.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the tree that cries in the night
the place that nobody found
being so young you thought
you could change it
being middle-aged and thinking
you could survive it
being old and thinking
you could hide from it.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
2:30 a.m.
and the next to last line
and then the last.

be kind

we are always asked to
understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how out-dated foolish or
obnoxious.

one is asked to view their
total error
their life-waste
with kindliness
especially if they are
aged.

but age
is the total
of our doing.
they have aged
badly

because they have lived
out of
focus
they have refused to
see.

not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?

I am asked to hide my viewpoint from
them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately wasted
life
among so many
deliberately wasted
lives
is.

spark

I always resented all the years
the hours the minutes I gave them
as a working stiff
it actually hurt my head my insides
it made me dizzy and a bit crazy
– I couldn’t understand
the murdering of my years

yet my fellow workers
gave no signs of agony
many of them even seemed satisfied
and seeing them that way drove me almost
as crazy as the dull
and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness
they were scooped-out and thrown away.
I resented each minute
every minute as it was mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.
I drank away my few leisure hours.
I worked for decades.
I lived with the worst kind of women
they killed
what the job failed to kill.
I knew that I was dying.
something in me said
go ahead die sleep
become as them
accept.
then something else in me said
no
save the tiniest bit.
it needn’t be much
just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on fire.
just a spark.
save it.
I think I did.
I’m glad I did.
what a lucky
god damned
thing

eyeless through space

it’s no longer any good sucker
they’ve turned out the lights
they’ve blocked the rear entrance and
the front’s on fire;
nobody knows your
name;

down at the opera
they play checkers;
the city fountains piss
blood;
the extremities are
reamed
and they’ve hung the best
barber;
the dim souls have ascended;
the cardboard souls smile;
the love of dung is unanimous;
it’s no longer any good sucker
the graves have emptied out
onto the
living;

last is first
lost is everything;
the giant dogs mourn through
dandelion dreams;
the panthers welcome cages;
the onion heart is frosted
destiny is destitute
the horns of reason are muted as
the laughter of fools blockades the air;
the champions are dead and
the newly born are smitten;
the jetliners vomit the eyeless
through space;
it’s no longer any good sucker
it’s been getting to that right
along

and now it’s here
and you can’t touch it
smell it
see it
because it’s nothing
everywhere
as you look up or down
or turn or sit
or stand
or sleep or run
it’s no longer any good sucker.
it’s no longer any good
sucker sucker sucker
and if you don’t already know
I’m not surprised
and if you do sucker
good luck
in the dark
going
nowhere.

jam

that Harbor Freeway south
through the downtown
area –

I mean it can simply become
unbelievable.

last Friday evening
I was sitting there motionless
behind a wall of red taillights
there wasn’t even first gear
movement
as masses of exhaust fumes greyed the
evening air
engines overheated
and there was the smell of a clutch
burning out
somewhere
– it seemed to come from ahead of
me –
from that long
slow rise of
freeway

where the cars were working
from first gear
to neutral
again and again
and from neutral back to first
gear.

on the radio
I heard the news of that day
at least 6
times

I was well versed
in world
affairs.

the remainder of the stations
played a thin sick
music

the classical stations
refused to come in
clearly
and when they did
it was a stale
repetition of
standard and tiresome
works.

I turned the radio
off.
a strange whirling began in my head
– it circled behind the forehead
clock-wise
went past the ears and around to the
back of the head then back
to the forehead
and around
again.

I began to wonder
is this what happens when one goes
mad?
I considered getting out of my car.
I was in the so-called fast lane.
I could see myself out there
out of my car leaning against
the freeway divider
arms folded.
then I would slide down to a sitting
position
putting my head between my
legs.
I stayed in the car
bit my tongue
turned the radio back on
willed the whirling to
stop
as I wondered
if any of the others
had to battle
against their
compulsions as I
did?

then the car ahead of
me
MOVED
a foot
2 feet 3 feet!
I shifted to first gear . . .
there was MOVEMENT!
then I was back in neutral
BUT
we had moved from 7 to ten
feet.

hearing the world news
for the 7th time
it was still all bad
but all of us listening
we could handle that too
because we knew
that there was nothing
worse
than looking at
that same license plate
that same dumb head
sticking up from behind
the headrest
in the car
ahead of you
as time dissolved
as the temperature gauge
leaned more to the right
as the gas gauge
leaned more to the left
as we wondered
whose clutch
was burning out?
we were like some
last
vast
final
dinosaur
crawling feebly home
somewhere
somehow
maybe
to
die.

peace

near the corner table in the cafe
a middle-aged couple sit.
they have finished their meal
and they are each drinking a beer.

it is 9 in the evening.
she is smoking a cigarette.
then he says something.
she nods.
then she speaks.
he grins moves his hand.
then they are quiet.

through the blinds
next to their table
flashing red neon
blinks on and off.
there is no war.
there is no hell.
then he raises his beer bottle.
it is green.
he lifts it to his lips tilts it.
it is a coronet.

her right elbow is on the table
and in her hand
she holds the cigarette
between her thumb and
forefinger
and as she
watches him
the streets outside
flower in the night.

flophouse

you haven’t lived
until you’ve been
in a Flophouse
with nothing but one light bulb
and 56 men squeezed together on
cots

with everybody snoring at once
and some of those snores
so deep and gross and
unbelievable
– dark snotty gross subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind almost breaks
under those death-like
sounds
and the intermingling odors:
hard unwashed socks
pissed and shitted
underwear
and over it
all
slowly circulating air
much like that
emanating
from uncovered garbage
cans.
and those bodies
in the
dark
fat and thin
and bent
some legless armless
some mindless
and worst of all:
the total absence of
hope
it shrouds them
covers them
totally.

it’s not bearable.
you get up
go out
walk the streets
up and down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back up the same
street
thinking
those men
were all children
once
what has happened
to them?
and what has happened
to me?

it’s dark
and cold
out here.

the idiot

I believe the thought came to me
when I was about eleven years old:
I’ll become an idiot.

I had noticed some
in the neighbourhood
those who the people called
‘idiots’.

although looked down upon
the idiots seemed to have
the more peaceful lives:
nothing was expected of
them.

I imagined myself
standing
upon street
corners
hands in pockets
and drooling a bit
at the
mouth.
nobody would bother
me.
I began to put my plan
into
effect.

I was first noticed
in the school yards.
my mates jibed at me
taunted me.
even my father noticed:
“you act like a god damned idiot!”

one of my teachers
noticed
Mrs. Gredis of the
long silken
legs.
she kept me after
class.

“what is it Henry?
you can tell me . . .”
she put her arms
about me
and I rested myself
against
her.
“tell me Henry
don’t be afraid . . .”
I didn’t say
anything.
“you can stay here
as long as you want Henry.
you don’t have to talk . . .”

she kissed me
on the
forehead
and I reached
down
and lightly
touched
one of her silken
legs.
Mrs. Gredis was a
hot
number.
she kept me after
school
almost every
day.
and everybody hated
me
but I believe that I
had the
most
wonderful
hard-ons
of any eleven year old
boy
in the city
of
Los Angeles.

you know and I know and thee know

that as the yellow shade rips
as the cat leaps wild-eyed
as the old bartender leans on the wood
as the hummingbird sleeps

you know and I know and thee know

as the tanks practice on false battlefields
as your tires work the freeway
as the midget drunk on cheap bourbon cries alone at night
as the bulls are carefully bred for the matadors
as the grass watches you
and the trees watch you
as the sea holds creatures vast and true

you know and I know and thee know

the sadness and the glory of two slippers under a bed
the ballet of your heart dancing with your blood
young girls of love who will someday hate their mirrors
overtime in hell
lunch with sick salad

you know and I know and thee know

the end as we know it now it seems such a lousy trick
after the lousy agony but

you know and I know and thee know

the joy that sometimes comes along out of nowhere
rising like a falcon moon across the impossibility

you know and I know and thee know

the cross-eyed craziness of total elation
we know we finally have not been cheated

you know and I know and thee know

as we look at our hands our feet our lives our way
the sleeping hummingbird
the murdered dead of armies
the sun that eats you as you face it

you know and I know and thee know

we will defeat death.