Between the essence/ And the descent

Black and White

2012-02-28T02:16:00.000-08:00

Chasing Invisibility

So I’ve seen you dancing

with this little tuxedo tied

around your neck and I wonder

what’s next? I think I can see

you with cufflinks and other

adornment and I know that

you can’t be a better friend

because I know that you’ll die

long before me and I’m certain

that you’re my only friend

who will go before me into

some sort of mystical ether

of cloud and/or brimstone.

But I don’t believe in that.

Hell, I’ve seen you so happy

to be clawing at my door,

finding all the sharp corners,

just trying, trying so hard

to rip that little tuxedo

right off. You’re my best

friend and you’re the only

one who really needs me

to be yours when I’ve torn

all the lights from their sockets

and see you trying to lick

all sorts of sadness right

off of your tuxedoed paws.

Go on, waste your life.

Forty for Fishy

2012-02-18T00:44:00.000-08:00

Forty for Fishy

Paint a pigeon white,
call it Christ eating
a cracker. Build a boat
with some stalls

because it’s going to rain
for forty freaking years
and you’re not going
to have internet access.

You won’t be able to
Google anything at all
about ways to pass
time during the rapture.

There will be no time
for diseases. Is that a sore?
Lemme’ discover that
for you with my googly eyes.

All videos will be trapped
inside the wire and you’ll
wonder if vegetarian cooking
shows are willing to survive.

Your built-in dictionary
will function as encyclopedia
for the first four hours
of battery life. I hope

you learn quickly for
four-score save four hours
and forty minutes
is a long time to go

on your gut alone.
Go it offline, offering
the maniacal sea
the wisdom of your

foul heart-rag and bone.
Wreck and bone fish.
You’ll find that you
can still survive not

knowing how much
mercury you’ve just
eaten. Sometimes be
happy, be alive.

A Calm Calamity

2012-02-13T01:22:00.001-08:00

Simmer, Sautee, Baby, It’s Alright

There are seven carnal sins

for a reason. Learning these is essential

for one who has had much education

and has not opened one’s ears

to wisdom. This is how men need

to be made. Men should not cry

about what they cannot do,

men should do. Men keep calm

and keep working until the night

is completed. Men must yearn

to understand that they must fight

for their generals and men must just

have learned that they haven’t not earned

what wiser people have already untied.

Truth, must be told.

Excuses are about as good as lies.

This must be the secret to be told,

I cannot live amongst real people

because I am nothing

but excuses

and sighs.

But, ja spierdołaj

and I am willing to learn how

to fight. Those who have patience

know that I’m not often right.

Bobby Bear!

2012-01-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

Bobby Bird

Just thinking about the shear,

un-tethered ferocity of your talons

as you swoop down

from your rocky perch

grabbing hold of a 6-pack

of infant rabbits and rain them

down on the sleepy village below

just because you can and you’ve decided

that you weren’t in the mood for baby

bunny anyways. That's all false

because you’re not that kind of eagle.

But damn, I’m glad that you’re my friend.

Trailer Video for my friend's, Mark Wisniewski's, novel!

2012-01-10T13:33:00.000-08:00

Show Up, Look Good

Poem for a Friend

2012-01-10T10:26:00.001-08:00

Busy

Listen, friend, bird,

no need to lie, bird,

you never gonna’ be

my bird,

not that birds and bees

belong to beasts

lest we best be beastly

because we bumpin’

beats ‘bout breasts and brie.

Damn, lady. Queen E.

Where it be? Buzz-saw buzzards

bumbling out buzz words.

Buzz bird, let me be.

You best believe, bird.

Friends, bird. How you be?

3 Videos I filmed of Occupy Wall Street in the first hour of this year.

2012-01-03T07:50:00.000-08:00

Hip-Hop Hymn

2012-01-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

Hip-Hop Nymn

Blessed be Drake,
Dre, Biggie, and the Virgin
Mother, Rihanna. Rap away our sins
Mos Def-initely. Now and at the hour
of our Lupe travel Fiasco. Re-Tu-Pac
my bags in thy name. Forever and ever
with Common and Kanye, we remain.

For the power, the glory,
and all dem' shorties are yours,
Snoop Doggy Dogg.

Amen

The New Masculinity (With special thanks to all those whose words I have lifted).

2012-01-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

The New Masculinity

for the Breakfast Club: Rufio De-Lo Sweets Baby Brown, Pockets Dump-Truck Dime-Bag Big Daddy Davis, and Pan the Man Ole’ Milwaukee Polish Thunder Petrie Prom-King Petey Burzynski

“The Bad Artists Imitate, The Great Artists Steal.” –Banksy

Hipsters can fake it, but in real art there’s more enterprise in walking away wit’ it.

I'm amazin', yeah, I'm all that

If I ain't on my grind then what you call that?

Victorious, yeah, we warriors

We make history, strive off victory

Standing at my podium

I'm trying watch my sodium

Die high blood pressure

You even let the Feds getcha’

I'm amazin', born on the full moon

I was bred to get it in, no spoon

That's why I'm so goose, summer time, no juice

Big family, small house, no rooms

They like, oh God, why you go so hard?

Look what he's been through

He deserves an applause

So amazin', so amazin', so amazin'

It's amazin'.

II.

Remember when Hulk Hogan slammed down Andre the Giant? That was the greatest

Undefeated French Fezik. 15 years. Never been slammed. Always winning

with women, but not love. Big John Studd. The Big Show. Mark Henry “The World’s Strongest Man.” Typhon. The Natural Diasters. Legion of Doom. Ravishing Rick Rude. Kamala. Koko Be-Ware. The Polish Hammer.

The Undertaker. Mankind. Kane. Who is our Paul Bearer?

The Ultimate Warrior. Gone without a story.

III.

And now you wanna get me back and you gon' show me

So you walk around like you don't know me

You got a new friend, well I got homies

But in the end it's still so lonely

You run and tell your friends that you're leavin' me

They say that they don't see what you see in me

You wait a couple months then you gon' see

You'll never find nobody better than me

I wish I could tell these lies. Tell me, John Angeli. Lost child

of the highway. Whitton says, “Congratulations! It’s a boy.”

IV.

Coldest story ever told. So far along this road. New York. Hot-damn.

We lost our soul to a woman so heartless. Perhaps. How could we be so Dr. Evil?

Why we up three a.m for? How could we be so paranoid? Does she remember me?

Tossing dreams in our pillows, pacing diaper fumes.

How could she be so heartless?

Talkin’, talkin’, talkin’ talk. Tough. Baby,

let’s just knock it off

they don’t know what

we go through.

The love we offer isn’t just sex and sports and tits and beer and stock portfolios. The Great Stoics looking coldly down at machismo. It’s about being men without having to prove

that we are men and what else will you believe?

We just gonn’ be enemies from Deee-troy, Ger-Zee Cy-Tea, and Muh-wah-key.

Don’t say the L

train is slow. Homie, I don’t know,

she hot and cold.

You’re doing it Peter.

says Rufio

It is you Peter.

says Pockets.

Not so fat to me! says Thud Butt. I cook. I clean. I sew. Oy vey!

Am I too nice? Why am I feminist? Seriously, women are people,

but damn, they are also pistachios and cashews and almonds.

Hope you got an epi-pen bud, I’m allegoric. The stories. Paralegals? Parallelograms?

Hope you got an epi-pen, handy I’m also allergic to nuts.

Teddy.

My teddy.

Daddy. Daddy.

I’m a daddy. I think

I’ve found my happy thought. says Peter Panning, Esq.

I mean, it’s just like,

I just want to be

a dad.

VI.

Rule #37: Don’t tweak out.

Don’t be too needy.

Be yourself, but not too much

into yourself. Ask her questions.

Repeat her name. Often. Make eye contact,

but be coy, seldom. Don’t look at her breasts!

How can you not? She put them out like deviled eggs

on a empty plate garnished with dill. Wrapped up to-go

in a copper negligee, covered with tattered fish net. Fuck. She’s hot.

But also a person. Very smart. Too smart? Definitely smarter than you.

Look now. The caramel crook of her lower back as it convexes after being all concave.

Damn. She’s cute too. Huh?

Let her know that you are still listening,

but don’t glisten. Don’t spit. Don’t look too keen.

Don’t talk about: Your interests. Your ex(es), your axe, your axis, where your from, 7 Mile Road, North Jersey, the Mexicano-Polacco South Side, therapy, your poems, your dreams, what you do, how you cook, who you know, wrestling, movie quotes, your father, your mother, the axis coalition, the holocaust. Don’t fucking bring up the holocaust. Why do you always bring up the holocaust? Be honest. Tell her lies. You should just be asking questions and looking to your wings.

Wingmen, assemble! Fly!

“Come fly with me. Come fly with me.” Don’t gossip. Don’t name drop. Let’s go with Professor Lehman. Littered with ex-lovers. God-damn we worry about the wrong things. Worry ‘bout the wrong things. Come fly with me. Come fly with me. Let’s fly away, fly with me, Daddy. Fly. C’mon Sweets. Let’s be our daddies. Yes Chef. Yes Professor. Yes Mr. Undertaker. LOST BOYS! LOST BOYS! Wake up! Pan’s back. Pan’s back. Why do we chase women who are crazier than our mothers? As sons, we love our mothers, but damn, we can’t have another. You only get one mother.

VII.

Everybody, everybody, Matt Bettine, everybody, everybody, Matt Bettine

playing Misfits on his ukelele. Attitude. You’ve got some fuckin’ attitude.

I got something to say...DUN...DUN... We ARE 138. We are the fiend

club. Matt Bettine still believes in Baltimore. Harry Potter Book 6, Smoke weed every day.

Still believes in Milwaukee. Still believes in magic. I still be believe in magic, too.

We went to Baltimore on a whim to see John Waters and to find a book.

We found neither, but he

still believes I bleed Belvedere,

not Goose. Damn those geese at the lake isle at Coole. Where is Maude Gaunne? Where has Maude gone off to now?

We went to Coney Island without girls.

Four a.m. shooting star. Guess what I wished for?

I can’t tell can I? I’m going to tell her.

Don’t you dare stop me, Schmee,

stop me Schmee, don’t you dare stop me, Schmee.

Stop me, Schmee. Don’t you dare, stop

me. Stop me, Schmee, Stop me.

I just heard some real bad news. Lemme’ hold that. My face turned to stone

when I heard the news. God damn, don’t you forget about me. Don’t you. Forget about me.

Coz’ I just heard some real bad news.

VIII.

Listen to all the Franks in your life. Listen to Professor Bibbins, he knows.

Listen to Bobby, he’s gonna’ be a shrink. Oh, Bobby. Bitches love,

Bobby Keehn.

You are so beautiful to me. Baby can’t you, see? Thanks Chef Alex.

Sorry about leaving the ice in the grease trap.

Pe-ter. I kill you.

Chef Lucius you served Celeberity M. my pierogi? Well, not mine,

but, yes playa’ play on.

Damn Lu-Lu. You crazy.

VIXen:

All the single ladies, all the single, ladies, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.

All the single fellas’ we on-a-team.

How could you be so cold as the winter wind when it breeze yo I mean after all the things we been through. You a got a new friend, well I’ve got homies?

X. XI. & XII.

‘Bout the baddest man I ever seen, who knew

she was a drama queen, up late night on patrol.

Okay, okay, okay. You ain’t never gonna stop.

Stop it now. Drop, lock and pop-it now.

I don’t want no robo-cop. I don’t need no robo-cop,

she’s looking like a robo-cop let’s agree to disagree.

Shorty kinda’ crazy but it turn me on. She never let it go.

Never gonna’ stop it now, okay, okay, okay. You need to drop it now.

Drop it. Drop it now.

CUE THE VIOLINS!

You spoiled little New York girl!

You just a New York girl! Just a New York girl.

You need to stop it now. Oh you’re kidding

AHA, that was a good one! You must be joking.

Your first good one in while. But, listen.

Don’t finish your sentence. You’re just a Detroit boy,

so much more than just another lost boy, so much more to import,

export, and sell on the Asian market hot damn will I-an.

Just-in time. Dump Truck’s here.

Oh baby baby don’t be so paranoid baby don’t be so baby don’t even think about it.

You worry about things, the wrong, you worry about the wrong things. Thongs,

clocks, bells, the Spanish announce table, they always smash the Spanish announce table.

All around the world statues crumble for me. Who knows how long I loved you? Twenty-five-years-old. My mother, God rest her soul. I just wanna’ fly. Put your arms around me baby. Put your arms around me baby. Spread your wings and fly. Fly

away with the pan. Ru-fi-o. Ru-fi-o. Ru-fi-o. RU-FI----OHHHHHHHHHH.

You don’t want spend your whole life alone. I can make it hood I can make it good, baby don’t worry about it.

Don’t worry about your bets, Daddy. You’ve made them already. Hanging out in the pit with the bosses, playing coy eyes with the dealers, and dodging the dodgy dogs selling out.

CASH OUT! It’s time to leave. You’re on a roll. Don’t give it back to them. Gollum will scream, Smeagol will sing. DON’T TAKE IT TO HIM! The precious! We must get it back, we must, the precious knows. No. Nickel Hi-Lo Yo. Bet the world. No. Three-card-monte. Don’t hit on that, she’s a fucking 17! You’ll break, you’ll bust! Fuck! Dealer wins. Why didn’t you play by the book? Why didn’t you listen? Why did you double-down and not fold? No Queens of Diamonds, Spades, or Clubs. Gone.

No, we don’t need you anymore. No we don’t. GONE, GONE, GONE. Precious. Smeagol is free!

At the end of the day in the ghetto

backyard, you know how damn sweet you are, god-damnit, de-lo, god damnit big daddy, you know it too. Nice guys finish. We finish. We finished reading “The Tortoise and the Hare.”

You do not do, you do not do old Ian Brown shoe.

They’re going to build a statue of Robo-Cop in Detroit, did you know that?

Kiss wants to Fuck. Teg Nugent wants to save his guns. Aretha Franklin wants respect.

We want mo-town Robo-Cop to save Detroit. Slave in Newark.

New Jersey and Connecticut saved wrestling.

Polka dots on Dusty Rhodes’ wrestling tights.

For me, it’s all Ole’ Milwaukee, happy as can be.

Ole’ Milwaukee for you and me. I don’t want her you can have her.

She’s too fat for me. She’s too fat. She’s too fat. She’s too fat for me.

And how about, who stole the kiszka? Who stole the kiszka from the butcher shop?

Jasiu stole the kiszka, Jasiu stole the kiszka, he hid it in the back.

Then again the Cream City. City of Industry. Brew City. Harley Davidson Pittsburgh of the Great Lakes, Little Chicago, The Polish Moon.

Actually Mili-wau-kay. It means many waters or Algonquin for “the good land.”

We’re not worthy. We’re scum.

Did you fellows know that Milwaukee is the only major American city to have three Socialist mayors?

Does this guy know how to party, or what?

I’m the greatest poet with the smallest ego.

I’m the smallest ego with the greatest poet.

I’m the poet. Who is who? We’ve got one black chip left.

To die would be a really great adventure. To love,

to live would be an awfully big adventure.

David Lehman! NPR!

2012-01-02T08:32:00.000-08:00

3 Favorite Poems of 2011

A farewell to the most stubborn man I never knew and a hello to the most stubborn woman I knew (after my mother)

2011-12-17T01:04:00.000-08:00

Without a Hitch

For Chelsea Whitton and after Christopher Hitchens

Maybe we could figure that figures and fugues

and the like are worth the fights we endure

for love and lovers and lovely little chandeliers

hanging over our heads, hanging above our heads

of cabbage and paprika-beet-ox-blood-oxtail rouge.

Dear friend, can’t we just say red? Lorrie Moore told me

to just say the word “red.” Sylvia Plath did that,

at least that’s what this little bird of America told me

to say. I agree, to an extent, but I have to quibble

with the quivering that comes with shiny coquettes

of vampired violins, of red-light distractions of auburn,

and waves of fire-engine rubies coming in crimson.

Lest we forget the cardinal sin of lust red and marooning

ourselves in smorgasbords of salmon and candle apple,

caught up in the coral of red. Red. Red. Red. What could be

redder if it hasn’t been read? I haven’t applied to Cornell

nor do I really believe that one is a shade of red. I’m all tickled

pink with fire brick and I think you’re the only one who can stand me

only half the time. I’m not the giant redwood of poetry

that you thought me to be. Honestly, I think you know that you will win

over the editors and critics and whoever else can actually sell

this crafty little art-form these days. These days. What have these

days come to? We haven’t any need for salmon if we haven’t

got bread. Give us our daily bread, now and at the hour of our death.

Our death. Celebrate/sell my death. Please note that I will die

long before you. Christopher Hitchens died today

and I felt something in my pit sink. It made my pity stink

and I think I’ll miss him so much. Not that I knew him,

but I couldn’t imagine anyone as stubborn and as reckless as me

before you met me. I’ll give Hitch a run for his honey. No honey,

no money, no nuhting’. That’s okay. I love nodding my head

when I see you and pretend like we aren’t the deepest and darkest

of friends. I think my throat is a bit dry. That little ball of flesh

hanging from the roof of my mouth is so damn red

from stupid stubbornness. You’re always right

and I’m always a bit too red.

Mark Wisniewski: This Week's Dirt

2011-12-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Mark Wisniewski: This Week's Dirt:

C’mon Carrié: A brand new poem for a brand (ish) new friend who helps me fight brands and branding and well, we like small business today

2011-12-02T09:42:00.000-08:00

C’mon Carrié

for Shawn Carrié

Don’t get carried away. Carry us away.

Don’t you dare tarry, Mr. Shawn Carrié.

Keratin and kerosene and carrots and will be here

all day. Carry on! It’s not a crime to rhyme

in modern poetry even though those who try

and fail defend themselves that way. All day,

all week Occupy this creek. Or do you say crick?

Either way it’s just a small stream

of consciousness giving way to your language

poetry, Mr. Shawn Carrié. Oh, I hope

you like that title by-the-way. Do you like titles

either way? Which way should I go now? This is so fucking meta

it hurts. C’mon Carrié, spit out our song dripping carrion

from the carbon corpuscles of the corpus corpse of a caribou

caught in the cream amongst the critters of today. Cream.

I like that word. It makes me think of the crazed crunching

of crackers and cremating ourselves with carcinogens. Care

to fly away, Shawn Carrié? Let’s just do it, c’mon Carrié. Crap

I’ve been creaking at my crevices and crooning about this old

be-Coca-Cola-ed commander and I don’t think I’ll ever stop, not even on Christmas

day can Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, take our curmudgeon-ed old crisp

cringle cakes away. Aren’t you a carnivore? Or do you only eat cranberry

crayons and crab-walk your way into the street craving a crumb of credence

from the creeds we know and the creeds we are wont to just say. C’mon

Carrié. Cram this world full of crazies and “Have it your way.” A custard

corona surrounds you and your carbonite Corona as you swig your crisis away.

Carbuncle of cars! Cream of Creamsicles! Dream of Dreamsicles today. Crazed

non-Croatian of the anti-corporation, come this way. Crooner of cronies! Corpus vitae amongst the corpses of commonly corrupted, cremated, scrambled, crazed, carbonated, discombobulated, innocent “criminal” of the night and the day. Occupy this moment,

this sound, c’mon, Carrié. Hey, look! I’ve made a new friend today. You, my friend,

are the crème-de-la-crème—a collective canary in the coalmine craving a way to tell us cookies (and clichés) just crumble that way. Don’t you dare crumble, Carrié—Canarsie’s Crème Bruleé.

Take Me Now, My Portly Stallion

2011-12-02T07:29:00.000-08:00

“Take Me Now, My Portly Stallion!”

after Henry Charles Bukowski and Diana Vreeland

Tell a Clydesdale that he’s a mule. Ride him,

tell him he’s become a donkey. Pay him

with grain and cubes of salt. He will not shit on you

and your floor. He will work like a horse, but screw

like an Olympic champion in the hundred-yard-dash—

singles competition. He will let you rip the plasters right off

of his back. He will cook for you. He will cook you—imagine!

He loathes parties. Despises dandies. Deplores the damasked

negligees mingling on the fringe, in the frill of an epaulet. Yes, just one

epaulet. He will feed celebrities, oh, you know, the one

on HBO who everyone thinks is hideous

or gorgeous. Give him your laurels! Glib, but

he will take them. He will run for you. He will eat right

out of the palm of your macerated little hands. He will work

for food. He is so damn happy to have a job. He is so damn hungry

for attention and love and friendship and other tired

abstractions. Give him clichés to unbend. Give him livery

or give him a desk. Fuck. Give him whatever you’ve got

left. He will take it. He will enjoy what he can

so long as it is unsafe, inappropriate, uncomfortable, inane, not nice,

and bá-nàl. He is so un-enjoyable, but oh-so-ever delectable. He is a/an:

Abtenauer, American Cream Draft, American Quarter, Arabian, Asturcón, Banker, Bardigiano, Bashkir Curly, Bavarian Warm-blood, Black Forest, Blazer, Brandenburger, Byelorussian Harness, Canadian Pacer, Carolina Marsh Tacky, Castillian, Choctaw, Cleveland Bay, Clydesdale, Colorado Ranger, Cold-blood Trotter, Cuban Criollo, Czech Warm-blood, Daliboz, Danish Warm-blood, Danube Delta, Dole Gudbrandsdal, Dutch Heavy Draft, Estonian, Falabella, Fjord, Florida Cracker, Frederiksborg, French Trotter, Friesian Cross, Furioso North Star, Galiceno, Galician, Gelderland, Georgian Grande, Gypsy Vanner, Hackney, Haflinger, Heck, Hirzai, Hispano-Árabe, Holsteiner, Hungarian Warm-blood, Icelandic, Indian Half-Bred, Iomud, Irish Draught, Italian Heavy Draft, Jaca Navarra, Jutland, Kabarda, Kentucky Mountain Saddle, Kinsky, Knabstrupper, Konik, Kustanair, Latvian, Lipizaan, Lithuanian Heavy Draught, Lokai, Losino, Lustiano, Małapolski, Mangalarga, Miniature, Misaki, Missouri Fox Trotter, Mongolian, Morab, Moyle, Murgese, Mustang, Namib Desert, National Show, Nokota, North Swedish, Oberlander, Orlov, Ostfriesen, Palamino, Pampa, Pentro, Peruvian Paso, Prewalski’s, Qatgani, Quarab, Racking, Rhenish-German Cold-Blood, Rocky Mountain, Romanian Sport, Russian Don, San Fratello, Shire, Silesian, Sokolski, Spanish-Norman, Standard-bred, Suffolk, Svensk Kallblodstravare, Swiss Warm-blood, Taishuh, Tchernomor, Tennessee Walking, Tersk, Thoroughbred, Tiger, Tori, Trait du Nord, Ukrainian Riding, Uzunyayla, Virginia Highlander, Vlaamperd, Vladimir Heavy Draft, Vyatka, Waler, Walkaloosa, Warlander, Welsh Cob, Westphalian, Wielkopolski, Württemburger, Xilingol, Yakutian, Yili, Zweibrücker, Zhmudk horse.

He is steed. Instead of being ahead of the pack he’s sauntering

over the finish line with one last gamble left.

A Poem by Maya Gene Beerbower and Myself

2011-11-29T09:45:00.000-08:00

We Can Haz Beatification, plz?

A series of Bodega Candles

The pope declares that we are neither

dead, nor in a state of bliss. What does the pope know

about bliss? I light candles because faith sleeps

in the dark. Mary, mother of god, teach us

not to pray.

†

The pope declares that we are red-

breasted robins laying down

our eggs with patience

curdled in our beaks.

Let’s dog-ear the pages

of dogma, baby.

Not knowing our father

who art. Thou art

in art and heaven

a demon who drinks too much

or too little water/wine.

We light candles for you,

Saint Jude. Sell us for silver,

not the pacing of your eyes, thank you, Saint

Peter. The cock crows once, twice,

three times a lady, a whore, coddled,

an absolute of avarice, pray

for us Mary Magdalene, mother,

Madame, lover. Of God

we know so little.

†   

The pope declares that poetry is dead: 

this is all the proof  

of a god we need.  

One son splayed open,  

spilling feathers and fire. 

Bird songs slip from vinegar lips.  

Late at night we turn  

water into whiskey, then 

whiskey into words, but  

absolution is always

out of reach. Hand out, palm up. 

Loose fingers leak cold flames.

†

The pope declares that god is dead-

wrong about sex. Birds and candles

and little patchwork blades

of feather flame. Pray for us, our Lady

of paranoid delusions. Make our guilt

and our unworthy beaks tight

and thin. Pray for our debasement.

Full of candles in the basement

of salvation and sin. Sine our co-sine, signed,

love, π. Blessed are we the meek

marauders of ashes and ink.

The pope declares that God, is dead.

†

We declare there is no death, only

states of bliss in between. Drunk gods

move in the shadows, silent

saints wreathe in and out of window

frames. Catch them with your candles.

Set it all on fire.

The weak shall not inherit the earth--

we will watch it burn before then. Our lady

of perpetual punishment,

free the birds. Find their tongues.

Cut them loose. Who so ever believes

in them shall fear eternal life.

†

The pope declares his own death. Pray

for us, Cardinals, bishops, robins, rooks,

parakeets, knights, priests, parishioners, parrots, pawns.

Pwned! Dead! Pray for us, parrots and our parrot dead.

Pardon us. Forgive us these trespasses, now

at the hour of our death. Now and at the hour

of your death. Give us this. Give us this our

daily bread. The fruit of your womb, Jesus.

Give us our daily bread. Give us our fucking

bread. Deliver us. De-liver our bodies. Deliver us

from evil. No, deliver us a freaking pizza. And bread.

And pie The zombie pope declares that God and zombie

Christ have no hands. Have no pizzas. For theirs is the power,

the glory, and the kingdom, through Christ our zombie

lord, for ever and ever, Amen.

Poem Revisited after Six Years

2011-11-27T00:19:00.001-08:00

God bless US

Black or white,

turban brown—

doesn’t matter,

we all know

Jesus was a God-

damned-American—

elephant on a lamb

as trumpets blow

out words to sing.

Preach love;

you don’t say?

Burn faggots

of all kinds.

Too many trees—

cut them straight.

Evangelise, capitalize

Jews, Gays, Fem-o-crats—

colors must be bleached.

"Cemetery" on BarNoneGroup's Blog

2011-11-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

BarNoneGroup Read! Comment! Write! Play! Occupy! Dance! Overuse imperatives and exclamation points!

Birthday Poem

2011-11-09T15:07:00.001-08:00

One Should Not Speak of One’s Self On End

Fifty percent Cezesław Miłosz.

Fourty-Four percent Ted Berrigan.

Three percent Wisława Szymborska.

Two percent T.S. Eliot.

One percent, Wallace Stevens.

Five and twenty years, business poet

For only seven, ninety-nine percent all-American

Tree-hugging, bleeding-heart, ego-maniac.

Two sides of him. The ninety-nine, but also the

One percent of him. Growing old, growing thin.

Five poets who never knew him

For all but one had fallen * asleep * @

Three a.m. Two hands stuck at Four a.m.

Two hours to push and pull out

One of him. No love for him. His

Five brothers. Lost again. His

Four sisters. Found again. His

Three fathers and Mothers guiding, chiding

Two sides of him. Egoism unchecked by

One who has nothing to believe but his

Five senses fooling him. Complete and utter

For-lorn, gamble-torn, hate of him. Yes father?

Three times, the cock crowed. Betrayal. Yes, Chef.

Two minutes to fire, Chef. Fire me, Chef. Trousers rolled. One demon.

One man. One hubristic, neo-baroque joke of a Peter Pan. Piotrek Pan.

Revised Version of Song of Myself (2011 Version)

2011-11-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

Song of Myself (2011 Version by Walt Whitman and Peter Burzynski)

Thank you to Ian Brown, Sweets Baby Brown and other Americans

America is ripe with protest.

I'm not sure if I can support all that the protestors

are saying. I'm also afraid to support small business

rights and people's rights because of the consequences.

I acknowledge that I still depend on corporations. Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink a phenomenal amount

of Diet Coke. Perhaps I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott Coke-a-Cola. Yes, I realize this

is but one of my many vices that support corporations.

I started in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and moved

to New York City. Brooklyn is ripe with protest.

I’m not sure if I can support myself

and all of my bad habits. I’m also afraid that my rent

is past-due and I’m afraid to tell my landlord to replace the garbage

cans that were stolen a month ago because of the consequences.

I acknowledge that I still depend on my landlord. Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink a decent amount

of vodka. Perhaps I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott Grey Goose. (As a Polish connoisseur, I already do)

Yes, I realize that this is but one of my many vices that support corporations.

I studied in Madison, Wisconsin and moved

to New York City. Wisconsin is ripe with protest

I’m not sure if I can support my arguments

and my self-righteous egoism. I’m also afraid that poetry

is a insignificant art form in “American Culture” that may have no consequence

on the American Psyche. I acknowledge that I depend on my poetry

to dissolve

my mania.

Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink in a huge amount

of language, and history, and visual art, and liberal diatribes, and literature,

and “American Culture”

is blind because corporations own the media,

and that this is idealism,

which has to be born naive

and become wise and fucking pick up a gauntlet once in their fucking

life

and

I know that Capitalism,

Socialism,

Cap and Trade-ilism,

Idealism,

many an ism

fail

because of

greed.

Perhaps

I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott poetry (as poetry is not good for you

and will kill me)

Yes, I realize that this is my only vice

that doesn’t support corporations and isn’t often supported by them

in return.

Please convince me to stop killing the Marlboro Man

and myself.

Three vices

Three cities

Three autobiographies

of America

and me.

Please save Madison, please save Milwaukee, please save Brooklyn,

please save Baltimore, please save Detroit, please save America,

please save,

please,

save,

please,

please save me.

2011-10-27T06:19:00.000-07:00

My Father's Tongue

2011-10-21T14:28:00.000-07:00

This poem is inspired by my father and the poetry of my friend, John Guzlowski.

This is published with the express permission of Polonez Restaurant, L.L.C., and Chef Wladyslaw Burzynski (the co-author).

I wrote this to give my father something to give Scott Walker when he goes to Madison on Monday to protest the $400 tax being paid by Wisconsin small businesses to support the Frontier Airline Corporation via taxes for the Frontier Airlines Center in downtown Milwaukee.

My father and I disagree with Scott Walker and Corporate America. This is not a left or right argument this argument is by the people for the people who support and work in America's dwindling population of small businesses. Make corporations pay the same percentage of taxes as the 99% (small businesses and real people).

This was my father's idea, and I dedicate this poem, as I do with all of my poems, to him.

My Father’s Tongue

My name is Wladyslaw Burzynski.

My customers call me, George. I am de’ chef

from Poland. I came to dis’ coun-try terty’ years ago.

I wanted to believe dat’ what the Communists told me

about America was wrong. I worked tree jobs:

stretching in a tannery, cleaning a government

building, cleaning another building. I didn’t take lunch

so I could go to de’ next job, you know.

I open de’ restaurant on my honeymoon wit’

my modder’ and my wife. I working dis’ job

seventy hours, uhh, per de’ week since Octohhhber’

nine-teen-eighty-tree.’

I have nuh-ting’

except for de’ debbbt’

and two children

because I move

de’ restaurant to new

location to de’ bigger place

and safer neighborhood

becoz’ my clients were afraid

to come to me. My customers

are wonderful, but many of dem’

are wit’ de’ angels and maybe some

wit’ de’ devil, too. Simetimes’

I am tinking’ dat’ I only make

de’ money on der’ funeral

reception now. But dat’s’ okay.

Dat’s’ de’ life. My dream is oh-

ver. I see de’ tunnel

with lights coming.

De’ middle people

are my customers.

Dey’ haff’ trouble.

I don’t know if

middle class survive.

You step in de’ shit

you have to git’ out

yourself. I understand

why I am working all my life

for de’ shit and nuh-ting.’

I pay de’ tax for me and I pay de’ tax for G-E.

I have nuh-ting’

except two children

who love me.

The Cemetery Sideshow Video

2011-10-20T11:39:00.001-07:00

The Cemtery Sideshow

The Cemetery Sideshow

2011-10-17T16:04:00.000-07:00

Cemetery Sideshow

To Frank Smith, Jr.

The Cemetery Sideshow

The barbed fence The barbed fence,

you insisted was keeping the burning hummed-

intruders out and not us in over scent of flesh

loomed against New York’s long dumped into a set

only constant—light of cascading waterfalls—

spitting upward to reflected Native-American

the unabashedly nude dream catchers besotted

sky. A plane gargled with lies and the absolute

and grunted over us zero of dry ice tears.

moving diagonally The little patches of grass

from the South to the Northern so intricately green

plantation of cloudless underneath the light

refractions of black-blue of lampposts and postage

night. An amorous reaper stamps and other carnal

scraping it’s heavy tool trespasses and circus votives

along a flight path long torn on sale. The sixty six-year-old

open with brutally ineffable survivor pacing. The sixty-six-

“whys?” Wisława couldn’t tell year-old smells of Polish camps

us, neither can you, officer, begin to prevail. The pink

and neither can K. or I. Wisława dump-truck eyelids

couldn’t give us a last line, of an overfed Lilith and

neither can you, officer, daughter, Lolita, squint

and neither can K. or I. as a flash of light freezes

their fat

elbows

pressed

against

the en-

graved

names

fallen

to the

light

and

the

air.

So the formatting became weird for the second tower when I pasted it here, but I kinda like it and am going to leave it that way online. I can email you the text with the straight lines too.

Video:

http://youtu.be/cOptyargwZ4

An Old Poem of Mine That Was Published a While Back

2011-10-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

It is the last two poems on this page (1 Polish, 1 English) Here's the link Kritya.in

Occupy Poetry NY

2011-10-16T00:05:00.000-07:00

My second poem and attempt at occupying poetry

2011-10-15T23:23:00.000-07:00

Occupy Poetry

An apology to Kevin Watson.

The difference between prostitution

and any profession that pays

in tips, is, more or less

clothing.

Literal prostitutes are professionals

in the sex industry and have sex

with strangers for money and sex

with lovers for love.

Waitresses and waiters and taxi-cab

drivers, bartenders, and anyone that I

and the one per cent forgot compliment

strangers and compliment friends for love.

Both types demean themselves intentionally

for a smattering of green and the soft

push pull of stained linens/sheets.

Poetry falls in between clothing

and love. And Poetry

is just as old as prostitution

and both began

orally.

Song of Myself (2011 Version)

2011-10-15T15:06:00.000-07:00

Song of Myself (2011 Version by Walt Whitman and Peter Burzynski)

Thank you to Ian Brown, Sweets Baby Brown and other Americans

It Started in Madison, I Started in Milwaukee, I Studied in Madison,

I Conquered

in New York.

I haven’t embellished my life as much as America has embellished

its.

It started in Madison, Wisconsin and moved

to New York City. America is ripe with protest.

I'm not sure if I can support all that the protestors

are saying. I'm also afraid to support small business

rights and people's rights because of the consequences.

I acknowledge that I still depend on corporations. Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink a phenomenal amount

of Diet Coke. Perhaps I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott Coke-a-Cola. Yes, I realize this

is only one of my vices that support corporations,

please don't comment on those things and embarrass me

on The Facebook. Perhaps, I've embarrassed myself.   But, please

help me

not to crack.

I started in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and moved

to New York City. Brooklyn is ripe with protest.

I’m not sure if I can support myself

and all of my bad habits. I’m also afraid that my rent

is past-due and I’m afraid to tell my landlord to re-supply the garbage

cans that were stolen a month ago because of the consequences.

I acknowledge that I still depend on my landlord. Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink a decent amount

of vodka. Perhaps I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott Grey Goose. (As a Polish connoisseur, I already do)

Yes, I realize that this is only one of my vices that support corporations,

please don’t comment on those things and embarrass me

to my face. Perhaps, I’ve embarrassed myself. But, please

help me

maintain something I already do.

I studied in Madison, Wisconsin and moved

to New York City. Wisconsin is ripe with protest

I’m not sure if I can support my arguments

and my self-righteous egoism. I’m also afraid that poetry

is a insignificant art form in “American Culture” that may have no consquence

on the American Psyche. I acknowledge that I depend on my poetry

to dissolve

my mania.

Those of you

who know me well, know that I drink in a huge amount

of language, and history, and visual art, and liberal diatribes, and literature,

and “American Culture”

is blind because corporations own the media,

and that this is idealism,

which has to be born naive

and become wise and fucking pick up a gauntlet once in their fucking

life

and

I know that Capitalism,

Socialism,

Cap and Trade-ilism,

Idealism,

many an ism

fail

because of

greed.

Perhaps

I can support Occupy and improve

my health and boycott poetry (as poetry is not good for you

and will kill me)

Yes, I realize that this is my only vice

that doesn’t support corporations and isn’t often supported by them

in return.

Please

comment

and embarrass me,

Please

help me

and convince me to stop killing the Marlboro Man

and myself.

3 vices

3 cities

3 autobiographies

of America

and me.

Please save Madison, please save Milwaukee, please save Brooklyn, please save Baltimore,

please save Detroit, please save America, please save, please, save, please, please save me.

This, and all others poems found on this blog, are property of Peter Burzynski. You may make as many copies as you want and give them out, just give me credit and don't plagiarize them.

Racey-ist

2011-10-14T01:18:00.001-07:00

The Good Voodoo

You will find me

parallel to the temple’s

dead-crusted façade

where you last slept

under the black tufts

of sky. Speak.

Don’t try to fool me,

usurper. You with brandished

teeth, rhinestone condoms,

unpeeling your clay eyes.

Tell me who

is your devil

and why. You’ve

eight seconds

and twenty words.

Why? Very good.

I understand. Here

break these bones,

mix these feathers

in, add some blood

(preferably reptilian)

shake and serve

over ice. Drink.

Let your tongue

feel it sluice down.

Come this way please.

We have a fire, a pit,

a stone table, and other

amenities.

2 videos of me reading at the September Student Reading at the New School: PART 2

2011-10-07T10:56:00.000-07:00

Part 2:

P.S. Please don't watch these if you are offended by adult language or are a Republican. You will not like me.

2 videos of me reading at the September Student Reading at the New School: PART 1

2011-10-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

Here are YouTube links!!!

Poem for today

2011-10-04T09:25:00.000-07:00

You're Well
Enjambed

Damn
this poem is
good
like
peaches and whisky
soaked cigarettes
and little bags of coat hangers
named
Keara.

Welcome to my blog!

2011-09-25T15:46:00.000-07:00

Hey, welcome to my blog. I will be writing about poetry and posting some of my own. If you like poetry, you'll also like drinking. Here is a link to my bar reviews on examiner.com. I know it may be foolish to participate in such a job with low pay, but I just need to keep writing in between poems and essays.

So, here's a poem:

Just Stupid

I have two holes

in my boxers,

where my testicles

should be hanging

through, but they’ve turtled

back into that uninteresting

mound, that Martian

volcano, pubis mons,

mons pubis, my pubis,

god damn

garrulously typed

in garish garmond,

or gara mons, garage

mounds, god damnit

it’s

holding my children back

one more grade, left behind,

children left behind, all because

of this sombrely retracted sack.