Kinda OCD much?

It goes w hoarding

Hand in hand

like two lovers in gloom

cemeteries 

 dark and turgid

with a side of irony

That's ME!

Why not?

You're nice 

Hah if I only knew

Where I put that shoe

 I could dig 

Thru the archives

Yielding 

yet more

and more 

but the threat 

of repetition again and again and again

Nah wrong box

Wrong inbox

Wrong ammo box

Wrong Winchester BB rifle

Wrong path

But it's the one I'm given

gave myself

dug the trail 

Hatch marks

Stacks of stones

They say no stacks of stones

Hurts animals or something

No literary authors buried beneath the bridge

near Eleanor Boy's house in the forest

By the creek

You found some things

In the forest

Took them home

Dad accused you of stealing

 Steady as she goes

Oh Cap'n my Cap'n

But Derek Jeter? fucking shut up

NY CENTRIC ANNOUNCERS 

QUOTING WALT WHITMAN

  crack a beer 

relax asshole

It's just a fucking game

 Crafty

     Graft like Chevrolets

A circus at the University

Buckminster Fuller speaking in the hot sun

at the Quarry

Play Raquel all 

  romantic climbs

     and bloodied lips 

Urgent care 

For stitches

   And Graduation day

and Tim Fernandes (who you played Hot Wheels

with)

Is obviously fucked up

on something and it's not a good look

 Steady

as she goes

Cap'n

nobody

the sea pool

Z

A whirlpool

In the middle of nowhere

Coconuts and dead seagulls 

Whirling with containers

and plastic thingamajigs

Crawling up your sides

as you reach for an ashtray

or the bottle of Bulliet bourbon

 

 

 

 Every book

Every one

But not that crap

Count me out

I'm better than that

Hah

That's crap!

My authors have to be dead or almost dead

Like my brain

La La La La

West LA Fadeaway

Watts 

La Brea

Compton

The fucking Getty

Why fucking 

I don't know

I'm just an old guy w no friends

except a loony in Pasadena

and a kid w problems in Vancouver

West LA Fadeaway

Watts towers

They tried to pull them down

Couldn't 

 The drop

Drop shadow booze

Blues

   weary like Oakland 

Let's go for a ride!

  Saddle up the palomino 

Bones bones

Bones

$8 a ton

 We keep going

reading Ivanhoe at night

   By moonlight

candlelight

   30 watt incandescent 

We're looking for low hanging fruit 

   Lights

Lights 

Lights 

  No outside lights

Sorry

Or not 

Hundred bucks ain't bad 

To let us write down what kind of lights

You use in each room

 Rainy rain morning

"Might be the last of the season"

My sister said

Lying in bed drinking coffee

Cold espresso 

Jack Kerouac

was an alcoholic

Richard Brautigan too

So what 

I'm not an alcoholic and I can't write for shit

Maybe I should drink myself to death

While reading Bukowski

and his wonder and disgust at the meat covered bones

of America 

But no

I take all my pills

My endocrinologist is hot and she keeps my

Numbers in range

"You need more potassium"

 My friend 

Visited me when I was staying in New York

I had my second cousins second or third apartments in the West Village right above where the Cafe San Remo used to be. 

Ghosts of literary types, NYU students and young business people didn't even bother to come around any more

There was a guy living on the sidewalk across the street

He was historic New York. He'd been around when New Yorkers fought with the British over the Spring Pole at the downtown corner park. Mostly he just wore pants. No shirt or shoes. His hair was kind of long but not too. I think his name was Washington Irving or something like that. He talked of bowling pins and tankards of Ale and what lousy Canadian beer they used to sell down the street. 

 I'm trapped

Trapped in my head

"Everywhere I go I'm fucked"

I've adapted that saying to my typical happenstance 

But I'm just a dream 

They say 

You're just a dream

A dream of an incubus

In a swamp

And I think yeah fuck you too

 I got nothing

But made up dreams

Everything is made up

But I didn't dream too good

Life in a rabbit hutch

Surrounded by treasures

Comics and violins

Nudies  

Empty beer bottles

Surprised it doesn't smell

Maybe it does 

Who knows?

The Poet don't know

He don't know Jack shit 

 Watch it 

Now the sun

Wiilnfry skinny

Head fucker

Screw you

And the mule 

You stole 

It a old mule  

Like no one

And now you say

I don't want it

 

 

 

 Too good

There's nothing I can do

I just lay here and play the cards

drink coffee

and listen to the wind 

Rattling the door 

  rattling my brain 

     rattling my fancy Mervyn's golf shirt

 I don't play golf

But I

Look like 

I could

I may look old but I really am