Greece: Six months after
A cog in the broadcasting industry;
I was there, and now, there is on my shelf
manufactured like a dollar candle unlit,
next to plush Athena and Phoebos,
books partially read, and 1500 pictures
last summer, good deal, had to grab it:
the candle, five dollars, the gods, five euros.
We yelled for the sake of yelling our favorite songs
warm and cold is the life.
The blue LCD lingers even with friends,
my friends-my (saving me from the) screen
savers, freezing, cold, heartless–
the silence of mp3s and IMs,
the rock concert, the heavy metal hanging from the lashes, lulling to sleep–
s l o w i n g
the beams of light from reaching my eyes:
the red cheeks of winter night out glow fire and wash over the goodbye with a
“goodbye” faded with l o n g i n g,
for the radio interferes with the conversations
and with the passenger-seated soul
beside me
gliding down the interstate, the back-roads, the melting, the remembering
Keep asking cause you’ve smbitten me.
If they were secure as me, they’d be free laughing hysterically underneath the foldout bed here with me,
Crazy thing, finding the perfect between extremes:
listens / disappears / won’t shut up / “Yes we know you’re here.”
How many sucker souls daily get seduced by your curiosity?
Tell me and keep asking, too, ’cause you’ve smbitten me.
Could I love this way? Is your interest real?
Yeah, but
could I get over the jealousy
of your interest–in all the other Mr. Mysterys?
Tired of saying stomach
I am so tired of saying stomach,
I want to say diarrhea
not that my mouth is just another ass
to slosh feces from,
but so I can lower my cranial walls
and show the world my wrinkles
without worry.
Art History is punishing
viewing where the footprints pressed with a flare of
nothing is more important
causing nostalgia intense as the airborne stone breathed under the Athenian sun.
Ahh!
you are evil if you do not long for the return,
as if the momentary mundane is as worthless as the ruins buried beneath the tourist-packed tavernas and the crowded walks of kiosks and corn roasting
The cork pops and the wine of words bubbles forth
throw yourself through the paper, the notebook, the icon:
load the mortar in the fountain pen’s seeping tip and prick the paper
for the quill knife runs along the skin until
the ink oxidizes the blood and the crisp pulp fibers cleanse the tissue
September 20, 2004
Putting the Parthenon on hold for poetry
Mother put me back in, I dream?nothing is enough
can’t fit on a CD, but it’d be a nice experience
is temporary, truth is
forever catch the spectator, the cleaning lady, not the athlete, the exec,
move to Athens,
move to Mars,
if beauty is in the heartache,
you will be the happiest man on Earth and question your need for God.
now and here will never be again, you know,
but then again,
now will never be here,
anywhere.
So dirty, you want to spit out your gum
when all the human love isn’t enough
and you wonder if you’ve experienced love
when the ball point runs dry and
the creative juices no long serve up mixed drinks
intoxicating the whole page until
the end looks close and thoughts of self-mutilation and guilt
arrive on a red light subway and consumes like African fire ants.
Special: follow Stephen in Athens
Howdy, I’m in Athens right now and won’t be posting too often. You are welcome to read my temporary blog though.
http://stepheninathens.blogspot.com/
scratch a little
you have to scratch a little to start a ball-point,
will this newly found pen take away my angst coupling
will you destroy me?so be it.
nothing is ever great without change
if you are, I will gladly die
I saw the pelican dive and I thought of you
Fatal you may be for I was there with you on a log at sunset
and swerved to not meet the railing.
the I-64 rain drops swim across the window like sperm for an egg, my neurons are to moments of you