Miss the moon
Claw the earth
Eat the dirt
Feed bowls seed
Sleep feld stream
Drink the trees
Fog mirrors sleeve
Dry airs eyes
Mouth walls door
Sniff sinks need
Lick roofs round
Alice asked me once, “what’s three more after you've had four?” I didn't have an answer for her then We’d been drinking and I gave her a ride home Her apartment was just boxes and dead soldiers, empty half-gallons, and glass jars growing green and brown She talked over and over about Mick Jagger and how there were hidden lyrics in the Rolling Stones’ songs, which made me want to go back to the bar and drink more, to understand her, but the bars were closed and there was 15 miles between her apartment and home She guarded her words with rant scratches and scattered barbs, as though she had to obscure her words to hide their handsome lines and rasped clarity Always missed her when she wasn't around
She shyrockets into the tufts of tomorrow
I suckle on the marrow inside memory
and imagine
Whoever gets their fist first wins
The rest receive a pat on the ass
That's what these bushes teach me
"Would you rather Pavement or the world?" He asks us
"Hope," we all could reply
How many times do I have to stand amid art and listen to pandering drivel of pompous asses
Too long it seems
They must feel it's important
They are so silent now
"Souled", he says
Smokers outside smoke the man and his microphone that smotes us
I am reminded of why poetry is a black art
We were the Brussels of humanity, if just for a moment, we believed that the believable was worth believing in and that which is unknown had no meaning and didn't need to be recognized, just filled a space that did not exist to us, but perhaps by knowing or believing that these unknowns filled a non-existent space beautifully,we recognized that while their purposes were unknown they existed, they were something outside us, but perhaps inside others, known and may be felt by others and those others we too will never know and they will never know us Even though we do not know them and do not give significance to the unknown and unknowable that they might or might not know, at least for a moment, we see the people we do not know who know unknowable things and perhaps at that moment they are aware of us and recognize that we might or might know the unknowable things that they refuse to name In that precise moment, though we do not know each other, we may be able to know what we know and do not know, as if those ideas we never had ourselves become real because one of us knows or has had that idea and those ideas and things that remain unknowable become real in the space created between us by each of us thinking or recognizing each others existence at the same moment
And those ideas come to us from seemingly nothing and out of those ideas derive invention
But perhaps this is nonsense and not worth an effort It should have been kept a secret, unshared, but my ruminations are so completely within me, that this consumption may seem palpable even to those who do not know me, but only know my surfaces, those things within myself that may rise and appear, whether I decide to show them or not, as if my will were choiceless and my consumptions easily seen
Please tomorrow
as if yesterday
pleads for today
as if yesterday
pleads for today
Fly be free mean green mother
Shrouded in a myth
you are life
yesterday was lonesome
wait
today
works a sacred day
we blaspheme green everyday
you know where your heart is
mother
green
he doesn't like the color green
perhaps he is more mean than you
Green Mother
Mother Green
unstripped
listless
an amalgam of memory, regret and forgetfulness
there is nothing
here is everything
this seams less than you
Green mother
Mother green
The impossible posits the possible
and then there is me and you
we know each other
A casual glance
a remorseless tangle
what weeds we bramble
a bramble of green
this day almost gone
here we are
everything
You're sludgewall
You can have convenience, which I can never spell correctly without a prompter now
So I drink myself to knot and beyond
A poet is a poet, what more do you want?
A poet is their soul, and that is why I hate them, unless they are hot
I heave you, poets!
I am fast that needs to glean you with your words, its pure means, if just for a moment, poets
I love your poetry
Oh, you silly, strong, seized, wild, mainline, mad poets!
you make me drink more because I feel more
Oh, how I lust for the wiggle in your verse, your sumptuous phrase
When you make an ugly word beautiful and the best word real
She has a speech impediment, we both have spines
Doorknob platter
Cellophane and hay, yay!
Broken fake marvel in the diva den
I'm gonna break it That said, gotta triple and shitty service
You're lo-cash cause you're lo-class
Shake that ass down into my ditch, which reminds me of my skin’s will to flesh
We are just people
She's so Led Zepplin that I feel heavy around her
You alone with your smorgasbord of emotions deceives you into thinking you're not alone Its last breath before temptation convinces us all awry The latest sorrow begins with a snag, a fray and a yowl The fork forks as it remembers that it wasn't too long ago when life was eaten
“If you are not a fork, you will be forked,” the forks sustain
“If you are not a fork, you will be forked,” the forks sustain
I found the rapid man, he didn't find me
I was rapid once as a child on my knees
Now my knees know pant legs and elbows
A creedless man braced against a rail, his will to fall matches his will to rise
The splash-spray creases his face, his grimace half wild
"Have you ever used these symbols before?" she stalely asks
"No. Never." I reply surprised
Sever several
severe waves
Drought through last season
Your bein' becomes too much for us, an overload of person
A peninsula of cakes eaten in spite, all of us now being cakeless thanks to you
We saw you before you became weightless, and wondered at your sexiest of obesities, like gluttons we dined on all of you for our densest pleasures
Your bein' becomes too much for us, an overload of person
A peninsula of cakes eaten in spite, all of us now being cakeless thanks to you
We saw you before you became weightless, and wondered at your sexiest of obesities, like gluttons we dined on all of you for our densest pleasures
“One more?” he asks
“Yes, please,” I reply
It's a full moon and our anniversary
You expect me to stay sober for this dear Buzios?
Then you my beautiful mess, your dream of the past, your dream of new wealth, are sadly mistaken
You should know how I feel about dreams of ascension
It gives me sad smile, like bile
We don't what it is or what it does for us until we taste it
It's a bitter root for our consumptive lives
We have sex and listen to the wind arrest the chimes, frisk them, throw them down out back
I wake up to metal and you sigh
One of us will have a Waterloo in our loins before the day is over
you don't know what happened unless you were there
that's what they say, "it's nothing that I envisioned "
it's good if you want it to be
the same or better more seems a long shot that won't last
it's good for the soul, they say
that's the way it is sometimes, isn't it? the breathing takes a nap, a long itinerant map you know how it is, but it doesn't always happen that way, does it?
it's a long way to go, the everessence of nothing, a calamity of skin and bones
gets lost in the malaise, the bygone years should be gone, but they linger
alive in the afterlife of tomorrow
he's a one arm bandit, with a purr and a whimper, the bang ends the world
the toes and the heels resound with the sound of sleep The shell of a man vibrates, a turbulence inside I have found this a thousand times, and a thousand lines that measure time
it is ok, even if you almost died The breath is gone
******************************************************
you're a bookeeper, what do you want?
you feel the smile and dread the aftermath, but it's all noise and lessons learned that doesn't help us make sense of what happened before and what may happen after
it's a lot that is parked A life lived through mirrors and lenses, car doors and engines, gas and pedels
normally you'd be there more and less, more gone then we care to remember
like you remember, alive and quiet inside
are you alive and well? It does matter because we are all matter and energy taking up space, if just for a moment
Will of nothing comes of this It's love through another electronic door
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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