Saturday, September 4, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
he smoked a cigarette
despite quitting years ago
and he listened absently
as the preacher tried hard
to console him with passages
from the Bible he never read
and telling Bad Chester Ryan
If you believe you'll be saved
but Ryan believes he's beyond
the pale and hope is a tiny thing
that will burn with him
in that chair and after this
he can rest his murdering bones
under deep ground where
he can't hurt another living soul
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
on the steps, from
rust and green
to ashen like
the last weeks.
Now on the
metro, I’m sniffing
for something that
nail polish remover,
with a bomb.
Last night I
dreamed I gave a
reading but I
couldn’t find any
poems I wanted.
When I open my
mouth, I spit a
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
I scraped this dog shit poetry off of the sole of my soul
with a termite infested wooden prosthetic hand
and splattered it onto the back of an unpaid parking ticket
it’s as lovely as chainsaw sodomy preformed post mortem
feels like I’m holding up my warm slimy intestines
for the leisurely perusal and cockeyed judgment of zombies
that my bloody vomit looked like abstract art
since that moment I’ve crucified my pride daily
so that chronic spiritual masturbators
could watch this trailer park freakshow with outraged eyes
and be reassured that they're not as fucked up as some people
Monday, August 30, 2010
What do I know
About the perfume of midnight cemeteries
Or the blood rose
With no thorns at all
What do I know
About the hand that touches me in the dark
And stops my blood beating in my veins
Or the ice in my ear
When I hear an avenue of hummingbirds
The sounds they make full of the colour of their wings
What do I know
About the hidden desires of my
Loved ones whose faces change in twilight
What do I know
About the veins that trace a journey on a leaf
Or the hidden energy of air
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Alabaster in the shining moon
His buttocks and belly were bare
He sank into the pond
A chain of stones around his neck
A garland of honeysuckle in his hair
His skin so pale shone luminous when wet
He wished a wish to sink and drown
But he could not…
And as he struggled to die
All his hatred
And jealousy and fear
Bobbed up within his brain
Causing him much grief…
Much more so, indeed, than the water
That was trickling into his lungs and
Not really suffocating him…
He bobbed to the surface
Sucked in the air
Ripped off the stones
And clambered – cursing
Both life and death –
Back onto the beach
And returned to this world again
The artists are dandelions:
There are so many of them
God called my mother
and told her she was
better than all the other
Wasn't too long
till they chopped off her head,
poured weed killer
across her stem
and she drank it up,
became a member of society:
But not before she born me.
And I'm still a seed
flipping in the breeze
past the wanted flowers,
one of the few artists
who's still got a head.
But the mower is always
in the distance.
And who knows where
this wind will carry me?—when
we are all destined to be
Friday, August 27, 2010
talking full time about "Everyone in my
family died in their sixties," although
(a face-lift 5 years ago) she looks fortyish,
e-mails every day from wife-possibles from
way back, sending me pictures of grandkids
("For me that's what counts, genetic continuation)
photos of themselves, poems, publishing questions,
when can I come out to Carpinteria to visit, five
months since Joey died (shark), "Let's meet in
Chicago," or this skin-cancer beauty in New
Hampshire, "The surgery went great, come for
a visit before the first snow...," my ex-student
in L.A., pals for 50 years, "This widow stuff is
crap...I need you...," a bunch of fucking saint-
whores, amazed at how the legs still hold up,
the surgically-chemically helped faces, and
always this sense of almost supernatural
get-together-foreverness, what I needed was
five lives and a theology that said "Who you
love you marry, forget numbers...."
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I won't be long
but I might be late.
Don't wait up.
The red moon is up.
Stars blink like
Guilt shackles my
naked form to life
and from the corner
of my mind I laugh
because I know not
how to react to anything
My children glint
like little lakes,
hiding their secrets
in centers so deep
no mother could reach
and so I choose to drown.
Fathers pass away
behind plastic curtains
in critical care units-
no more minty breath
or spinning thoughts,
my father dies delicately
quiet and all I can think
as I slip away, down the corridor
of hush and antiseptic
is why and what will I do
now that there will be no more
warm hands and glue and carpentry.
Who will fix my broken dolls?
and send flowers
while a thousand others
tear my pictures in half
before throwing them into the fire.
My heart is stale.
My love is nothing but an astonishing remark.
I'd call my latest lover perfect
but he has a scar above his lip
and his knees are weak from kneeling.
He's far from it.
Okay, I won't be late
but I might be long.
If you write, don't expect a reply.
I did not pack a pencil.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Like an emptied box of cutlery, Eugene's body falls twisted, limbs woven around themselves.
Their dry mouths had one other held hostage.
His milk white neck embracing her fingers gently like blue tack.
They step back from each other, his smile pricking pale balloon pink cheeks,
He dives in her deep inkwell pupils, swimming in thick road tar black ink.
A heavy tear grows in the corner of her eye and rests on her cheek.
Water streams down the steps thowing cutlery either side,
Buckets of ink dry to chalk and dust.
She steps over his fallen twisted wire body,
staring at his white flour caked face,
and smudged crimson lips,
staring into his marble green eyes,
She thinks of when they met at Oul' Butters,
A singed smile in her siren face,
At old butters, where he held her, glowing and tall.
After everything since then, he's just put a barrel to his head,
and painted all 4 walls.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
For I am the life and death.
For I am the sun and the darkness.
I am the power of love and I am the darkness among others.
I am the time and stars.
I am the song which is sung very far.
I am not an energy nor entity.
I am neither of any religion or soul.
I am the message of the beloved.
I am the brother and the father.
I am the love and the hate.
Sometimes, I am nothing but emptiness.
I am the sex to multiply time and again.
I am the number added over zero.
I am the quality of mankind.
I am the friend and foe.
I am the sin and sinner.
I am the silence and crowd.
I am the sadness and pain.
I am neither any of human words nor human deeds.
Just I am
Maybe I am
Let us say, I am, I will be, I was.
So, here I am, here I belong, in this moment of complete solitude
Because I was, I am, and I will be.
Monday, August 23, 2010
And here, Kodak picturesque, my love,
the streets do not end with a damsel taken
her legs splayed and small bills scattered like leaves.
In this strange place, darling,
we dream drugged yellow haze and burlesque shows.
It is so beautiful here I don’t ever want to land.
Someone brings flowers to me in cameo
and the credits fade, with you the dead agnostic
myself left to catch crystals
of methamphetamine cold in your breath.
*from Kristina's chapbook "The Traffic in Women" from Dancing Girl Press
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Exuberant beatniks in angst-black turtlenecks,
secretly dreaming of sunlight and waffles,
scrounge their pockets for rhythmic shards
of keen poetry and wailing laments.
Blow those blues, Daddy-O, blow those blues.
Fresh young trees spitting gold cold leaves
on urban decay, the way you do a John Wayne
with a cigarette into this cement gutter
covered with wet newsprint and remnant fries.
It's all neon and Pepto-Bismol from here.
Some fungi swiped your tree frogs.
Sweet confetti of annihilation,
save us from the garish fate
of baboon-butt bright self love.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Faint rays of sunlight
through a tiny window
caught the spinning
prism, rainbows danced ’round
that tin can trap called home
Ha, just think, mobile home,
mobile suggesting it would move.
That old bucket hadn’t moved
in thirty years sitting
in grammies back yard
Feeling trashy was easy
when picking up
food stamps each month
was the high point of life
Even worse, the way
people look when
some folks look away
others look on in disgust
One step above homeless,
a refugee, a pariah,
unwanted, used up, just one
more name on the welfare list
Finally she heard the baby crying,
so distant, strange, unreal,
all alone, disconnected from all
other life forms
Poverty and neglect
strangling a tattered
will to live.
Just a little light of hope
would, perhaps, give
enough strength to keep moving
Long ago she had given up on God
or any other type of salvation,
redemption surely did not know
her address but the bill collectors did
If only she could just leave,
yes, leave this ALL behind
She went down to the river
most every day when
the baby slept
The water, sparkling, golden,
freedom soaring where the
sky crosses the water
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Your smile’s like sun
flowers he said
ring on his
close to her
from that room
a wheat sea
blew under the
and his warm
bones to water
And not even
when the floor
turned into a
and the paint
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
steady rain feathering
pink cotton candy swirls
and watercolor canvas pools
quivering in neon funhouse mirrors.
Sideshow games tilt
from leaded milk bottles
and greased crystal dishes,
shooting gallery rifles with bent sights
and barrels crooked as a raccoon’s penis.
sport tattered denim,
in purple ink tattoos
man the ride controls.
We ride the Scrambler, the Cyclops,
the Tilt-a-Whirl and finally,
the Ferris Wheel where we kiss
until our lips chap, then cozy up
in the black curtained booth,
my sweaty palms pressed
against her bare naked breasts
for the first time,
nipples pink and swelling
like candied apples;
exit through a mud puddle maze,
ghost image film strips
of blurred lives
and spent quarters
has come a long way.
wireless laser printing
and now, the new thing is,
I hope there is a great poet, still young
Somewhere, perhaps in Bogata, or Buena Aires
Who writes with a stick in sand,
Or charcoal on white ash tree trunks,
Who will be captured by Google Earth
Each letter disappearing into the cold black sea
As the tides push in or the fire blazes.
I am naked
The humidity is causing my lungs to grieve.
I relax them with a cigarette
which only makes their lugubrious mourn
A bit more acrid.
The ceiling fan methodically returns by ritual
As if not by physics or electricity.
Perspiration has risen to form a nice thin sheen
of silky sweat off my skin
I am watching my cock get bigger and smaller
as if it has a brain of its own,
it's difficult to be serious enough,
to feel the un-pleasantries of heat
when I am staring at my own penis.
The last 25 minutes have been a waste of time
Please forgive me, reader
These poems rather suck,
Sometimes writing makes me feel as if
I am dissolving in time to a climax tragically in decline
These times, I need to go outside
And change my tires.
Friday, August 13, 2010
gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms
pulled from the waistband of low jeans
hidden in the sleeves of Richmond sweatshirts
blooming the shatter of auto glass explodes
with the impact of wayward chevrolets
at twenty third and rheem while
mothers fly from living rooms and bound
front steps to snatch babies from front yards
behind chain link and denial
dragging small arms of frightened
screams at mamas fearful urgency
overhead metal slams into the siding of old houses
burrowed amid termites and unrelenting detritus
of slow and persistent consumption
these streets are ruled by the warlords
whose law is vengeance like winter rain
driving hard dark and cold
into impotent neighborhoods
buried deep into weary rooftops
that cannot resist them nor repel them
but pay tribute with diverted eyes
and avoidance of darkened sidewalks
while disclaimed soldiers barter euphoria
and seek disrespect
among the homes of their enemies
classmates in the iron triangle
children run to school wary of the cars that slow
and pull to the curb and thump their skin
dark figures in dark spaces taunt them
and provoke scurry and furtive flight
into the arms of shit apostles
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Wrapped in heavy down we are
sitting ducks, rotting leaves,
when expected to crunch, mash
from all the rain and the kick
from this .22 is far too strong
for prepubescent boys, tears
shoulder sinew from soft, fleshy arms.
Sparrows sing in the aligned crosshair
of my new Red Ryder. plunk. plunk.
plunk. One crumples and falls
like the seedling of a maple,
spinning like a helicopter
to the expectant forest floor.
I pinch that little bastard by its dead neck,
palpate the skull I put holes in
and pose for a picture, holler,
present the tiny carcass
to my father with pride.
Buckshot explodes, freckles the cornfield sky.
My father winged a goose and I
perform a heavy-handed choke that
bloodies my leather gloves. I strangle,
suffocate, pull life from feathered limbs.
I wipe blood on my overalls:
There is no hitting this, no fingernails
sifting through the diamonds all over
my chest, no tree bark to mark
our backs, no necking without teeth.
We'll just stare. Awkwardly.
Staring into you. Romantically.
Staring at you. It is creepy?
Not when pre-teen girls hunt
for this cock hoping to slake
their thirst for true love.
Oh dove, I would snap your wings,
drink your plummet, wear the neck
like a crucifix to ward off these girls
who wear their ovaries on their sleeves.
One day, I will build up the courage,
the resolve, to stop the staring,
stop giving you that pensive look
that unwinds your panties.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Zuk’s spirit was impaled upon
the knife of love
It all started when the young
red-headed gazelle rose up
like a zoo flower
and crossed a perfect set of legs
containing a Tantric mystery.
There was a lie on her lips
a lost gaze inside her fiery eyes
a moist stamp inside the passport
of her heart.
i painted a picture of you
in my mind
while he buried himself
deeper inside me
you had on that sweatshirt
with the ripped sleeve
and your hair
combed back straight
i hate your hair like that
but the only way i can
get off is by
he told me i had
the tightest slit he
i told him i was a gypsy
around in search of
the biggest sea monster
one could find
my search wasn't over
i gave a final tug
before leaving only
the stench of
and a disheartening memory
slung back another
handle of rot gut
tripped over the
memories i thought
and fucked another sailor
to prove i don't care
only thing i got
is an empty bottle and
an itchy cunt
Friday, August 6, 2010
In the front of a crowded bus
Her unconcious uncurls, stretches, and crawls into his dreams
As her head rests on muscle and wool.
On his mind's ride the bus is guided by breath-
The exhalations of the black eyed panpipe player who boarded ten miles back.
His quick and airy melodies loop them through sharp curves;
And long clear notes send them down steep straightaways.
The musician is driver and passenger,
Navigating a bloodshot landscape.
He predicts each curve of the terrain
And meneuvers with gentle blows.
As his rhythms quicken their speed increases.
Outside, the grazing llamas fly by faster and faster
Until they fade away completely as the bus leaves the ground
And enters a foggy airway punctured by ragged mountain peaks.
She wakes to the smell of damp wool
Scratchy wetness on her face, his chest.
His tears or hers?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
pssst! i'm full of vitamins
chiquita banana quips
at the breakfast table today
as if i need a reason to want to be here
well don't rub it in, i say
that may be so, but let us not forget
that i'm good for you too,
and then i peel off her
unripe first layer
i should have waited
more than five minutes
after bringing her home
because halfway through the long
curve of her body, i'm weary of
the premature taste
i toss chiquita banana
in the nearest receptacle
with all the love and care
of a hired mercenary
and grab a raspberry yogurt
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The rails feel cold on my fingertips as I
Descend down the stairs
That winter leaving the hospital, you behind
As usual, they say you’ll pull through
But instinct tells me it shouldn’t have taken this
Long as lonely nights which pass like a pontoon
In the throes of thunderous waves on the high seas
And so strange, the torment, if only the gun had been
On safe, last winter would not have passed so bitter
Yet, hope tells me they are right, and your recovery will be
The mirror haunts back an image of a man who has seen
Death from an empty bottle
Each restless eve I drink away the memories of the days
When you were here with me, you scoundrel!
I told you never to touch that cold killing machine, my breaths die
Cascades of consolation rest at my door in envelopes
As if a mailman left them there in sheer pity, avoiding the box
Next to the drive, and the cold comes once again, three winters it has been
You’re lead-leaden body now shows a familiar pair of eyes
You tell me to bend low, say, “I wanted to end the pain.
Of letting you know I cannot love you.” And as I leave…
The great specters of misery and scorn weigh heavy on my eyes
They say, “He will not make it through the night.”
The rails are cold, but not so cold as the reality of death, its venom poisoning so
Monday, August 2, 2010
"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" --
these were the thoughts
that the sexy big-dicked young man
was having as he was watching
the birds migrate, and,
as he watched them through
the little tiny itty bitty interwoven
holes of his screened-in porch,
he kept saying to himself,
"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" -- until,
the certainty of his own
madness loomed like
a twisting clothesline
on the horizon,
and even the
turnip that was sucking on
could no longer distract
him from the certainty
the yearning of his
pants to slither back
up his ankles, and, at
the very least, cover up the
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Coliseum dog fights
marked up the bank vault doors,
while gray-templed men, wearing
stirred their coffee with silver barreled guns,
whispering through grated windows.
across flat water borders,
passports and nicotine in our pockets.
But I watched my last prayer,
limping to the east,
weighted down by glass antennae
and polystyrene wings.
Summer spells never answer
with open grand ballrooms
and naked tables,
making room for halogen bulbs,
caught, in thorns and burning shrubs
like a multicolored spider
collapsing at dawn.
I could hear the overseer,
His voices of London glass,
above His Times Square eyes,
above his feet, the glittering wrecking balls
walking through Dresden markets.
What hopeless sigh can rise
more than crusty dial tones creeping up the stairwells,
especially under my
frantical embellishment, gluing on every feather,
every pretty bit of tinfoil
riding by on fate and a
And who are the eleventh-hour sponsors,
bearing my paper airplane testament on their backs?
A pair of white foxes, flying,
tails afire, flanking a snapped quarter-star,
and the tiny alloyed messengers,
who climb to the ends
of the elephant grass,
velvet and silken bags
tied to their limbs,
but they climb, my friend.
Still, they climb.
*TM Göttl lives in Cleveland, OH. Check her out at:
...and be sure to check out this site too:
Thursday, July 29, 2010
When your eyes were turned away
When your black eyes were turned away
And looking far off
Is when you lost me,
Sightlessly lost me
In the thick darkness
The dark barely-here-shadows
And the wild sounds
Of wild things.
Lost in the places of fires
And slow trains and imaginary things
And unconquerable stains
Left by indistinguishable stings.
When your eyes were lost
And turned blankly away.
Dancing, ripped apart, dancing in margins
Over here away
On the edge of the blade
And flame eaters
And fire spitters…
The never liars
The green eyed
The nothing-to-no-one devils
The I-never-know-a-danger lunatics
The no sorrow, no regrets, never turning back maniacs
The wild noises
Of wild things
When you turned your eyes away
Is when you lost me
In the swirl and
Of low light.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
my eye is like this- blue like this.
but filled with embryonic longings.
i think the last thought i may ever
think and it is of you. a crack appears,
the thick fluid of gestation mounts to
my defense. not yet, it cries. too late,
i cry. weary just then and a cat comes
to inspect, its tongue a reservoir. for
once i let the whole damn thing go.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
- ▼ September (4)
- thank god I’m a poet
- SUCH KNOWLEDGE
- SORT OF A NEW BEGINNING
- Artist's Son
- For Paradox 5
- I AM
- Life is a sad-slow movie with subtitled romance*
- DISCARDED SOCIAL BURDEN
- LUST BLOWING UNDER THE DOOR, BRIGHT AS STRAW
- The Big Shiny Prison
- Westy bar
- THE CARNIVAL
- Tuesday, July 7, 2009
- gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms
- new chap by Catfish McDaris
- My First Two Kills
- The Kama Sutra of Edward Cullen
- This is just to say
- A Library Fantasy
- 3 Poems by Emily Handover
- Peruvian Dream
- Eyes of
- "even-sev" by Sarah Ahmad
- "lover a banana"
- "Tale of Two Lovers"
- questionable vocalization skills
- gorilla architecture
- Flat Water Prayer