Stream of Consciousness 19: Pardon my French

Pastry where’s the thinking you eat chocolate like there’s no tomorrow
Wendy’s eaten three hamburgers this week my mouthful is stuffed where’s chicken where’s the turnkey I’m eating from sandwiches every day where’s pasta where’s lasagna where’s my mother’s baked goods

I miss the sky I miss crying I miss dying or wanting to feel like sh– where’s the pasta where’s mamma where’s tangos and having s– in the garden where’s my meals where’s the oregano where’s your hands on me where’s the lipstick I asked for where’s your angles sides on me and I’m probably going to throw up and these books list things like a laundry all the things you f——saw in Paris we don’t give a f— he says f— every other sentence and I thought he was a real weirdo he plays video games and curses three times a sentence but he’s good looking and he does accents what the fuck and he’s–

here’s to being single ha we’re only just five years older than five years ago that was when I dreamed about everything I was so f—— hopeful and where’s the glory in being single the easy self-gratification self-gratification my ass my ass can tell you we’re all going to hell, and there’s zero tolerance policy around here mister I hate to have to haze you but there are certain rules you do not break and Antoinette has better yet to come and eat and serve the meals get to it hup hup and old men on the f——bus It’s disgusting get some f—— manners, and he’s on the train he’s always on the f—— train get off already

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Stream of Consciousness #18

fate put us together

but he’s still roping the rigs

besides between you and him you know you hate him

the sound of the bathwater the sound of the bath

the sound of the smacking lips the sound of tasting

the sound of everything around him the sound of

cold mountain roads or the highway nothing is real nothing is what it seems he told you

that two years ago two years ago you were in pain now you feel no pain you only feel that

you used to feel pain there is no difference between what he says and what he does it’s

the same thing he’s just here for shows and smiles and you’re the one who does the

talking the floors are all covered with soot, someone’s been smoking someone’s been

sleeping someone left there heart here someone left their liver someone left their small

intestines you’d better pick that up soon mom’s coming you’d better do it hun, all

condescending like that there’s a turnpike but you take it against your better judgement

because all he did was nod and say go there and you were only on the road because the

animals fought there he is in captivity

X X X X X

mush milk maybe he’s just calming down

i miss the days when i was still in magic, when i could hold him in the palm of my hand

and he held me by the palm of my back and it was wholesome and real and i could smell

the nights in the distance and not be afraid or ashamed or sad or upset just real feelings

real good feelings or the feeling of riding down the road without caring without giving a

damn black leather jackets picturesque you’re smiling there is a whole fleet of ciggarettes

there is a whole fleet of automobiles get in we’re going fast

x x x x x

and the start of something new you said

going boldly that’s the statement on a limb again who is the next one

who’s the next to fixate who’s my next target where do i go

why am i stranded is there any escape do i end up making it what does my

self say five years down the road does she just smile sort of or does she think a long time

is she lost in thought i hope not because that would mean she was still thinking about it

how absurd im almost done finished thinking im almost done finished with it altogether

save me jim im dying

Stream of Consciousness #17 (alliteration junkie)

to explain; my stream of consciousness poems are modified stream of consciousness poems; I write down essentially what I am thinking but try to channel it into a field and leave out one or two words, and physically think of a few here and there as well. I try to tap into an inner dialogue in my head that is somewhat coherent and not entirely jibber-jabber. my mind is not wandering around aimlessly, but its not concentrated either. It’s 95% stream of consciousness, 5% constructive thought.

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petrified petering peter on the peat moss

petrified peter on the peat moss

petrified pet owner petering pet pits and pestering the pity lady for peanuts

you pet the petty peanut peter peeing on the pavement,

pestering the past with peasants and peasantry, feeding the poor and pious.

wendy wants some water with her women and once went to warwick square dressed in a white worn linen jumper

where did we get her wet in wintertime, was I with her?

wading in the worrisome water, weeding the weeds, waning and waxing, carving and craving,

prawning and preening and pruning the weeds.

x x x x x x x

something silly somewhere happened to cindy. she’s simply not standing still without my service,

certainly sally can’t go see cindy without a salary, or salad eating, same thing right? seasonal salads save soil and

seasonings surely steam steamily, sterile but soft and sodden but sleek,

something about sarah’s service seems to irk my senses and I don’t see any logic to my seemingly sound conclusions.

x x x x x x x x

carving and craving creative carvers, crafted and carried in the carriage.

You cried when i consoled you, casting away your convoluted fears to create crazier ones,

cradling your own creatures by the cranium, crass and creepy, creamy and crawly, some casting clan of caravan-casting

creatures are carrying out their carousing chorus

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of consciousness #15

stop now baby
and a light’s not on in the cittadel
we can keep our arms entangled if we stop
and breathe
lost lights
and embers
filtering through
the darkness of the lost
and we pretended it was all
for naught
lovers
likers
of the french and folly of friends
we could forever be ascending
into the makeshift trees
I
am just a lollipop
you can
be a stranger and still love me
because I do
love everyone except the few
I am so open that
maybe in three months I won’t have the money to do
love love in a scene of a movie
love in the scene of a movie
traumatized legs moving
through a waterway
france,
the waterway
and a beautiful mess was I was I
a beautiful mess was I.

x x x x x x

no stop way can deceive me
I’m cunning, yes I’m cunning
and a stunning young genius am I
I long for the day when the winterway
will echo a strange ever trance
and watch as I move to the dance
the road way is jammed and my hand
is tropical
la Traviata l’amore
stupid inflections of speech
and beer dropping out of reach
smashing onto the floor
creaking up the ash door
feigning exaustion,
tied to the motherload
and screaming about
the water.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Air and Smoke–Stream of Consciousness #14

Frogs croaking at midnight
a twin heartbeat
like moss engraving stones entwining with spongy hearts that bleed
the question now is who will carry the porridge?
who will listen to Sumter describe the events that followed his desasterous night of frogs croaking, camping in the woods?
who listenes to him, the dusky hours grow long
the day widens into a smile
furrows into a frown
the clown
Sumter,
banned from the camping ground just as the air was warm
in the chill,
he knows the only comfort can come from
humming a silent tune
a tune which he will pick himself
in doing so he sounds just like the twin heartbeats of the two croaking frogs
he must find his little world
he must find it
or the summer will drag him through an endless pit
and he will see himself as a small boy
groping for the sidewalk and the sun
not knowing that the only eventual destination was death and lead,
the spongy twin bleeding hearts his own.
he feels the ground
the moist air lightens his eye
upwards is an unforgiving sky
tinged with something else he cant describe,
but we shall call it a vague
and unmistakable hope.
he clings to the forrest ground, the moss,
like a child refusing to leave behind his blanket.
the porridge is on a stove growing cold
it’s breakfast fire
warming time
but poor Sumter on the forest ground
the enemy of which he made last night
sleeping on a bed of firs and pine cones.
the last of his breath escapes from his nostrils,
tendrils of air and smoke in equal measure
percolate the air
but he is not there with his friends to see the fire or to hear the stories
because he has told them his story
and that was the one story
they could not hear
so instead they decided to shut him off
and he, with his breath
and they, with the fires, keep burning aloft in their own separate ways,
he pains to think of them, the little children he has left on the
other side of the mountain.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

At the End of the Day

just before we begine, meditation:

uncharted island
of somewhere in-between the
right and wrong

where can I find you,
queen mystery of it all
that hides, unseen?

don’t find me a fire
a berating sun-drenched love
who follows my tracks

don’t find me the steel
or windy night time blue,
but some cool temperate:

I think I’ll just bathe
in the medicinal sway
of unfailing breath.

xxx x x x x x

an afterthought

yes, that’s it
she eases into a chair
her bones ache and she
finds that the view is not as lovely
as she thought it would
be.

A ticket or the house key
is misplaced
but the train station still finds a way
to make it’s contents drip in an empty thickness
depositing the worker and civillian,
the unceasing drama that
plays at the day like a child with baloons,
too soon bought then let out of grasp
floating higher and higher
and up to the sky:
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
watch it fly
At the end of the day,
And it passed me by

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Black Blue White New

 

the  people on the ground,

heads bent,

un-phased

and unable to look at the ever reaching sky

 

“is it worth it?”

they ask,

 

“what,

i was just  little boy yesterday carrying my book bag,

the sun hanging deep and low over my brow

and my forehead stank of breath ad of  saltwater

tears, and–”

 

The shapes become all engrossing, so

i  find some

recluse

in an old painted book store

of who-knows where

 

suddenly

as i read a line from a silent ode he brushes against me and i don’t

know what is happening and suddenly he

is with me and suddenly he

is around me surrounding me and

the shouts of the street people seems to die in the

sound of his voice;

 

“ENTER MY MIND”

he says

(that’s a command)

“let’s

enter it

together

and  see

the glorious undertaking of you and me”

 

his eyes like seascapes

or sky-scapes

of piercing blue fantasies

as if

he was always

there

 

but with a rush of the train and the steam he’s gone

in the blink of an eye and a lash he’s gone

in the mood of a novel or book he is gone

and the slight inclination of head he is gone

 

and i lost that sky….

 

Now looking up to the expansive light

so much like his dazzling

unshakably passionate eye

i find myself on the street

like all the countless others,

among the thousands of women and children–i am just like them

and the whisper of giving up—i am one of them

and the shouts of the street

i am them.

 

love

seemed to pass me only as i was ready

in the fashion of

true bittersweet punishment;

i sat on a fountain and spilled coins from my pockets

and every wish was a wish for him.

 

 

now i am  holding him once more

and he surrounds and envelops the air

 

but this time i am dreaming it,

and this time the pavement seems all too hard

and the  spurs in the ground digging at my heels making them bleed

 

will you please

tell me

if i can even breathe

in this,

without at least some

well-deserved

exhilaration?

I think

in that case

i might just need

for you to feel

discovery

(but oh

it’s a pity i found the loveliest boy

In town

when he was just about

to wreck his vengeance

on me)

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

Stream of Consciousness Number 13: Still Dreaming

while finding the crevases in the road
the earth swells before me
lost in some unturned dreamworld
where the cantonese i hear
is strange mangled French.
please tell me I’m dreaming
please tell me I’m asleep
please tell me no one can find me here
please tell me someone will find me here
love will find me here
you will sneak up on me like my lover
the house will crash
and its still a nightmare
the air is still and chilly
you say that
we are good
together
but i say thats the last thing you dumbo
how are we supposed to fly with those ears?
you have the fattest lips
the biggest nose
the longest neck
and the smallest toes
OH HOW
did i think you looked smart
on those walks in the park
eating shrimp and ice cream
i think it was a dream
and the songs we would sing
were childrens rhyme
what a strange mad
time
when it was just you and i

x x x x x x x x x x

I feel young
I feel strange
the sides of the road always carry spare change
so keep watch
of the lights
and the lampposts at night and the devilish sight of the stream
and im still in a dream

x x x xx xx x x

realizing the sound of subsiding dreams
is the strangest things
you are hearing me now i don’t even know how but through glass
no sound will pass
so how the hell can you hear me this well
when i scream
cant you see
I’m begging you please
set me free
i thought we were just playing
I’m your friend
not you foe
why don’t i make it up so you can let me go
ill be good
and charming
and not as alarming
and sweet
and charming and neat
ill do all of your clothes
i adore your small toes
no really i do
and the size of your shoe
all of it
is just the right fit
for me
i take everything i say
unseriously
please
make sure you don’t leave me
here

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Talking To the Mirror/A Boy without a face

The girl paces her bedroom. The sunlight from the picture window hits her bed, and the light is soft and hazy. She is daydreaming, and she wishes somebody would call her. That’s the idea, call him now, perhaps he’s there..no, well, he’s always so selfish, why bother? What a nice boy to talk to I always get a kick out of that voice that manner you know he’s always been after you, don’t you? Not the way he’s ben so distant, always in such a hurry to go. No, the bedroom is pink like bubblegum, look at the ceiling, look at the window, the larkspur, the mocking bird, the jay, the bluejay, the pine, cone firs, the brisling branches meeting her eye, she will spy-the phone is waiting, expect nothing, not the voice, not that manner, he will not be there, don’t expect a thing, but- is, a jolt- that voice, that manner, you know he’s always been after you, hasn’t he? He’s on the other line.

And he says hello.

Me: I like you

Him: I know

Me: you bastard!

Him: *smirks*

M: you know I love you

H: *stares awkwardly, unsure of what to make of my statement*

M: I do.

H: I know

(pause)

M: so, why haven’t you said hi lately?

H: they took away my phone, and, as you know, I have a bit of short-term memory loss

M: no you don’t, you’re just lazy dear

H: the two go hand in hand actually.

M: mm hmm. So are you going to call me?

H: no.

M: I hate you

H: no you don’t

M: no, you’re right, I don’t.

H: *smiles*

M: I really do love you

H: so you say

M: You’re talking, you’re always talking. Why do we always have to talk?

H: because we enjoy having meaningful conversations and discussing prevalent topics in our current society.

M: stop using such big words, they don’t fit you.

H: yes, they do

M: no they don’t.

H: so anyway, how is your life going?

M: I don’t know, it’s been hectic, and I mostly need some sleep. I slept twelve hours yesterday, it was epic.

H: *laughs* you silly girl, you.

M: (trying to ask questions) and how is your life dear?

H: Well, my family is being stupid, and I hate them. I also have to finish this project for science later. I have to go in like two minutes.

M: why?

H: because I’m going to get picked up really soon.

M: (sadly) okay, fine. Well, I’l miss you…

H: I’ll miss you too.

M: Goodbye dear.

H: Bye.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of consciousness # 12

the fondest
expression
like the lightening bugs you catch in your hand
this lost finger this lost hand
this little ember and this tramp
this little ember and this lost lamp
this frog and this water and this
and all of this at the same tense time
the bug on your shoulder sleeps softly and hums to the banner
the stars spangle
and the night hums
and the machine drums
the night air warms you and rouses you to an upright position
you cant sleep
i cant sleep
the coffee cant boil
the slippery soil
is to deep
i cant sleep
you cant sleep-
why take the sleeping pills?
there is the nature frond
this erstwhile pine
the grubby tree
the coffee tea
like and lake and sun and bake
creep soft and slow
lightening bug
catch me fast
light from the lightening i can finally
finally see your face.
what a while its been
i didn’t realize i missed you.

night comes:
we have to talk about the nighttime.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry