I would like to gratefully acknowledge Henry Rollins for not kicking me off his stage in Johnson City, N.Y. last August. Most recently, i “kerplunked” this very same beloved Konica Fs-1 into my dog’s water dish. I’m not sure who was more surprised–my dog, myself, or the camera, which neither forgave or survived my attempts at rescue. I am currently I/S/O a Konica Ft-1, attributing this pathetic feat to a ridiculous schedule in a world where sleep is an elusive concept (hooray for caffeine, determination, and poetry!). I am also mourning the loss of punkrockguitaristpoetpal Pat Covert, grateful to “ebay” for the multitudes of KITARO cd’s that get me through times of loss and sleep deprivation. It’s all life, it’s all good, and therefore beautiful….

POEMS

 

BUDDIES

I can still feel the pain
between my thighs
when I press gently
the flesh, black and blue
from your hips ground into me.

Somehow, it always hurts after we fuck.

The scent of your cologne
and cigarette smoke,
still lingers in my hair;
I have to learn:
I’m not addicted to
your addictions,
no princess pawn
in your chessboard fantasy.
Yet still, it seems somehow
oddly victorious, to have
other women seem to answer
to me, while you hold my hand
in bars, and point out
the ones you’ve already had.
It’s a wonder you
haven’t gone broke,
keeping your
women in
wine.

 

FOR PAT COVERT, ON NOT MAKING IT TO THE GIG
(R.I.P. 1958-2006)

you were supposed to have my back;
some les paul/gibson/fender strat
hybrid combination
a multitude of parts pieced
and puzzled to form something
to catch only your eye, hanging
in a small dusty local music store,
balls large enough
to down talk dollars
with the wannabee rock star
relegated to salesman,
reluctant at first, then hungrily
caving to your offer.
you liked the tones,
deep and rich,
from a tan/brown body,
the sounds they echoed,
the way it fed back at
appropriate times.

you were supposed to have my back,
to the side, cranking to painful levels,
the small but mighty silver plate crate,
ear splitting, climbing the walls
of near insanity.
“recreating history”, you smiled,
circa 1973 and patti smith
relived and revised,
ala max’s kansas city or early
dank days of CBGB’s.
i was to ride the coat tails of
your proverbial coolness,
my words accentuated
with your rythyms,
squeals and whammy,
attention to fine detail one moment
then manic and maniac the next,
minus the curse
of being “too rehearsed”.

you weren’t supposed to break the heart
of your sweet, gentle girlfriend
who could not convince you to a doctor,
who stopped nagging
because she loved you more then enough to,
who kissed your ashen cheek
at midnight while you read,
stretched under a dim bulb
on a worn mattress,
who two hours later could not jostle you
gently awake,
an h.p. lovecraft novel,
an inverted “v” on you chest.

it wasn’t supposed to be
like this,
here,
with this paper,
these
words.

 

ON SPENDING SIXTY DOLLARS I DIDN’T HAVE ON ROLLINS BAND TICKETS

(for henry rollins,w/thanks for not having me tossed out; binghamton, ny, 8-’06)

one being mine the other stef’s
since she drove and promised
repayment next week
we decided to live out
the rest of the week on
that proverbial
starving poets diet
cheap white pasta
jarred sauce miserly portioned
and determination
it was either food or henry
food or henry
food
or…

henry’s frequent trips to iraq
to support the troops scared us
just a little
so….

the warm-up band were
cute long-haired
rock and roll boys
who served their purpose
if nothing else

but we wanted henry

i perched myself cautiously
on the edge of the
low-to-the-floor stage
hoping to avoid moshers
and drunks
kneeling at first
then sitting cross-legged cozy
lining up shots with my 35 mm camera
waiting for henry to
hit the stage
or be ejected by security
which ever came first

henry walks out
barechested
barefoot
black boxer shorts
veins and muscles popping
in fact he looks like a fighter
stepping into the ring
ten feet from where i sit

my zoom lens quickly proves unnecessary

he gives me a once over
and i feel cool and confident
in my iggy pop t-shirt
but wonder if he will have me
ejected

instead

the band kicks in
agressive
loud
and henry leaves pools of
perspiration reflecting stage lights
anytime he stands in place
more then ten seconds
which never happens

the microphone drips from a meaty fist

he wipes it with a towel
again and again
a tempestuous whirlwind
consumed
barefooted
barechested
a rabid pitbull screaming
of pain
anger
loneliness
deception
rage

yet beautiful in
unique splendor

occasionally he wanders
my way
flecks of sweat spray
like a baptismal
when he moves just right

ahotrunningenginepulsatingsteamheatrythyms

muscles and veins popping
towering above me
black tribal tatoos gleaming
as my 35 mm
clicks
moans
and
buzzes

i know in these moments
as i line up my shots
without ejection
that every bite of
that horribly anemic
thin pasta
and overly salted
jar of ragu
will be a sacrificially
sanctimonious offering
and therefore
savored