BLACK BOOK POETRY-- PART THREE
"Racing"
wasted
i'm wasted again.
face it
you cannot contain
all the things you do and say to get y our way in this CRAZY life...
chasing
I'm chasing a dream
racing
i'm so full of steam
from all the things that bring me down this stupid town is CHANGING me...
but go--
you tell me to
go---
i feel very
slow--
i turn around.
changing
i'm changing my mind
range free
you cannot decide
all the things you want to do to bring you through to the OTHER side
but go--
oh,
no--
i need it to
flow--
to see the end...
#11
I miss the United States
fun little dates,
collector plates.
I miss the 4th of July
yellow, orange sky
a reason to try
so true to who we are
we hide all of our scars
drive 'round in our cars.
say 'hello'!
i miss cold winter's morn
the feeling of scorn
sweet smelling corn.
I miss a jog before dawn
a deer and a fawn
I miss my lawn
so dead inside our smiles
we hid behind our whiles
fearful to be a child
growing up.
I miss talking to you
the things we would do
to not be the fool.
I miss play in the dark
a day at the park
a song and a lark.
we reach out for the life
we bury all our strife
place meaning to the knife
keep smiling!
we go downward again
are you still my friend?
can things still begin,
when old?
i miss playing my part
suffering for art
the grochery cart.
I miss being a kid
the things that I did
the feelings I hid.
I'm closing the door.
Untitled #2
You make me happy still
a few simple notes and I remember,
I remember how to dance.
keep playing.
I find you so attractive and simple.
I want the melody to last
keep it moving.
"Ode to Scott at the Unurban"
I wrote this while at my friend's slam poetry reading in 2003. it's set in his style, which I never fully understood.
Eggs jumble starts it off in the
be bop of scott's words
he talks dylan and shares dylan
with the universe, singing in the
sour dough world of west L.A.
west L.A. says, 'hello, why are you calling me?'
and you say, "why shouldn't I say hello?
saying 'hello' is good and kind and ernie misses bert as bert
has relocated to the militant taliban."
taliban tella ben that they just want to go home
as surely home is where the heart is
and the heart is signing your paper.
"does the paper elivate you?"
screams robert viharo.
robert viharo understand's john prine's
birthday and baseball and
the insanity of losing your car keys.
anthrax!
the mental anthrax that goes for years and years in the
rotting mess of being outside the moment.
ben linder wanders outside the moment
and asks for bus fare
ben linder shakes the piano's hand
for security
ben linder needs an impulse
he has an impulse
ben linder grabs robert viharo
outside the moment and asks,
"where's my wife?"
"my wife that camera lady of the the
be bop the jazz sequence of my dinner with Keith"
my dinner screams back at me,
"Eggs jumble is good and can rock it out!"
scott's world knocks on the door and scott tells it what he wants
scott wannberg writes a poem for
himself
scott wannberg writes a poem
through the confluence of the
energy he exudes.
scott wannberg grabs ben linder by
the cuffs to bring him back to the moment
scott wannberg tells robert the moment
is big on dancing,
scott wannberg exiles anthrax to the
tella ben
tells the world to keep up the jive
digs dylan from his grave
and continues to tell the books to fly.
"Saturday's Cafe"
I wrote this while working in a coffee shop adjacent to a now closed bookstore in brentwood. 2002.
She's the steady stutter of the
silent mutter
and the banging shutter is
suddenly closed.
he's the peaceful splendor
in the wordy render
of the over spender in the hush
the rush of people finally over.
these people enter my world:
the old man in the corner
bossy, but kind;
the chatter of the clucking
open mouth
it's the cattle call on the casting
wall, inverted pall for
what they've said;
the insipid conversations of the muted
woman
asking for discounts;
clacking buck, wheatly chuck
neither hither nor there;
the old lady with the bandage on her nose,
it festers, as it grows;
I work in the cafe of
wasted dreams, boneless schemes
lofty high, books of time gone by.
the illiteration of my life,
is in the conversations of the bunch.
the steamer rumbling 'neath the
coffee pot
the creamer leaking in their plastic
lunch.
race car, spy game illiterate.
if I could sip my tea in
silence,
perhaps the heated stuff in my head
would heal away.
the vapors of it's clog
would sooth away the pain,
I could sell my pen for a dime
and let my words and mind
flow further than
a stone's throw, spilled milk yard
of this place
under the awning of foreign accents
to a world much larger...
wasted
i'm wasted again.
face it
you cannot contain
all the things you do and say to get y our way in this CRAZY life...
chasing
I'm chasing a dream
racing
i'm so full of steam
from all the things that bring me down this stupid town is CHANGING me...
but go--
you tell me to
go---
i feel very
slow--
i turn around.
changing
i'm changing my mind
range free
you cannot decide
all the things you want to do to bring you through to the OTHER side
but go--
oh,
no--
i need it to
flow--
to see the end...
#11
I miss the United States
fun little dates,
collector plates.
I miss the 4th of July
yellow, orange sky
a reason to try
so true to who we are
we hide all of our scars
drive 'round in our cars.
say 'hello'!
i miss cold winter's morn
the feeling of scorn
sweet smelling corn.
I miss a jog before dawn
a deer and a fawn
I miss my lawn
so dead inside our smiles
we hid behind our whiles
fearful to be a child
growing up.
I miss talking to you
the things we would do
to not be the fool.
I miss play in the dark
a day at the park
a song and a lark.
we reach out for the life
we bury all our strife
place meaning to the knife
keep smiling!
we go downward again
are you still my friend?
can things still begin,
when old?
i miss playing my part
suffering for art
the grochery cart.
I miss being a kid
the things that I did
the feelings I hid.
I'm closing the door.
Untitled #2
You make me happy still
a few simple notes and I remember,
I remember how to dance.
keep playing.
I find you so attractive and simple.
I want the melody to last
keep it moving.
"Ode to Scott at the Unurban"
I wrote this while at my friend's slam poetry reading in 2003. it's set in his style, which I never fully understood.
Eggs jumble starts it off in the
be bop of scott's words
he talks dylan and shares dylan
with the universe, singing in the
sour dough world of west L.A.
west L.A. says, 'hello, why are you calling me?'
and you say, "why shouldn't I say hello?
saying 'hello' is good and kind and ernie misses bert as bert
has relocated to the militant taliban."
taliban tella ben that they just want to go home
as surely home is where the heart is
and the heart is signing your paper.
"does the paper elivate you?"
screams robert viharo.
robert viharo understand's john prine's
birthday and baseball and
the insanity of losing your car keys.
anthrax!
the mental anthrax that goes for years and years in the
rotting mess of being outside the moment.
ben linder wanders outside the moment
and asks for bus fare
ben linder shakes the piano's hand
for security
ben linder needs an impulse
he has an impulse
ben linder grabs robert viharo
outside the moment and asks,
"where's my wife?"
"my wife that camera lady of the the
be bop the jazz sequence of my dinner with Keith"
my dinner screams back at me,
"Eggs jumble is good and can rock it out!"
scott's world knocks on the door and scott tells it what he wants
scott wannberg writes a poem for
himself
scott wannberg writes a poem
through the confluence of the
energy he exudes.
scott wannberg grabs ben linder by
the cuffs to bring him back to the moment
scott wannberg tells robert the moment
is big on dancing,
scott wannberg exiles anthrax to the
tella ben
tells the world to keep up the jive
digs dylan from his grave
and continues to tell the books to fly.
"Saturday's Cafe"
I wrote this while working in a coffee shop adjacent to a now closed bookstore in brentwood. 2002.
She's the steady stutter of the
silent mutter
and the banging shutter is
suddenly closed.
he's the peaceful splendor
in the wordy render
of the over spender in the hush
the rush of people finally over.
these people enter my world:
the old man in the corner
bossy, but kind;
the chatter of the clucking
open mouth
it's the cattle call on the casting
wall, inverted pall for
what they've said;
the insipid conversations of the muted
woman
asking for discounts;
clacking buck, wheatly chuck
neither hither nor there;
the old lady with the bandage on her nose,
it festers, as it grows;
I work in the cafe of
wasted dreams, boneless schemes
lofty high, books of time gone by.
the illiteration of my life,
is in the conversations of the bunch.
the steamer rumbling 'neath the
coffee pot
the creamer leaking in their plastic
lunch.
race car, spy game illiterate.
if I could sip my tea in
silence,
perhaps the heated stuff in my head
would heal away.
the vapors of it's clog
would sooth away the pain,
I could sell my pen for a dime
and let my words and mind
flow further than
a stone's throw, spilled milk yard
of this place
under the awning of foreign accents
to a world much larger...
Comments
Post a Comment