Do not hold on to your robes. -Rinzai
perspective
"Hey Tawny,"
"Hey Golilocks," hispanic and black people love to call me,
even when my hair is greasy and I haven't washed it for a week,
which is why I'm in a salon where these people resent a guy with hair
down to his ass,
drowning in prayer beads,
wearing a brand-new white haynes undershirt from Rite-Aid,
soon to be ruined by rolling in the desert,
getting your Frank Sinatra on,
palm springs, the true writer's hideout, the edge of the barren brutality, the bare minimum of society
of crunks, genuine layabout crunks.
tawny.
in a past life some witch doctor shrunk my head,
and i reincarnated with half my brain missing,
the half that's supposed to care about society.
buddhism and karma and compassion and all that crap, i get it.
i love it. it's an object of affection, like a shaved pussy, it's beautiful
and unattainable. we fixate anyways. we gravitate to it anyways.
in the ocean of desert and broken martini glasses shaped like inverted UFOs,
invented by aliens who flew their spacecraft drunk and upside-down
or maybe space is their ground, and this planet is heaven,
and they just like to keep it in perspective.
/
afraid to write anything good
the last line of my poem is usually the best line, and i just give up.
that's the marker that i'm finished warming up and now the real writing begins.
you don't give up when your cock is finally hard. that's when the party STARTS
can't they just teach this in writing class?
comparing cock to writing would really put it in perspective.
i want a cock-shaped yacht.
the toilet-bilge can come spurting out the tip.
my boatswain's whistle in my mouth between the j and the cocktail
as the captain, abusing my whistle priveledges,
none of the crew hear it anymore, like ambulances in NYC, subliminally encoding us in a state of ongoing crisis,
the rivers of concrete molting like diseased cockateil,
young girls splashing and floating their breasts in the reflecting pool
that was originally for meditation.
meditation attracts floating breasts. the more sincere my zen practice, the more breasts will manifest.
monks must be ordained pimps. the conclusion of an impossible living
in the tar pits, the obscurity within obscurity,
the noble and pure obscurity,
never writing anything good.
/
giving up is the point
the entire point of going to a zen monastery
the entire point of being a zen master
is to get your disciples to give up and leave.
anyone trying to get enlightened is an asshole.
like these people selling secrets to make money
and they make money from selling their secrets, not from the secrets themselves.
giving up is the point. give up trying to do it and do it.
Master Unmon asked Tozan some ordinary questions.
Tozan gave simple, straightforward answers.
The Master said, "I spare you 60 blows."
/
the medium is the message
if you keep your saké in a plastic bag,
somebody will put a goldfish in it.
you can piss in a fancy bottle,
and eventually somebody will drink it.
you should contemplate this thoroughly.
/
if my dick was jagged
a love poem to a rock i put in my mouth
mick jagger and my jagged theoretical cock have something in common.
horsetail and nettle tea and rudolf steiner's fucking around in akashic records
the sun dips below the mountains, finally, i realize it's after 6
drinking, i thought it was noon, and thought badly of myself.
it's a number on a digital liquid crystal box built in china by girl with small hands.
mt. olympus and the himalayas and my jagged cock rising from the ocean.
you remember the altitude hypoxia, as though from another life.
a queer polaroid flash later and you're invincible, and 10 gluons moan and rearrange at my will.
if i can jedi a masseuse's hands to heal my divided, jagged crotch
if i can manifest two specific cars in the whole foods parking lot by watching youtube vids the night before,
if i can bring anyone to my door just by talking to myself in a mirror,
then this universe is a cosmic lucky charms
i get to call the charms as i see them,
alphabet soup,
corny witticisms and drunken geeks and tarantino marathons
and gold coins horded in slashed mattresses and coiled snakes in dreamtime olfactory mesh
and byzantine neuropathways flooded with seratonin from hysterical laughter
with a paper bag over my head with cut O's for eyes and mouth
hyperventilating into another bag
a stone is spent after cumming in lava 800 million years ago
you can get through a desert sucking on it
just convince it you are that lava.
/
perspective
"Hey Tawny,"
"Hey Golilocks," hispanic and black people love to call me,
even when my hair is greasy and I haven't washed it for a week,
which is why I'm in a salon where these people resent a guy with hair
down to his ass,
drowning in prayer beads,
wearing a brand-new white haynes undershirt from Rite-Aid,
soon to be ruined by rolling in the desert,
getting your Frank Sinatra on,
palm springs, the true writer's hideout, the edge of the barren brutality, the bare minimum of society
of crunks, genuine layabout crunks.
tawny.
in a past life some witch doctor shrunk my head,
and i reincarnated with half my brain missing,
the half that's supposed to care about society.
buddhism and karma and compassion and all that crap, i get it.
i love it. it's an object of affection, like a shaved pussy, it's beautiful
and unattainable. we fixate anyways. we gravitate to it anyways.
in the ocean of desert and broken martini glasses shaped like inverted UFOs,
invented by aliens who flew their spacecraft drunk and upside-down
or maybe space is their ground, and this planet is heaven,
and they just like to keep it in perspective.
/
afraid to write anything good
the last line of my poem is usually the best line, and i just give up.
that's the marker that i'm finished warming up and now the real writing begins.
you don't give up when your cock is finally hard. that's when the party STARTS
can't they just teach this in writing class?
comparing cock to writing would really put it in perspective.
i want a cock-shaped yacht.
the toilet-bilge can come spurting out the tip.
my boatswain's whistle in my mouth between the j and the cocktail
as the captain, abusing my whistle priveledges,
none of the crew hear it anymore, like ambulances in NYC, subliminally encoding us in a state of ongoing crisis,
the rivers of concrete molting like diseased cockateil,
young girls splashing and floating their breasts in the reflecting pool
that was originally for meditation.
meditation attracts floating breasts. the more sincere my zen practice, the more breasts will manifest.
monks must be ordained pimps. the conclusion of an impossible living
in the tar pits, the obscurity within obscurity,
the noble and pure obscurity,
never writing anything good.
/
giving up is the point
the entire point of going to a zen monastery
the entire point of being a zen master
is to get your disciples to give up and leave.
anyone trying to get enlightened is an asshole.
like these people selling secrets to make money
and they make money from selling their secrets, not from the secrets themselves.
giving up is the point. give up trying to do it and do it.
Master Unmon asked Tozan some ordinary questions.
Tozan gave simple, straightforward answers.
The Master said, "I spare you 60 blows."
/
the medium is the message
if you keep your saké in a plastic bag,
somebody will put a goldfish in it.
you can piss in a fancy bottle,
and eventually somebody will drink it.
you should contemplate this thoroughly.
/
if my dick was jagged
a love poem to a rock i put in my mouth
mick jagger and my jagged theoretical cock have something in common.
horsetail and nettle tea and rudolf steiner's fucking around in akashic records
the sun dips below the mountains, finally, i realize it's after 6
drinking, i thought it was noon, and thought badly of myself.
it's a number on a digital liquid crystal box built in china by girl with small hands.
mt. olympus and the himalayas and my jagged cock rising from the ocean.
you remember the altitude hypoxia, as though from another life.
a queer polaroid flash later and you're invincible, and 10 gluons moan and rearrange at my will.
if i can jedi a masseuse's hands to heal my divided, jagged crotch
if i can manifest two specific cars in the whole foods parking lot by watching youtube vids the night before,
if i can bring anyone to my door just by talking to myself in a mirror,
then this universe is a cosmic lucky charms
i get to call the charms as i see them,
alphabet soup,
corny witticisms and drunken geeks and tarantino marathons
and gold coins horded in slashed mattresses and coiled snakes in dreamtime olfactory mesh
and byzantine neuropathways flooded with seratonin from hysterical laughter
with a paper bag over my head with cut O's for eyes and mouth
hyperventilating into another bag
a stone is spent after cumming in lava 800 million years ago
you can get through a desert sucking on it
just convince it you are that lava.
/
No comments:
Post a Comment