LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

THE STRENGTH OF DULCINEA

Do I keep drinking?
Do I go and turn off the television?

Upside.  Downside.  All around side.
Test. 

I would intentionally fuck with Them. 

That’s the upside of a test.  And The Thrill of
Living. 

Are you alive?

What does that picture look like?
The Thrill. 

Do you need a pen?
Or paint?

Or minutes? 

Like the lost swim.
Or the oven.
Or some other freaking painfully
Ordinarily posited thing. 

Nope. 

I would intentionally fuck with no human. 
It’s hard enough. 
To know which side is what. 

I understand cutting ties to roll up the rope.
But the wheel?
The role? 
The whole shebang.
The mechanism. 

Is that my heel?
Is this what gets pulled from the pond
While gazing into it?
What are you hung up on, really?
And why?

+

Who believes in karma?
Raise your hand. 

Yes.
Story. 

No.
You don’t have to.

If anything is anything and anybody is anybody.
Nobody has to physically raise jack shit. 

The lucky wonder.
Frame.

Posit.
Wonder.

When I was a kid of suicide
I did not understand rest.

And morning. 

But how long must one examine it?

Is there no end?  Only promise. 

+

Men are from Mars.
Women are from Venus. 

Do not look up a pig’s ass for a pork sandwich.

Thank you, Dr. Phil. 

A stamp.
A stamp for all of us. 

If you draw your own picture you can get one made
At Office Depot for somewhat less than fifty
Bucks. 

God damn.  A stamp.

I will shit can nothing for love. 
But seriously. 

I hate the sewing circle.
Those who sniff smug from the concerted
Ostentation steaming off their mug. 

Shut the fuck up.
Who the fuck do you think you are? 
God?

(Yes.  I do.) 

(Don’t you forget it.)

+

Steadfast.

This quake is normal.

Post it.

There is no betrayal. 

You live in Los Angeles.

I said it before, I’ll say it again. 

It’s a wonder how anybody gets through this life
Without becoming a mean son of a bitch. 

I mean it. 

+

In life, there is no reward for your achievements.
There is no absolution for your suffering.

Plates.  Topography.  Chaos.  Temperate climate.
Homes that go up in flames for those in Malibu
With no smores. 

Homes on
Stilts. 

Know where you are living. 

Things will get lost along the way. 

Those things are delicious. 

+

You cannot fight the angel of death.
Do not waste your life fighting the non negotiable. 

Make nice.
Move on.
Get happy. 

“What a view”, I say.   
As I sip from my mug. 
Knowing things. 

+

Romantic comes after through assessment. 
Epic comes before from within. 

What a word. 
Epic.

I choose it. 
There is no stamping it. 
This is the pallor of living from within. 

+

My friend and windmill.
The Strength of Dulcinea. 

Never was and never will be a king.
Never want nor never was a prince. 

I know nothing. 
Fuck the planets
And your medicine.   

+

Salvation; Blah. 

Blunt said; Rebel. 

Fuck you with your square pegs and round holes. 
I reject your test.  I know who I am.  I am not
A monkey. 

I find all of this hoopla suspicious. 

Move template.
Repopulate.
Refill. 

Exhibit. 

This is both the blight and bright of life. 
I capitalize but find capital in nothing.

Such is life with currency. 

+

Go Los Angeles Rams. 

My ghosts of childhood, dirty hands,
Super powers and misbelieving. 

When I was a kid I used to put tighty
Whities over my head, and with a hair
Tie and a Los Angeles Rams helmet
Worn like a cherry on top as I leapt I was: 
Spiderman. 

+

Spiderman says whatever the fuck he wants. 
Words are a pony ride.
He divines defiance through north
Like a kid at a birthday party at an arcade
With no quarters. 

With no home on stilts. 
He massages the moment
And feels the earth beneath his feet. 

He does not fear the spin. 
Even if it stops or someone pulls
The plug on gravity. 

That’s the best part about being Spiderman.
You don’t need it. 

+

And yet, my last thoughts are of him sitting on the
Throne with no shit tickets.

+

Costco, bitch. 

+

I think of this and laugh heartily. 

THE REST IS BETWEEN US

Large doubt. 

Nowhere near Kansas city. 

I understand nothing. 

Redundancy. 

Mess. 

 

I am not a fatalist. 

I am mostly mystic. 

And separation comes

In the form of A Muse. 

 

The other day I tried to redefine it.

But in new definition there comes

A quality that has in it an inherent

Study, the form of story, a pinprick

Of continuity.

 

Hey Vern, look.  That there’s blood.

Forget the body from which it sprung.

Blind eyes to the amateur death stroke. 

You have to have an incredible condition

To die/or kill with a push pin. 

The push pin is the muse. 

Focus on the push pin. 

 

In my hand that waits.     

Resist pace.

Find zero solace in the planets.

Metaphorically speaking,

The Muse was born in the bite

That brought the Wilderness. 

 

The Wilderness hugs.

A Muse, the Device. 

Humanity depends on it. 

 

Like a gun, spoon, fire, or accident

That cures a virus, goes “Eureka”,

And brings commerce in the form

Of medicine. 

 

It can be abused.  Distortions come.  A trap.

The process.  Omnipresent. 

 

Master it. 

 

Self:

I am going to put down the pen,

Pick up my drink, smoke a cigarette,

Stand up, walk into the living room,

Pick her up, and carry her to bed

With me. 

 

She:

As plans go, please don’t punch me. 

 

Done. 

The rest is between us. 

 

No story. 

 

 

 

   

 

THESE BLUES ARE FANTASTIC - (A poem with a spoken recording)

One should make the most of everything.

Even while sitting nowhere.

Both inflated and deflated by the sum of time.

 

These big blue lights have been known to cause vertigo.

(from the disco ball and lazy light show.)

(this place used to be a cop bar.)

(i used to vandalize it with a sharpie.)

 

Why am I here?

What am I doing? 

 

Looking for nothing. 

Wanting everything.

I am not this man anymore.

Sitting by myself.  Typing on

My phone.  Fearing nothing.

Being the poet.    

 

Too drunk to drive home.

Too drunk to go home.

 

I could go deeper. But won't.

 

10.20.30.

You'll be fine.

Don't forget to sign your card.

You are going to have to refill her bottle in the morning.

 

10.20.30.

Seeing things.

Sitting here.

 

Revisit what you expect.

It's a wonder how it keeps unfolding.

 

These people are mad. 

These blues are fantastic.

 

Center yourself and take note of this feeling.

 

You sir, are hilarious.

You've got the dirt on history,

You have the memory of a hand grenade,

and heart of an elephant.

 

And

It was a son of a bitch of a day. 

 

Remember.

Center. 

Remember. 

 

Ninjas come tumbling up my sniffer

Off the nape of her neck (they are

Nimble, carry swords, have sweet

Moves, stylish shoes, and carry

Explosives – then poof)

 

I am calm and breathing. 

 

It’s a wonder how it keeps unfolding. 

 

Yes, it’s like that. 

 

Bravery. Solace. Home.

Download These_blues_are_fantaastic_by_bob_the_butcher_of_bliss

 

12 of 13

With doorknobs.  And ten pounds of fury. 

I live in it.

 

I take note of the lotion. 

 

And think.

 

T

he number on the bottle says, 12.

12 becomes before thirteen

and is not a thought that is

superstitious in the least. 

 

But the thought comes. 

 

Which is the glee spot of

Thinking.