Jingle Jangle Jack

its starts when you love a movie.

it could be any movie -or any son for that matter…

childs first song sung in rounds in a car with no deadends &only hillyroads to Bishop-

pennys lost in cracks

something about losing a kingdom

or falling off barns

or that sad step awkward &forward

or those few words that challenge…

i kneel to the throne built imperfect-

the city on crutches.

psychologically distorted

these walls painted with immediate blood &fear &the absence of fear…

this room lit by romancandles.

these ribs bruised &swollen &ripe with healing.

this photograph -twice taken

or not taken

or taken w/ghosts

it aint gonna rain no more no more

it aint gonna rain no more.

how in the heck

can i wash my neck

if it aint gonna rain no more?

it was musicals &fred astaire &strangemusic

&masquerade &passive violence

&unborn babies

&conman

&fucked over

&desert fucked &found faith

&animals &instinct

&burnedbridges

&new bridges

&this wasnt a lie…

psychologically distorted

dannyboy dannyboy

i see you walking by the water

the water

the water -blue water

my dannyboy dannyboy

i see you walking all alone…

its karma or balance or judgement or takingresponsibility or some bullshit like that

its life &we make do

somebody should be watchin my dannyboy

should be holdin my dannyboy

dont leave him all alone…

&it goes in cycles &rounds &harmonies are built like houses &good schools &sacrifice &encouragement &small victories

&notneeded justification

&dont squander this…

this is coming to grips

&everything is new

&everything is dying

&of course.

&i dont think this is uncommon.

i dont think that im singledout

&i dont think i am unique.

but i suppose no one is

which of course cant be true:

ive seen it in eyes on rooftop

in rain

in stall

on fire escape

oversea

3000 miles

across the street

&you paid the ticket for this movie

&no complain

&this is coming to grips.

making do

&taking responsibility.

this is where it begins.

could be/has been

what wishes could be

made after midnight mishaps

when there should be nothing

left wanted? only hope for

hope when you no longer believe

not just when youve run out of

addictions &pennies. &where

is progress when the mutual

understanding is to remain idle?

broken record promises.

a short look at obsession.../accusations...

ive made a stage for you

created a setting ripe for your return

when you arrive- youll be right on time

questions will be light &few

i create for you...

...

this is the part where you

accuse me of being an

alcoholic liar w/homosexual

tendencies who manipulates &

cheats others out of emotion...

then i say- 'wasnt it better that way?'

im not drowning...

drawing from hinderances into conclusions seldom figured.

im not in control

theres slight-of-hand at work

corner hustle and trickery.

im on to it but that means naught.

plans gone under/ideas left to chance...

water deep and bursting.

vulnerable with surface so far.

...

olvera st. prayer...

scraped knees &training wheels

stubbedtoe naive &first love feel

doe-eyed first tries at cut/heal

spanish confession with candle kneel

an offering...

curled up in your handmedown pose

waiting for that finished case

w/uncut hair &the wants of time spent

not alone behind buildings but alone w/a purpose

&fresh set of ideals. dreaming over

unopened duffles topped with turning points &milestones. afraid

of becoming an ordinary thought

or a passing moment. you take the nearby rocks

&build yourself an altar in an attempt to

dryup soakedstones &have more than a square meal but

instead- a vision of…

well- just a vision.

you &me...

(no ones

jealous but wishes &waits for

better times to greet &join

the past. never remembrances.

just documented. this is just

the same. written polaroids…)

you find yourself sitting on a curb w/someone you should love &there are arm over the shoulder moments &you feel the ocean breeze lift her hair.

its not how i imagined.

if not not now- when?

its wideeyed fantastic.

if not now- when?

its catching a brick when your

city falls.

counting faces in a sea of

eyes when youve no need for

defense.

sunday morning best seen through

a shattered stainedglass window.

spilling your guts to a girl you

fucked but never loved…

they sat side by side. legs

touching. there

a high sense of anticipation

in their words as they braced

themselves for the 7th day

after creation. they knew this was

the birth of envious stares &

didnt care. in between

sounds of mechanical stress they stared &saw

themselves truly as

polaroids in negative…

hands clasped &out of

breath- they remembered to get

drunk.

effortless. effortless- they thought.

creation so instinctive. so

possible… whos hand did

God hold? moments under influence

on apt. floors &late nights

spent mastering those around

them &mastering life- itself

culminated into wonderful. there

was no such thing as wasted time

then. every hour spent in drug

induced silence or drunken

madness or even the midnight sober

kisses. one more philosophic

aspect- but not on purpose.

theyd proven themselves. within an

hour they knew theyd proven themselves

to themselves. fuck thoughts

on notoriety &especially friendship when

something happens…

(confessional of sorts through thinly

veiled poems.

or poems of sorts through thinly

veiled confessionals…)

the devil's son...

i wont try to take

any more than i can give

here is my heart to break

i dont need it baby anymore to live

&i know

im just runnin scared

&i know

lord i know

im just runnin scared

when its all said &done

im gonna leave you baby when the morning come

dont cry for the devils son

the devils son dont cry for no one

&i know

im just runnin scared

&i know

lord i know

im just runnin

myself into the ground

take my hand

&lets burn this fucker down

we've just got tonight

baby wont you

help me burn this town

a thin air

of 'i want to forget you'

lingering

on my lips

when you draw your face

from mine

when its all said &done

im gonna leave you baby when the morning come

dont cry for the devils son

the devils son dont cry for no one

beginning/end...

earth becomes sun.

mornings gaze on evenings charms

&beg for confessions.

night to makeway/ready for excess

&indulgence brought by days

labour.

hands to toil in daylight.

under moons: uncoil &reach for

what hands should.

for a time i looked tirelessly through words said &implications of some survived emotion. i now sit in a daze &carelessly sift through the ashes of previously held convictions &abandoned persuasions…

apt. #27

its a lake passing time in a southern boarder

expect to feel what memory cannot kill in forward motion soundscape

-finite in being &wheel after wheel letting go of morning after movement &expect…

soft touch morning

early whisper morning

prediscover short breaths between summer sweat

element of this everchanging turning

entertaining backtracing under slowmoving ceiling fan dreary/drowsy afternoon lull

this feeling of familiar...

the spots &streets leading to spots

atmosphere &dust &nothin changes &i smile secretly

i know nothings changed.

i feel nothings changed.

i havent changed &i smile for comfort.

i havent changed &i smile at the illusion of change.

i have changed &it seems so apparent...

an air of escape? a brush with freedom?

hours under the familiar proving anxiety

minutes in solitude to breathe solitude

craved/yearned for solitude in comfort/familiarity &the guise of change...

the chance of random &peaceful unexpected interruptions

the venerated moments of accident...

the plannedfor &madefor manufactured &seemingly saddened

the brief &timed so discolored &already faded like photographs so desperately preserved in that underthebed shoebox...

im missing the missing.

craving the craving.

yearning for the yearningfor...

i have changed &it seems so apparent...

ive changed when nothings moved

ive changed when nothings changed &i grow dust myself

the expectation never met-

this does not change.

nothing changes &i smile at the illusion of change...

readymade

to dream ambitions portion &make nuance the goal...

we bear the weight of disillusion for generations sake &drowning in our discomfort...

or so it seems.

ready/willing &times the value.

shit- why not?

theatrics &readiness.

to conquer &overcome inadequate...

bright lights w/full pockets.

another fall...

sharing cigarettes &taketurn swigs

back against back sitting on our dirty ground

your hand feels good in my pocket

garbagecars- a deadly wind create

i the stranger

you the winter love

we get drunk

an underground loneliness to sink further away

from unfamiliar into the faces of

slowly faded soon colorless &forgotten

memories-

eyes to make a glance

hands to make a pass

the form craved no different- the scent the

touch familiar- a dissolve &reappear

as eyes close/open as reminder that

this is new- this is you &this new

ghost has a face-

eyes to make a glance

hands to make a pass

hearts to pulse blood

mouths to do what mouths do.

the custom concern

confuse yet unconcern

its rain &mexican &im newyork ok.

my love in evening roams off my arm

&into streets or undercovers or

bars to get drunk.

unconcerned.

though i yearn for cheeks red &lips

warm &soft words…

this wind &rain -to wait &dream

is fine to me.

ends &presents &beginnings existing &created &destroyed/laid to

rest at discretion

i am satisfied.

though unfulfilled- i am satisfied.