Typewriter Notes
I
The sky is-
do you really care about the sky?
Go away sky, i’m writing a poem.
The Banana Leaf
-oriental restaurant
has no bananas.
-how strange this world is
-soda can opens-
A crowd of Nudists are going on strike…;
until winter meets their humble demands.
II
Revolution.
O’ how the mighty have…
changed their names.
i’m going for a walk.
-cryptic folk music appears and vanishes-
returning to a world epileptic, of nymphomaniacs with charcoal eyes.
III
postcard waves suspended in the kitchen
-floating jealous
…hazel eyes alone in the drain board.
frozen
thawing.
EXIST, existence!
the sun is dull in curtains monogamous
“when drawn, i find it easier to see outside.”
at how the 8th street gazelle handed
me a frozen skull-
pture. And off 8th street, even!
But worry not, it didn’t cost me a thing
and it was stolen outside the bookstore.
Now, back to this walk:
i believe i enjoyed it, and suffered no particular
pain or misfortune consequently thereof
i would recommend it.
IV
Mom, the cat is locked in the
Refrigerator again.
…or was it the cabinet?
juxtapositions of memories of cats
locked in things.
Wooden spiders crawl beneath the
also wooden floor.
and no-body is in the basement
crying the cries of nobody in the kitchen
and seeing through the alien eye of the post-
card waves on the wall.
V
“so i’m away for a while and experiencing
the life of a perpetual typewriter jam.
sometimes it gets so perpetual i never want
to type another word. But it’s still not
twenty pages yet, so i’ll write you again tomorrow.”
VI
and the garbage can spilled it’s guts out
over-ambiguous floor
and the gypsy is asking for directions
at the filling station.
broken down umbrella holders
nets with fish
slipping through spaces of a million miles and
empty seconds. Modernized post modernists making
commentary on the current state of what it means to be of
the pre-post modern nostalgic ilk.
4:28 am, mental note: it’s Tuesday and there is
talk of strike. also, these damn keys are getting
stuck. i should
probably get that checked out at an hour where there will be a sane
typewriter repair man at my disposal.
Marxian string beans
and eggs a la Machiavelli
make up the plates at
the charitable luncheon.
(those damn keys again)
and the unemployed parking meter
just wants a chance as a shortstop
or a movie star. not to be viewed
as the Grinch of sidewalk scenery.
You should talk to the gypsy,
also unemployed, you know, and asking
“which way to Midnight’s pith-y castle?”
now, where are my slippers? the previously un-
aforementioned basement is a bit chilly.
the sun is almost ready to come up
strange and unexplained waves of paranoia
in this head ach-ed twilight.
i worry for my friend Brian.
drunk and homeless, Hell’s Angel
and veteran. i was warned of sanity long
ago. He always seemed harmless, though
i am told he has been in jail for throwing bricks at people.
in the end, i guess it’s guys like
him you want on your side.
VII
shadows climbing back to sky
or swimming to unknown origins
deep, mauve-angelic
and deeper still
and the sky again becomes significant
more than Bastille of stars
and the last of the mad ones
races against the dawn, no
longer in search of fix, but
a place to lay low. A roadhouse,
maybe running mad for a freight.
the rats begin to transform into cuter dogs.
Beat, torn jazzy suits exchanged for jogging shorts and
bicycle helmets for the daring.
Where’s the wino? broken bottles and stains
for the street sweeper. The night
bares no recollection of harsh words or cries for help.
Mexicans can be seen carrying tools,
talking about the cervesas and senoritas of mere
hours ago.
Maybe it was a lifetime, in some strange migrant memory.
somewhere a child is experiencing a subconscious ecstasy.
first time?
The sound of the kind of - music people like to wake
up to is getting ready to strike big again.
The clouds break their ambivalent veil
and these old Brooklyn bricks blaze with familiarity.
VIII
A Painting
The canvas on the ceiling is met
with surprise
by the existential balloons.
taking helium plight
to their doorstep.
Dancing in the fingertips of the ground’s antithesis
They are freed in motion by the fans in the
corners.
of time and room.
freedom; free to howl in existential joy
Friends and academia, this is not a sound bite
a catchphrase
or a 12th century Central American Theocracy
No words of vacuum-nothing can make balloons make theo-
cracies.
This is the mind of matter over the matter of mind.
No, no… thisisjust a painting.
-the plight of the existential balloons.