by Chris D’Errico
Versions of some of
the poems contained herein
have previously appeared
in print and
online journals such as:
Unlikely Stories, Mojo Risin’,
Nocturnal Lyric,
Apricorn
Anthology
& Las Vegas CityLife (online).
the
book made outrageous claims. life as this
insistent back-beat gone amok in sum
primitive raw to propagate, orchestrate
infernal melodies that play always in the
flesh.
an
enjambment of fire is there to deliciously heed
to
feed wild arpeggios that augment the soul
&
it is precisely this dangerous proposition
that
gives worth to dreams & weight to our hearts.
a
glossary of bone, blood & song & in the soul
cultivate heart, sense, tolerance. some gravitate
toward utility. others,
visions.
raising hell or rearing love
in
its extroverted mutations, its intimate vibrations
a
nod to the criminal adrenaline rush of idle dreamers
taking an axe to the system’s doctored
ladder.
kisses like footnotes blown to the
ephemeral,
the
smug dance of knowledge implodes
to
expose an appendix of sputtering nerves & animal tics.
dive
in, chum. lost minions paddle on for
greater shores.
exploding truths dissolve
the
indigestible dirigible our hearts can become.
cast
into the vast seas of sentiment & sleaze,
stupidity & sanctimony. surrounded
by rotten
cactus & killer bees,
alone
in a crowded desert of compromise,
sample the fantastic nectar of the sweet
& real.
a
bibliography of hope, occasional treasure,
excavation of the lost, the challenge of truth
& the allies of fear.
there
is a lake of bodily fluid containing sacred scrolls buried
under
its bed. dive in, chum, it’s a dicey
hand, draw blood.
never
mind the sharks.
Cut
& Bleed
it’s
stopped raining how nice
or
so the night has
its
g-rating it so desperately campaigned against
sinister amusement i
complain but i have
nothing but this
breathing
the
neon chemical landscape fake
night
glistens hears but doesn’t listen
alone
i listen alone overcrowded overpopulated
ripping through cigarettes like breathe mints
at
a halitosis convention
dead
pigeons out the window calling
the
rats to supper
coughing engines grieving widows aging
television
sirens
false
alarms calling witness to everyday disasters
on
the streets uppity mongrels all weird & bloated
flesh
matters & anti-matter in the moon spotlight
competing with taxis for the biggest balls
a
man jumped in front of the train today
or
was pushed depressed or ecstatic no matter
time
is lame, fat & depressed everybody knows
beggars coerce the rich in an obvious
conspiracy
you
know
as
big as hercules was he was still a lazy
son of a
bitch
in
someone’s eyes
goliath had an effeminate laugh
WELCOME
TO CHINATOWN sign says
dry
cleaners steaming away, jewelers chipping costs
leathered cops eyeing skirts
pass
through the rude belch of hot air & BEHOLD
peasant gourmet pizza coffee
donuts
cigars anything
you
want but don’t need the zeitgeist of poverty delivers
right
on time
homeless royalty, spiels of the underclass
sharing friction
i burn a travis
bickle stare
ready
for almost anything but the usual nothing occurs
BE
PATIENT
doodle around with things i have no intention of
buying
magazines, amusing canned goods
wipe
the sweat off with the arm of my shirt
collect my head & get the hell out
i have nothing but this
spiritual commerce
karma
never stunk so bad as when it ricochets back
from
a rotten place disgusted & disgruntled with its job
so
repetitive but purposeful only to those who accept
&
receive it in good faith
buy
or believe it sell it believe it the news is the same
we
have nothing but this
everyday someone born someone dead while
others contemplate
the
tireless vector of the in between
tic-tic-tic
menial hours dropped like punctuation
from
a bloated sentence
some
righteous riots, some foolish laments
hilarious breaks in the profundity
of
a life mired in wishes wishes wishes
no
calculating
the
fighting, flailing, hope, thinking, emoting
this
great spoof, this syrupy suicide, this inward gallop
this
character-building exercise
which
makes dreams appear & kills time for those without
the
necessary imagination, responsibility
that
can turn bitter
&
difficult to bear
or
grow huge heart & many heads
so
many transparent in the light
bleeding memory
led
to slaughter by conscience erasure
some
sort of purgatory, remembering
the
past, snatches of time stacked
bits
of dialogue swept away
to
a far corner like mouse turds & i wait
‘til
that big door opens
a
feast appears
how
sweet sweet sweet
i do hope it is
Street
Music
the
buskers lean into their song
spirit clustered tight, soul-snared
in poly-voice, novice subway ears
punched by blue-fisted melody’s cadence
the ear’s conundrum counterpointing
sophisticated jungle
& simplifying street fusion solos
raw & undeniable
quite a cornucopia of brain waves to feed
my
exhaustion
on
the way to my daily grind
the
subway’s rude interlude subsides
&
i get the rhythm back & through
the
pounding florescent at 8 in the morning
i’m awake & coffee-less
remind me that
there’s more to this life
than
the assembly line we’re lame, too quick
to
head off to, when
the
crowded train platform gives way to a crowded aisle
inside a cattle car, holding a greasy silver
pole for support
stuffed against other humans & their
various versions of humanity
some
of it spat aloud, most with newspaper eyes whispering
that
uncomfortable twitch
that
brain-less silence that’s there because it has to be
passing time until we get where we’re
supposed to be
i hear the music from the streets again
& i am reminded
there
is work to be done
&
it is of the soul
skin
is broken
all
colors cleared
spirit whisked away in delicious
effervescent
cocktailed
elixir of sound
rumblings of a pure tarnished existence tuned
from
lust
suffering, self-sacrifice
&
sure, some flat out stupid choices
dogged, beatific
eloquent in all its kinks
bringing it down to the laymen high on tragic
love’s miracle
from
the (w)hole that’s where its at & you’re enamored
of
pain & struggle & the ability to transcend
the
terrestrial, multi-dimensional, external prowess
born
from the internal
totally human, yet otherworldly
profoundly awake
eternal
God’s Special Nonsense Creation
... so
screw those harbingers of doom on
shellacked heels
moaning and
lamenting over the dark and
flirting
with true
penance as convincing as a
classified ad
from a Sunday rag
get
a lift, get a lift from the wholly men
who instruct
who
de-construct
laughing at the accomplished id
spitting at the ego
(‘cept that which boils
quintessence from the folly
of our lives)
squeeze out the pulp, discard all extraneous
BS & live
live
live unruly
through all the peculiar stats
accept the weather
in the end
build shelter-
when necessary
draw your own
symbols
LIVE
unappreciated perhaps but evolving live
through
the cruel math the
algebra of the
streets
kick
open the phone box dial for help
articulate
the real of what you can
fabricate the rest
(the rest
is filler, figured in the rest of our lives,
figure
it out):
negotiate the mind’s exposure reeling in
daft air
consider
dirty looks from those stuck on the onramp
(a
challenge)
from
which you have just past without haste
to battle the elements and brave
the
furious speeds of the serotonin highway
stuffed
with oily curtains
of knowledge
that hide
so
many of us from the wizard we wish upon
finally, to say what
we
leave on this earth
fading yellow & frayed
dog-eared bits of collateral
for
who is left to extrapolate
or
ignore:
the
scent of vermilion;
the
grasp of an iron claw...
money,
friends, family;
a
love letter written by a lover to be cherished
for
its scathing emotional text, a legacy
hidden away in attics, basements...
and
what of emotions? flags
of
new continents emerging
for
others to be stifled & excreted
by
mechanisms of control-
soured fallacious homebodies, we
create the need desire virus then retreat
to
comfort lair in desperation
to
find new air, finally
when
all that is left
is
nowhere to be found.
mutant love call
culling from sweat-blackened
strings
wound
tight & fluttering in
ecstatic
air
we
dine with ranting mystics
holistic wannabes
swizzled in by the sax
&
neon tied harp player
as
our work sucks
behind to pleasure’s
eclectic
fluid
she
likes the blues singer
making new revelations tonight
she’s
got her pocket apocalypse reader
(the Nihilist
version)
earmarked to the page
where
the meek actually die with the earth
but
tonight it all sounds unprophetic
like
CliffsNotes to a Nostradamus
final
as
the blue notes that drip
off
the clef & bend all psychic digging
to
hit that low E, she’s melting
soul
& soul recovered
yes,
the peppered optimist
done
with greed & venom, momentarily
she’s
a remedy for the nauseated dilettante
so
she puts her book away
the
world won’t end
just
yet
A soul abduction…
Some cosmic
drama…
His
poor resinous heart
taken in a
bloodless incision, executed
too precise
for
mortal hands.
He
couldn’t believe what was at stake
with each
flutter
of
inebriate lash.
Fooled
by the
eyes.
Those eyes…
EYES
bluer
than noontime in
Before I Float
(Through Your Back Porch Still
Buttoning My Shirt)
There
are shadows overbearing
a
big fat sun too bashful to ensconce
Which is its only job, shameful, after
all
this
day should be, unfettered
Open
the windows for chrissakes
let
in some air
The
sound like Divine surf whispers
what’s this great sadness
To
nourish & collect our being
a
pale moon would suit us better I’m afraid
This
frail white filament of a soul, crackling
in
the tension heat
Like
a car bomb this silence blows my mind,
my
conception of two as one
With
more to give, more to want, killing me
those
cancerous weeds pissed forth
In
anger your vicious afterthought tangles me
in
its brush
But
I know good life oozes from inside
still
an occasional treat
Naive,
sweet, all promise & apology,
a
smooth balm for the psyche
That
absolves all crime instantly from the room
Tonight
within the maelstrom of expectations
I
will drink
Platitudes
digressing from small talk,
warm
dialogues, caressing dialects...
Simplifying
Mechanisms
No nets, no ceilings
In
this smiling blue hole
we
call our home I am swollen in abscess
I
am the deep red gauze of your sleeping
Against
your kiss
I
am the cool black silk of your breast
I
am the pressure vice that brings you to
Yes
Now
as I leave smashing mirrors & feeling free
I
feel metallic wind at my heels
I
hear the caterwauling squeals
&
the three-ring conundrum left behind
Perfect
Like
chaos
lips,
fingertips, plots, below the belt shots,
the
money, the charade, the taxicab parade
o
mercy to the pleasure trade we slave.
hips
slide, the pouch opens, spills the love letter
hidden from the lover. the
secrets, eyes flutter.
the
bombshell pose, the cheetah-print interior,
the
fuzzy dice play with sweaty hands,
the
pangs, the morning sickness at dawn,
conversation went wrong, gyrations &
palpitations,
assurances, reassurances, the personality tics,
the
nightly fix, the tongue, red cheeks, the curiosity peeks.
the
valley summons, the clock ticks,
mind
splatters, nothing matters.
a bad
stomach & no sleep. the
terror
eggshells, wedding bells, the lazy groaning,
the
couch, moaning, the throbbing, the bloating,
the
feeling that nothing is finished
but
maybe shouldn’t have started in the first place...
(heart
filmed in
effigy. Cupid a gross parody:
muttonchops, pitchfork & bloated belly.)
at
worst, lovers know the heavy stare of silence, gloom
atrophying in rooms further away from each other.
this
is the meat game, this is
the
ending buzzer, this is the tension, kiss, the release,
the
final shot careened off
wet
lips dribbling there forever on a pristine thigh,
the
back door on the sly & then
the
organic display calms. gives way to the cold
machinery of night.
catatonic, conformity, uniformity, anonymity.
the
dull morass of everyday
existence. bare,
bored, blaring out
alone.
Ghost
Hunter
you
were soaring through the sky
while
everyone was dumbing down
I
was brainwashed by the illusion of it all
wondering
where
are you
in
the deep cleavage of lust
there
is a nihilism that betrays itself
when
love is something desire conquers
where
are you
where
are you in the soul inexplicable
revealing itself under duress
when
the nebulous nature of euphoria
leaches into the blood
its
acute toxicity, its blunt poisons
ravaged rationality
&
I’m seeing double, slurring
a
proof dialogue from the eye of disaster
a
dial in progress to the heart
the
only light that matters
I
want to slip through the wormhole
of
your eyes take me to that farthest star
to
that movie where the villain gets away
&
rides into the sun
where
are you
in
the pursuit of happiness
like
a rope of smoke impossible to grasp
like
the night
gone
without a trace
leaving only gray reflections & fringe
theories
searching for an anchoring light
once
you built an exquisite fortress
&
with your arms built a bridge for me
but
my flaws were not made perfect
&
I blamed my own self-doubt
full
of hot air, smoke & mirrors
to
be smashed & re-invented
I
am seeking you out
challenging your legitimacy, your dominion
your
very existence
but
alas there will be no conclusions
just
an up in the air grotesqueness
whose
design I cannot ever know
Noble
Rot
greeting us
blindfolded-like
a
kick in the groin
a
kiss on the small of the neck
love,
vice, addictions...
does
it turn like milk left out too long?
or
so the poor might think
but
we are not equal, no
there
are the have’s & have not’s
‘til
the end
this
is the meat game & I
have
the need to want and
don’t
we all
I
have no addictions
I
shouldn’t kick
but searching
desires
almost forgotten
like a
lost record album
pulled out
of
the bargain bin
that plays slow &
you’re embarrassed
to admit
it’s your best friend
on
scratchy nights alone
just
the woofers & you
Why Are All These People Dying In
Bad Shoes?
each
grain of sand is a voice
that
matters as a human who bleeds
Salt
the wound we know is there
and
is obvious as air
tactile as the breath
that
escapes the living
Salt
the wound make the pain
unbearable
it’s
for the common good it’s
for
the
selfish gene that wells up there
at
the fingertips & spine Feel
it
It’s
real it’s
good it’s worth it Teach others
to
grab their share & give back the rest
as
the noble soul would wizened
Up
off your ass collective abandon
all
stations
effective now
out of that cubicle of
death go home
hug
the family friends kiss the ground
the
bare earth each grain of sand
in a
chorus
that
matters as a human that needs
that bleeds
conversation How
to live inside this
burden
out in
the open Truthful
Naked
Bankrupt
& Beautiful
The
Hack
There
was the concert he went to where the singer said
“I
hope to one day never have to sing
these
kind of songs again”
then
proceeded to play the populist political tunes
that
made the band multi-millionaires.
Good deal.
He
would like to sell even a few ideas
&
make some money
for himself, maybe someday
do something great
for mankind.
He daydreamed of making a positive
difference
in the world.
Tonight he sits & stares.
Headaches, bad breath, mistrust,
stained soul
& questionable motives all stuck
with a desire
inarticulate.
He has written with the cluttered mind
of adulthood.
He remembered chasing the flame
into oblivion & then
silence & atrophy.
He stares & stares & nothing
comes.
…the
rush hour slathers its Orwellian glaze
tired homeless break last bread on soup
kitchen lines
as the rich eat the world
pasteurized crowds digest in the belly of industry
pop rots the guts out & soul gets cut
wrapped & shelved like processed American
cheese…
He
often hacked off a little for himself.
(This
flavor of the month is quite delicious, by the way.)
He
didn’t blame the corrupt,
war-mongering morons in the govt.
for
his inaction while he tried the keys
he
stole from the lost & found
to
unlock intuition’s concentric dialogues
finding only ancient questions, ancient
excuses.
Chased
the specter of constant somethings,
big
ideas, gut feelings twisted over, terrible train wrecks
smoldering & hissing.
Searched for survivors to carry on the
bloodline.
He
exposed his innards to shell-shocked by-standers
to
see if they might actually care.
Results inconclusive.
He
did what was needed to do to survive,
injected with desires to do otherwise.
He
can only hope to be a remarkable footnote
outside the margins, maybe, not mentioned in
the text.
Plucked a few songs out of this vast
debris of
hearts.
He
wanted the passion of a life incendiary,
but
he got what’s thrown out off the center.
A
necessary result of others’ expectation & perception,
like
a celebratory cocktail abandoned on the bar
with
the ashtray & butts, a landmark of tiny accomplishments.
The
hallmark of a world full of fools
where
far too many dogs think they are masters.
A Little Remorse
with
sorry angst i catalogue
my
blunders one by one
quixotic in a cheap desert motel
images chaotic as spirits on my tongue
screaming like tiny little saviors
o
lord
i gotta
get some
sleep can’t think with
my brain
swollen in this heat...
...pour
another, check the door, make sure it’s
locked
it
is she
is checking her stockings for
runs
i’m counting hits
& unnecessary seconds
hesitations
still
keeping firm pressure on the
bandage
my
badge of courage
... a suitcase full of money
a
bag of clothes left bloody there a
story of desperation
&
the darkness that led us thoughtless
shouldn’t have done what we have done
now
my conscience
I’m the Exterminator
that’s what the old man said
my
job is to snuff out the lesser species
to
survive
i eradicate vermin & collect the
bill
driving home to wash the sweat & grease
off
launder my soiled uniform
burrow into the night
eat
my dinner in front of the television
&
pass out only to awake drop-kicked by the
clock
shower out my dream’s residuals
&
hit the road to control,
eliminate,
kill,
clean
up,
basements, bathrooms, kitchens, attics
chatting, listening to seniors & section
8’s,
the
rich wax about what happened
to
the world & why me, why me
why
me
that’s what the old woman said
as
i knelt
on
her kitchen floor
not
from any divinity or sick ritual
but
to spray for cockroaches under her sink
&
to put a little rat poison behind her stove
there’s murder in the suburbs, you know
paradise in the projects
you
have to look beyond
this
infestation
this
existence
to
survive
to
keep your wings
or
to get them
finally, in the end
Across
the Moral Highroad,
neighborhood kids are constructing forts
out
of dirty ice
&
hurling snowballs through the twilight.
You’re parked in a darkened cul-de-sac,
ensconced
in
mist & portent like some gothic B-movie,
a
helix of black birds circling overhead.
Your
insides are momentarily fine,
your
color warmed by the glow of an obscured sun.
Though
your vehicle is unmolested by appearance,
pale-faced commuters lean over
to
satisfy their morbid curiosity, peeking through
your
factory tint- remarking, judging.
It
slows traffic down to a stand still but
few
seem to figure out why, or care to change course.
You’re not the only one here going nowhere
fast.
Multitudes
crowd this makeshift parking lot…
God’s spirit. God’s
creatures...
Watching
the young ones fool about,
sometimes you yearn for your childhood now
infinitely gone.
Surely you can remember life before
accusation & indictment?
Dreams
swelling with lessons of confidence, though
oblivious to assume the rising tides &
storms ahead...
Good for them. They’ll
get what’s
coming
soon
enough.
As
the fog steadily burns away,
children sing & kick around atop the
clouds
that
bandage the immense blue
starting to seep slowly downward...
God’s
breath. God’s
blood…
You
turn the ignition, crank up the heat,
you’re ready to go.
The
road ahead is difficult to maneuver on a good day.
Riddled
with potholes, dead-ends & unpaved dips
that
lead to God-knows-where.
Although
you’ve traveled through this place many times,
seldom have you found a decent, up-to-date
map
&
you often lose yourself, wondering
where
you were heading off to in the first place.
In
the crisp, clear air
the
road to the stars is yours for the taking.
Like a painter
contemplating colors in the dark
you’re waiting for some
hidden obviousness
hung inside a desperate,
hungry mouth.
A secret story dying to be told,
wrought from flesh &
spirit.
God’s arms. God’s
will…
You shift
into neutral, hit the emergency brake
&
step out onto the frozen earth.
Pulling
out a wad of unopened bills
from
your thick overcoat, you weigh them in each hand
before tossing them onto the backseat.
You
vow that you will pay these dues sometime soon,
but
not today. Today is your day off.
Away
from such dangerous heights,
leaving the engine to run, it is your time to
rest.
You
will take it all in with your tongue,
your
eyes & your lungs & your fingertips
clenched to the surface, listening
for
the distant squelch
of true desire caressing mechanisms
beyond
control...
In anticipation of a healing
that surely lurks below.
High
Sometimes
We
can hail the cosmos
We
can get lost in the lyric of the sky
We
can hear beautiful & strange
(working so
hard to sculpt not an edifice of limp importance
but
a defining eternal character culled
from
quintessence of all that’s reeled
that’s true, that’s right
a
labor of light that may purify the rot & sloth of etceteras
dazed
in a rash of invention)
Let
hinges creek open to show worth
Let
angels decipher our sideways spiral towards ecstasy
sometimes when high we think
of
bloated phrases like that
then
scratch ourselves silly in the morning
wondering on the way to work
why
we even bother
and
then we are answered
Our
molecular coordinates
Chemistry
through the ages
Timeless
drunken love songs, or
Angst-ridden
rues above the dirt-faced herd
Profound
In
light
Answers
No
tunnels
Sometimes
No
escape