Kandahar



I wish the snow and cold might come so I

can feel fiery young and smoke again



with abandon, surveying with my inherited colonial

eyes the Merrimack river, and feel renewed



in dreams I've yet to part with and with dreams

I might yet love (I place my palm upon



her soft cheek gently in her sleep). I wish this

night was long as all the days I've wasted



drunk, fucked up, scared, alone etc.



Finding nights within such compass may

save me from a stupid fate. Meanwhile,



the talk on T.V. tonight here is gunfire,

Kandahar, Afghanistan, cigarettes smoked in dust,



Shit. And what a fucking shame about

this boy. And it is a fucking shame,



this fifteen-year-old Afghan boy lives

and dreams of peace, oh shit, oh shit



oh shit

maximum least



At maximum least

This drinking is the gentlest of foes

Even the stomach acids burning

represent the minimum bearable

conflagration



Oh, whatever.

A slightly vague feeling, this emptiness in the absence of total abject loneliness

and sexual desperation



When your girl is good and sweet and pretty

She grows on you like real and utter hair

More essentially joyous annoyance to contend with

Hey, pictures don't lie. And I've never looked so happy



And since the high-art tradition contiues to mundanely ravel out like the spurious undead

Let's call to mind Dali's "Persistence Of Memory"

Those horribly melting clocks in some interminably sheer and barren

wasteland



I feel that way lying in bed and in the shower and sometimes at desk at work

Trying to put together the intricacies and plot points of images of the not-so-distant-past



I especially feel that way upon thinking of my dormant guitar

What an irrepressibly boring and repetetive board game these rounds can sometimes resemble



And what mitigates this truth now is the absolute certainty of such states not being in any way

contained or limited or determined by geography - only by proximity of self



Present, hopeful, tangible dreams of beer sustain us

In our basement

And such smokes as we have are smoked sparingly with reverence

so to obtain some ripple of our lost ancestral humanity



I could smoke now but I'd rather with a brother



These times ain't easy where our dearest hope is neither sold nor told

INSIDIOUS



What follows here is a joke

a booze

and come stained elegy

wrapped in ocean of

green smoke,



a bright corpse



cooling on an autumn beach,

a mutant benediction,

a bastard hand,

a stump



All openly confessed feelings

are the same feeling

one way or another



I have my priorities.



I am the rude author

I knew I would be.



I thought myself shadow born

to an unknown mother,

then left in a tree stand to die.



Found by a half-wit, raised by his sister.



A taste of copper in my mouth for years;

how could I have known

what it was I had tasted?



I told all I could

and heard it said later

that others had said it earlier,

better, more precisely.



With more seeming truth.



I said I know my own use,

and repaired to a bar.



Then another.

Another.

Another.

LIVE FREE OR DIE



Let me understand

I want to understand here, badly



Can we block out

some kind of symmetry here?

Can we broker a deal?

I promise you I'm gonna live free or die…



You keep your blood, I keep mine,

or else can we trade?



Either way, I don't care

Just let me feel

the same way I did before

not so long ago



red wine stains

low tables

cigarette ash

snow, no hope



though there are mantles of light

30 thousand miles high,

we're all toiling down here,



scrabbling, grabbing,

screaming at the other motorists



Wanting to get laid,

getting laid,

and then you can't come



Falling drunk through the brick streets

of a city once burned

by Sherman



Every normal template

burning my eyes, I see



sick hallucinations

And Sherman Burned It

1.

Riding away from Atlanta

lone traveler

in the heavy amber dusk



one more bag of meat

speeding among 8 teeming lanes

of steel, upholstery and dismay



bald rubber whirring

on the purple asphalt



the most action I've had in a year



weirdly sensing

the terrible

refractive otherness



everywhere



as the creeping

ember fringe

of my cigarette

burns me



yellowing my fingertips



the joke pre-apocalyptic wind

issues hard and fast

over the sideview mirror



whirling ashes,

peppering the confines

of my dark Nova



oh me oh my

driving away



hey, stubble chin

hey, worn out cotton shirt

hey, jack shack purveyor

hey, licker of black palms and rocks

hey, mute psychotic entity in the strip mall parking lot



who do you think you are, unnerving well-groomed

southern ex-sorority girls

in Japanese sedans?



go away



red tail light phalanx

drifting ahead



red

gas tank needle

creeping toward "E"



when I notice this

is when I come

to my senses



Where am I going?

Why am I going?



quick panic at the thought of how much money do I have

knowing it's not too much



but in the end it's enough



now pull into the Exxon

now self-conciously operate the pump

now make my way to the counter

now pay



now ride back out



onto the highway



into the night

immodest proposal



FUCK IT

I'M FINISHED



LET ME SEQUESTER,

EXPUNGE TRIFLING CONCERNS,

REST, AND EXPRESS

A CLEAN WORD OR TWO



OR ELSE DISEMBOWEL ME WHOLE

VIA

SEXUAL HYPERBOLE,

MENTAL DISTRESS,

SELF-PREDATION,

ALCOHOL,

BUZZWORDS,

BANTER



AFTER ALL,

THE OLD DAY JOB

COULDN'T BE ANY MORE DULL



BUT IT PAYS



I NEVER HAD A PROBLEM NOT CHALLENGING MYSELF



THIS NON-PROBLEM

PERSISTS



TO THINK OF IT:

WALKING AROUND

FOR YEARS

IN ARRESTED ADOLESCENCE

PERUSING RETAIL OUTLETS,

MALLS, BARS, CURBS,

GATED COMMUNITIES,

CONDOS,

PROMOTIONAL BEER TENTS,

ARTSY CHICKS,

BISEXUALS



CAN'T CORE OUT OF IT SUFFICIENTLY



THE CASUAL NON-CLEVER BULLSHIT -

CAN'T CORE OUT OF IT



AND OH YEAH

WHILE YOU WERE AWAY

THE COUNTRY'S

GONE

EVER FURTHER STRAIGHT

TO FUCK-ALL



FAT, STUPID, EVIL

BASTARD MAGGOT SLIME DEVILS

ARE NOW MANNING

THE FLAMETHROWERS



TRAINING THEM ON BABY CARRAIGES

AND A HOMELESS PERSON

NEAR YOU



IT'S BEEN LARGELY THE SAME

MOST OF THE YEARS

OF THIS FREQUENTLY PERNICIOUS COUNTRY



BUT IT'S WORSE THESE DAYS

MUCH, MUCH, MUCH WORSE



(BANK ON THAT)



THE BEAST NEEDS NO IDENTIFICATION

HE'S BEEN PRE-AUTHORIZED AND PRE-APPROVED



MOVE ASIDE

LET HIM THROUGH



CREDIT OR DEBIT?



SLOBBERING HUMAN BARBECUE

FIRE ETHIC

SKIN MELTING OFF FOLKS

FOLKS DROPPING, FLAILING, EXPLODING



IN THE ETHEREAL BLOOD MIST

(AS REPORTED IN THE TIMES)



UNNATURAL ACTS...THEM'S GOOD EATIN'!



GOODNIGHT!

immodest proposal



FUCKING A

I'M FINISHED



HOW THE FUCK

AM I SUPPOSED TO GET ANYTHING DONE



WHEN I CAN'T EVEN WRITE?



JUST SEQUESTER ME A CLEAN HOUR OR TWO



AWAY FROM TRIFLING CONCERNS



WHERE I MIGHT

CLEANLY EXPRESS

A CAREFULLY HEWN WORD

OR TWO



EITHER THAT

OR DELIVER ME WHOLLY

TO PORN AND DEPREDATION



MY LIFE AIN'T EVEN THAT HARD



AFTER ALL,

THE DAY JOB COULDN'T BE ANY MORE DULL



AND I NEVER HAD ANY PROBLEMS NOT CHALLENGING MYSELF



AND THIS PROBLEM PERSISTS



I REMEMBER THE DAYS OF WALKING AROUND



(PICK YOUR CITY)



PERUSING BOOK STORES, RECORD STORES,

MCDONALDS,

BARNES & NOBLE

THE STAR BAR

AND THE SUBWAY INN



IT WASN'T NOTHIN' THEN

AND IT AINT ANYTHING NOW



IT'S ALL THE SAME BULLSHIT



I CAN'T CORE MYSELF OUT SUFFICIENTLY FOR LOVE OR ART



BUT I CAN CORE LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER



FOR STUPID, GLIB, NON-CLEVER, UNFUNNY BULLSHIT



THE COUNTRY'S ALL GONE TO FUCKING HELL



FUCKED OUT AND WHIPPED OUT



BY FAT, STUPID, EVIL, WHITE MOTHERFUCKERS



AND I DON'T GIVE A FUCK



IT'S LARGELY BEEN THE SAME FOR MOST OF THE YEARS

OF THIS PERNICIOUS COUNTRY



AND GOODNIGHT

And Sherman Burned It

1.

Riding away from Atlanta

a lone traveler

in the wide amber dusk



speeding among 8 teeming



lanes

grinding upon the purple asphalt



weirdly sensing

some refractive otherness



creeping

cigarette burns



ember fringe



yellowing my fingertips



whirling ash

peppering



the dark confines of my Nova



driving away



stubble chin



worn out

cotton shirt



red tail light phalanx

drifting ahead



red



gas tank needle

creeping toward "E"



when I notice this

is when I come

to my senses



Where am I going?

Why am I going?



quick panic at the thought of how much money do I have

knowing it's not too much

but in the end it's enough

when I pull into the Exxon

now self-conciously operating the pump

now making my way to the counter

now paying

now riding



back out

into the night

were I Sherman, I'd burn

1.

riding away from Atlanta

teeming 8 lane road

amber dusk, grey asphalt

cigarette cherry

biting my first fingers

whirling white ash

in the dark confines

of my Nova



riding away

simply driving

90 degree angle

of stubble chin

above cotton shirt

mind chattering

worse than the radio

Tupac Shakur

recently dead

Nas positing,

"If I ruled the world..."



red tail light phalanx

drifting ahead

red gas tank needle

creeping toward "E"

when I notice this

is when I come

to my senses

"Where am I driving?"



quick panic at the thought

of how much money

knowing it's not too much

but enough

when I pull into

the Exxon

self-conciously operating the pump

making my way to the counter

paying

riding

back out

into the night



2.

in the low rectangular confines

of the bar

hunched at a table

along the

dark brick walls

sitting in

red leather seats



ashing into brief

aluminum trays



I outline my theories

to my friend



the world is changing

some of us are changing too



I crush the end of my cigarette

into the top of my hand as proof



hysterical laughter



he thinks I've lost it

but is half-crazy himself



both of us look like

the seediest scumbags

you've ever seen



what passes for education notwithstanding



the only girls we're

fit for

would have to be



drunken and emotionally disturbed



and even they are dressing well

these urban nights

and smell eternities more alluring



than our stink of

cheap beer, smokes

and desperation



3.

I can't remember how

that night began



but it was late dusk



and I had become familiar enough

with the railroad tracks



running behind

one of the trendier coffee bars



in Marietta



to feel imbued with the place



after all, I'd sat there broke

had cribbed notes seated along the wall



had wallowed in the full confusion

of lonely yearning



anyway,

I felt comfortable enough



to be wandering there

in the first itchy clutches

of another experience



me and the one friend I had at the time

Jeff



were at another bar nearby that coffee spot

much more mainstream southern american



pulling on any number of beers

and smoking

alive in the knowing

that we'd be awake for hours

immune

to the effects of drinking



at some point we decided to drift down into the city



I remember now,

he drove



we rode in his 80's brown Ranger

down the wide highway

until the city lights rose

dewy constellations among

the monoliths of buildings



and we spoke of the city

its huge unknowing grandeur



we rode and the milk Georgia night

pulled the smoke from our lungs

out from the truck

into covert madness

2 TVs



thank the peaceful

quiet



my girl and dog

rest quietly

upon cushions

in the top rooms



I'm down here

in the white light

of the cellar pit,



carpeted clearing,

cool drywall

abode



down here

one TV

mutely plays



another

chatters loudly

above me



the world's gone to Hell



so any clarity of mind

must be precious

reckoning



here,



the faint marking

of renegade insanity



fuels the souls

of innumerable

invisible

mannequins



invariably sequestered here



8 feet under

the earth

with me



glass beings

plainly bearing

enigmatic stripes

of madness,

forgiveness



hashmarks in blood,

feline declinations,



attendant only

upon my need

to discern



huge saccharine music

suddenly swells

in the stairwell



one more

horrible TV show

playing out



where my sleeping girl rests



pausing,

not typing



I turn emptily

to the mute portal

behind me



TV

can't quite quell

all the substance



down here,

my implacable figures



do not care

2 TVs

thank the peaceful

quiet



girl and dog

resting quietly

upon cushions

in the top rooms



me here

under lights

in the cellar pit



hum of CPU

one TV down here

mutely plays



world's going to Hell

any clarity of mind

must be precious

reckoning



renegade markings

of dust covered insanity

fueling vision



of innumerable

invisible mannequins

sequestered here



8 feet under

the earth

with me



in this carpeted clearing

a drywall abode

cool and dry



as these glass beings

these mannequins



plainly bearing

their enigmatic stripes

of madness, of forgiveness



attendant only

upon my need

to discern



now I hear

orchestral movie music

in the stairwell



another horrible TV show

loudly playing out

where my sleeping girl rests



pausing in typing

I turn emptily

to the mute TV



but there's still

some substance

even horrible TV shows



can't quite quell:

down here,

these implacable figures



do not care

two TVs

(rev. 3)



thank the peaceful

quiet



girl and dog

resting quietly

upon cushions

in the top rooms



me here

under lights

in the cellar pit



hum of CPU

TV mutely plays



the world's going to Hell



any clarity of mind

is precious reckoning



renegade markings

of dust covered insanity

fuel the vision

of innumerable mannequins

invisibly sequestered

8 feet under

the earth

here with me



this carpeted clearing

drywall abode

cool and dry

as these

glass beings



plainly bearing

enigmatic

stripes



attendant only

upon my need

to discern



orchestral movie music

in

the stairwell



a horrible TV show

playing out

where my sleeping girl rests



the dog's not barking now

he's hushed for a while



he wouldn't settle

down tonight

nor do I want to



pausing in typing

I turn emptily

to the mute TV



yet here is some substance

even horrible TV shows

can't quite quell



these mannequins

implacable

do not care

[10/28/2002 9:45:39 PM | Matt Vincent]

time was a thing

(v. 1)



thank the peaceful

quiet



girl and dog

lying quietly upon cushions

in the top rooms



me here

under the lights

in the cellar pit



hum of machine

as the TV mutely plays



the world's gone to hell

any clarity of mind

must be reckoned

a precious commodity



the renegade markings

of dust covered enigmas

fuels the lives



of innumerable mannequins

sequestered here

invisibly



with me

8 feet beneath the earth

in this carpeted clearing,



drywall abode

cool and dry

as some people can be



glass beings

baring their stripes

ever plainly



attendant only

upon my need

to discern



orchestral movie music

floods

the stairwell



some horrible TV show

playing out

where my sleeping girl rests



the dog's not barking now

and perhaps he won't

for a while



headed toward sleep

he wouldn't settle down tonight

nor do I want to



pausing in typing

I turn to the mute TV

where I learn in bold font:



BUSH HITS THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL



horrible TV shows

can't quell

something



though their volume seeps past me



my roomful

of mannequins

doesn't care

time was a thing

(v.2)



thank the peaceful

quiet



girl and dog

lying quietly upon cushions

in the top rooms



me here

under lights

in the cellar pit



hum of CPU

as the TV mutely plays



the world's going to Hell

so any clarity of mind

is precious reckoning



renegade markings

of dust covered insanity

fuels the lives



of innumerable mannequins

invisibly sequestered

here with me



8 feet under

the earth in

this carpeted clearing



drywall abode

cool and dry

as these figurines



glass beings

plainly bearing

their stripes



attendant only

upon my need

to discern



orchestral movie music

floods

the stairwell



a horrible TV show

plays out

where my sleeping girl rests



the dog's not barking now

perhaps he won't

for a while



he wouldn't settle

down tonight

nor do I want to



pausing in typing

I turn to the mute TV

where I learn in bold font:



BUSH HITS THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL



yet here is some substance

even horrible TV shows

can't quite quell



their volume seeps past me



these mannequins

implacable

do not care

dog is my savior



Time

peeling off

into obligations

both honest

and dishonest

both sensible and maddening



My head

like a wound

made

no more or less murky

by the presence of

wanton ambition

disgraced goalsmanship

but that's not a word



I reside tonight among the presence

of substances

up to and including:



her heart, her hair,

the dog's

brown eyes,

television,

cans of beans,

macaroni-and-cheese,

30 cans of beer in my small fridge,

one of the cats inspecting a fragment

of sour cream and onion potato chip

Crossfire on TV bleating

death penalty or no for

murderers Mohammad and Malvo

and my pine tar inner self

down here in this hole

typing 3rd rate lines

onto the Internet

again



the dog stirs upon the floor



I'm a rodeo clown

caught up in a trapeze of

scarcely obtained

momentum



wildly oscillating between

whirling poles of safe harbor,

madness, clarity, disgrace



simultaneously

above and below

any comfortable altitude



flailing



the dog thinks I'm his master

and loves me

and owns more

than he knows

5:07 PM



and ready to roll off

into the late October dusk

unto parking lot and store

unto various lights and double yellow lines



ranging out before the boredom

stiffens into me again

a not unendurable force

causing one to pause, consider



ruminate, reflect



allowances have been made



god damn it, it's only Monday

and there will be very little pleasure

in drinking anything tonight

standing in a shed ruminating over cans of Miller High Life and Camel cigarettes



hear

how the gray rain

blows open



November's

soggy notes

of beer-colored



leaves

and

cigarette smoke



we stand in

brown shoes

upon orange



pine needles

pointlessly gazing up

the trunks



of brown oaks

and charcoal pines

moist, resplendent



speaking the whens

of fish and ice

on the small ponds



as the brown

earth waits

so do we



for snow

god curse america



shit

it just happened again

God damned life



the diabolical

red mists

float again



in the canyons

of bluest

florescent doom



here is where

the black dog

walks



and here

is where the rank

cogs talk



here

is where

Paul Wellstone died



and here

is where

Americans cried

wants nothing



Jackson

black dog



we'll never

trim

your wiry fur



(ever)



this Saturday night

you've lost a white

baby tooth



a tiny amount

of your blood

stains

the wood floor



as it's night

we now remove

your red collar



as you hustle

toward the back

of the house



suddenly

you see

young Harlequin



chiaroscuro

gypsy cat

black and tan



half-pint

foliage-colored

feral cat



learned of domestic ways

interruptions



lust or lucent tirades

dust or mucous soul

open trusty byways

lucent, mucous soul



open, soaking highways



so many ruined nights

Work Is A Food



A most open vessel

take a seat

on the galley



and row

with the rhythm

of tolling



latent bells

holding

and wishing



for the tolling

buoy bell

riding



upon green waves

portendent

of wholesome



allowances

hell on it. poetry blog. & etc.

This blog is in the midst of psychic overhaul. More to follow.

(i need a gymnasium sized room

with stacked televisions

and a selection of wooden bats

and 20 minutes to do my thing)



bus bombing in Tel Aviv

blame Clinton for the WTC

ignore what's happening to

the economy



cheesy banners - heh - "Recovery"

feed the sheep the hypocrisy

luckily cows and sheep don't read

gobble Cipro, to the Midwest flee



in an air base, all the paymasters

far away from the disasters

later on mr. woodward writes

mr. bush got it exactly right



mangled syntax, mangled words

remember though, saddam gassed the kurds!

sorry, ma'am...and if we kill your boy

gas your ride for the ROI

What I need is a secret clone. We'd work in concert, fool everyone into thinking we were one person, compare notes at night. Take turns working during the day and goofing off at night. Share designated driver duties. He'd play bass in the band. A mysterious figure, always wearing a mask, his voice would sound uncannily similar to mine.



He'd possess a magic, self-replenishing wallet full of 20s and 50s. A cracked, utterly ordinary looking affair, rumored to have been owned by Bob Marley, the wallet would have in any case accrued mystic power from wilderness lands unknown, its goodness shining like a beacon visible only to clones.



On blustery days, unknown to anyone, the clone would periodically sidle around the side of a building to let the bills course from the wallet's flap down the alleyway like soap bubbles from a plastic wand.

What you have failed to learn

is that for every bullshit action

there is an equal and opposite

bullshit reaction



Filthy, tattered pink gown

on the empty congressional floor

Mass schizophrenia

funnelled into dead cell phones



Watching those towers

explode on TV

And explode again

upon replay



How many copies of the wall street journal filtering out in that death confetti stream?

They said the fire was so red because of all the people in there



another box of Pabst for the choir.

pass them cans around.

don't worry, they're cold.



aren't the colors great? great to hold them in hand to drink from

and believe in



well, okay, I guess that's still in the cards



at least until they steal another fucking election from us

smoke broken methods

repair starfish heart

deliver eyes to darkness

lids attuned to pixel drone



skull full of oysters

locust husks containing

yet animate phalanges

papery resolve



smolder, twitch, crackle

fire in your trash can

one hundred fools passing through

your living room



much, much easier

when ill-defined agony

was of girls, bus stations,

eggshell cluelessness and yearning



oak tree silent, half-rotted,

remote, not profound,

ignorable mass of acorn gristle

organic bellcurve swarm

smell of something living and rotting too



sun's coming up tomorrow

far as anyone knows



sitting on a long stone wall and loving

how the light

fires mahogany hues

in her dark hair



that was you, motherfucker



(now I've gone

and gone

all madeline l'engle

on my own ass)



sitting and loving her hair

in the gold light

the mahogany hues



(that was you, motherfucker)



sitting and loving in the light



sun's coming up tomorrow

far as anyone knows