A Tear From My Drunken Eye

I’m crying all the time now.

I cried all over the street when I left the Seattle Wobbly Hall.
I cried listening to Bach.
I cried looking at the happy flowers in my backyard, I cried at the sadness of the middle-aged trees.

Happiness exists I feel it.
I cried for my soul, I cried for the world’s soul.
The world has a beautiful soul.
God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing heart of Paterson.

"Tears" by Allen Ginsberg, Artic, 1956 [courtesy of Haley Always (shefrolics)] (via the-art-of-misdirection)
I really like the voice under the pillow line part in the dreamz poem. So just sayin.

i really like this message. 
i also really like pickles. & i really like top hats.
& i really like freddie mercury’s mustache. 
& i really like hoverboards
& i really like talking like cary grant.
& i really like walking like charlie chaplin.
& i really like wearing only black/white/primary colors
to rep my lovin for mondriaan.
so yah, just sayin. 

aspergerhamburgerhamhamburglar:

your dreamZzz
are getting repetitive—
   your lower liquored lip,
   bit & ripped. drip.
       drip. you’ve been
         sleep-typing the same shit.

& i secretly still have your voice
tucked underneath my pillow—
i wake up with a sore neck,
skin stitched/ black & blue
& invisible & you. 

        your gray-haired words
               aren’t breathing anymore—
                   i am here [i was there]
                   i was nothing
                   but dust.

                          & you’ve swept the floor.

viperslang:

& it is ok to love with the jagged 
crawl of unblunted insides, to hug
the cull, the cut of wild steel
dancing its phosphor through
the jewelbox of your ribs to be
halved wherever his mouth rests
on the starless cusp of deserts 
that haunt the sylph sestine of equator
it is ok to love; emerald with forecasts
of rains over the canopy of lebanese
cedar or to be an indigo light at the wings
of sleeping dragonflies; a formless gossamer
wind eavesdropping on vineyards
tissue-burdened, crystal-throated
it is ok to let him hook the sadness
of his elbows - curled script of Persian
ghazals, and flower into sleep with him
- a confession clothed in a couplet
it is ok to taste the tin of metal-rimed
blood when he kisses you on the edge
of a lip & a lie; to open your heart :
a kitchen knife sculpting the artichoke
into a recipe; it is ok to be 
a half  cathedral, half call house. 
a togetherness that is obscene, sacred & cureless.

your dreamZzz
are getting repetitive—
   your lower liquored lip,
   bit & ripped. drip.
       drip. you’ve been
         sleep-typing the same shit.

& i secretly still have your voice
tucked underneath my pillow—
i wake up with a sore neck,
skin stitched/ black & blue
& invisible & you. 

        your gray-haired words
               aren’t breathing anymore—
                   i am here [i was there]
                   i was nothing
                   but dust.

                          & you’ve swept the floor.

aspergerhamburgerhamhamburglar:

you liked your video
  games by the bottle— 
             my lips locked 
             & loaded
             by the language of living,
                   your voice poured
                      over my
                      rocks.

you gave me a heart-shaped box
full of question marks
                                   [still hooked
                                       around my ankles]

great grandfather
books 
plugged into
  water walls,
          our pages
          burning—
          gray. 

you liked your video
  games by the bottle— 
             my lips locked 
             & loaded
             by the language of living,
                   your voice poured
                      over my
                      rocks.

you gave me a heart-shaped box
full of question marks
                                   [still hooked
                                       around my ankles]

great grandfather
books 
plugged into
  water walls,
          our pages
          burning—
          gray. 

ovum/OVUM

mr-okazaki-fragments:

decisions come in bathtubs
and a hotel door. the off-white egg
of no longer there, soaped
with a curtain still clothed
and a knobbish still hanged. knees
swanning as pegs, as showerhead
choking post-potable
post-audible
in the sauna sweet egg of a bisque.

I proved foreign, just as yolk and off-white.

I was patron no more, no door
or hotel, no red bean gore
to embryo. No more forgives
in my mooncake head.
Enough bathhouse, enough kiln,
enough baking through the weakening
bowl of a daughter. Enough
of waterworks gone ovum soft.
Enough, the hollow drought
of unbelonging.

haha i just found those tidbit note poems u wrote abt me hahahahahahahahahaa i wanna throw my computr out da window now

unique new york unique new york,
a freak delivered by
a sickly stork.

      i planted mini mansions
        in the roots of tipsy trees,
        autumn colors my history
            & every leaf
               leaves.

the dirt is giving birth to money
mothers & parched artists,
   fisticuffs in sleep—
      waking with mirrors
      yawning round our withered wrists.