The Name of My Next Band

 The Name of My Next Band

The Meant To Dos is going to be
the name of my next band. The one
where I’m lead singer and I tell
it all. I’ll really lay it down
like I’ve never done before,
my inner truth and all those
raw experiences. The ones
I’ve never talked about,
or cried over, because I
don’t cry, I just tear up
occasionally, anyways though
I know I should cry more because
I feel as if I’m splitting in two
like at my birthday party
last night I both couldn’t believe they,
my daughter and her boyfriend and my girlfriend,
had given me a cake
with two candles and yet I
also felt so far away like
someone else’s voice was saying
‘thank you!’ … It really is
just like the Beatles song
that used to play on the radio
all the time,
“When I’m 64…”

Learning To Talk will be
the name of the next band
after that one fails because
I feel like I’m dumb so much
of the time and there must be
something to say
to connect with you.
I hate to see
anyone sad.

And the band after that one fails,
because really I’m too old
now to be staying up late at
basement shows, I’d call
Babylon Quakers because
I woke up this morning missing
my Friendly roots, going to meeting
every week, the silence was golden.
But I lost the thread when
I went out into the world
of Babylon and no one knew
my name. There’s a guy at work,
working class from Fishtown, who has
perfected the art of talking
to anyone (without needing names),
we were discussing
potato chips yesterday
and junk food.

All Roads

 The next day in a hell of my own allowing.
Hanging out with the smiley crowd
but I haven’t got a smile.
It dropped on the street
out on the way to horizons of steel on rubber
all roads lead to Rome
tweak that til it rhymes but not evenly.

It must be poetry
the only place that slides right
everyone talking at the same time
don’t gun it for the shadows
if you haven’t heard yet
about the real world.

I don’t know what I’m saying
about the real world
which is unforgetable usually.
Not a story unless you’re into it.
What is your story?

I met the person
I needed to meet once but
didn’t realize it. At least I never forgot.
I remember them now in a blur
of 20th Century cliffhangers.
Relax, relax! be yourself
right before the execution of
the right paperwork.
That’s all I got
riding the wave.

Thank You Jon Fosse

 

 

     Fascinated with Jon Fosse and what his writing may be like. I may like it and sink into it & may not. But either way, it's scarily inspiring reading about him, as if I could do that also. Sink into writing experimental fiction. Or experimental theater that would be filmed into small vignettes. Why, I don’t know but I even could let go of music for it. I feel. And sell the house too, if I could really get myself to do it.
    So, as soon as I write this down however I recoil from it all. Acknowledging this desire evaporates it, makes it feel impossible. or possibly the only solution is to go be with and talk to others about this, other writers of lititature (!! tit to Tera: literature!? is that it? I don’t even know) -thus bringing up the truth that for me writing is as close as possible to returning to the infant stage of life. Just a big head that receives nourishment from the white stuff and that to go and join anything else at all is to fall into shit, the earth is shit is everything, with a few stars twinkling through the darkness, or perhaps the golden moon, a breast of light liquid elixir. And the sun then is an eye, the eye of a vengeful God, judging, holding to account. I’m nearly dead in the eyes of this heat throwing God, a charnel reality. Lava sings down volcano mountainsides in response, and hell is brought down upon this fertile green fecund Earth. The little brown birds sing with futility and never ending assault.

    Chirp! Chirp!

    Chirp! Chirp!