is it my birthday yet

your hands make bitter coffee taste on my face
drawing black spiral lines and i shake
you shake invisibly divisibles and
your mouth is an open grave.
hello what are you saying
i can’t hear you over all this noise,
please repeat yourself and stand on your head
we will all be very much amused yes please
your mouth is spilling coffee onto me
and i cry.
your hands are dripping motor oil
we’re all asleep and you’re screeching
to yourself in the corner like some strange owl
from Europe or Paris, aren’t those the same thing?
i spent a whole day looking for you
you were hiding in the hiding place
that’s where i slept last night
there in the hiding place
pulled the blanket over my head
and sang it sweet
like summer drinks
and summer love
and all the things you know how to forget
i forget how to forget
i remember everything
i remember
one day
i rode my bike
across the bridge
and up,
up,
and all these aliens were singing alien blues
in all my ears and i heard them
and again i cried, i cried again
and you were somewhere feeling sorry
and i felt sorry
your mouth is an open grave.

i have taken off my shoes
to relieve me of this infernal heat
emanating from my pores and my forehead
especially my forehead
glad something’s cooking up there at least.
my feet smell of cheese,
now my hands smell of cheese as well.
poetry is not worth a thing.
you can’t put a price on it,
poetry is a dead cat,
gotta be a no-one.
i apologize if you are reading
i apologize if you are writing
we regret to inform you
that the jive will not subside.
poetry is an old church and we’re walking
inside and looking around, not sure what’s
it all for but looks nice, yessir looks nice allright.

tomorrow i will see you and coffee will be on the walls
and you will see me and the whole sad sorry mess will
start over again like listening to the radio, start it up
again this is the only one we’ve got.
tinny and confused.
that’s summer for you. breathe it all in while you can,
breathe it all in before you breathe it all out.
nobody ever said this wouldn’t be easy.
was that some kind of joke?
no it wasn’t i’m serious now hey now

they wrapped him in a death shroud
and stood him over his grave
and he waited
and he waited
and then they let him go.
----tell me, how does one
adjust to society after such a quote
traumatic unquote experience, period.

Fyodor i don’t know much but i know you know
and that’s something. well? isn’t it? isn’t what? isn't that.
bohemian. kafkaesque. orwellian. subjective right
of individual schizophrenia societal dues pay 'em up
here come the dogs boy you best watch your back

this poem is too long
your nose is too long
trim it just a bit here n there
not important just cosmetic
get ya the ladies an whatnot
as if once you get em and have em
then that's it - it's all done forever and ever
no more words come out just having and having
and having and letting go.

let me say to you i have sat upon the cold bleachers
in the night and i know the signs of fire and i have seen
the birds dead and buried and i know what it is
to walk for five six seven hours without sleep and
without a clue and i know i know
and there's no need
to explain it all
it's just there
and you're just
there and
your mouth is an open grave.