christmas takes the prize
i hate it most

serves only as a twisted reminder
of how happy we all used to be

i feel as if i'm the only one who cant hold up

climb into the bathtub
get out of the bathtub

every morning feel again the expanding pain in my chest
measure the severity

have a long stoned talk with myself:
you need perspective
etc etc etc
always darkest before the dawn
etc etc etc
where's your faith in goodness?
etc etc etc

cry a very long time
put the kettle on
these are my mornings

stumble impaired through my days
and find that i hate
mostly everyone and mostly
everything

until it is cold and dark
another of a ceaseless chain of nights
i crawl into my constricting pain

and the christmas lights blink on the tree
on
off
on off

i sedate myself with smoke
a friendly nurse
here, this and then you'll feel much better

til i come down and feel much worse
and the christmas lights blink on the tree
on
off
on off

hit or miss

the days are hit
or miss

sometimes i approach lightness
sometimes I'm cripplingly blue

but when i am low
it feels like a
pain to blanket the senses

a pain that mothers all pain
my chest frozen in a knot
of pure crystalline sadness

i don't know how i stand the sadness
and why it attacks me so
cruel and strong

i start thinking i'm totally fucked

other times i feel i understand
i have lucid moments of peace
they touch me kind
with cool fingers

so i can carry on

lately i have been

i think,

too absorbent of the universe's

absurd, unknowable

mystery.

there's but one cure for such a sickness and that's--

well perhaps there are two,

and those are:

pot of course, its sympathetic, numbing fog,

and

syd barrett secondly,

a kindred spirit for the most self-hating,

those confounded by life,

casualties of the swift hand of reality,

it's knock-down force--

and the cruel pain of love,

a knock-down lonely purgatory in which i rest

well, toss and turn

a sort of vacuum that beats, a prolific pain

it keeps mothering itself anew

these, the things nearest to me lately

musty incense, a glass of port
and an eighth an ounce of pot

hannah and i sit on the carpet
and roll joints all evening long

playing with my cat and talking
about lovers

we're both fresh out
and thank god for that

i have my picture of brian jones
and am more involved
in a sort of lazy shrine-worship

than anything else

my hometown is beginning to feel
like a hometown

where you grow up but not where you live

a teabag run out and dry
or some fruit barren of seeds

time i think
to seek new stomping grounds

it's december, brian jones


my favorite Stone is brian jones
king of the soft-handed gypsies
a diadem
of cold white stars and electric buzz

the winter has come and brought the cold
incense rolls round my bedroom
the light leaves hastily
with the tired setting sun

december is fat this year,
brian jones!
with song, with friends and with wine
the maryjane endless, the
loneliness sweet

no old lovers make me crazy
no old memories daze my head

there is a blanket warm and yellow
and there are candles on the nightstand

and brian jones' quick flash of
crazy heat

like a forgotten pot boiling over
in a moment extreme
hot water rolling down onto the
stove top

an astronomical body
exploding in space

I always think that it will be the last time i write a poem about you
or write a song about you
or write a foolish letter to you

but it never has been so far and maybe it never will

I've been debilitated by memories of first love
they make my life now seem so tuneless
and so loveless

when once I knew how all of it felt -
love, being loved, misery
joy

now i only know that you do not respond
to my letters
too tired of hurting too long

maybe your life really has moved on, as mine should and as it must

but i am still my foolish self
my heart unable to leave the image of
the christmas cactus

new poems

as yet untitled:


midway through november
more hills caught fire

it feels like summer
starting--

crickets droning madly
in the night

hot air rustled only
by hot wind

and a moth found hiding
in the coolness of the refrigerator.

summer is supposed to be
dead and freezing

its legs stuck out
in various disturbing angles

but it stays and holds us
pinned in its strong arms

until we grow weak
cease struggling

become stagnant
and dry

and our grass ignites




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


judith


judith cut his head right off
cradled it in her lap
like a housecat

her white arms bare
and fingers lost
in his dark hair

and her face was without expression
just lit by an ethereal light
as if she was made of flames

i can remember the time
you grabbed my shoulders and shook
allison allison allison
until i had to look back at you

how i should have scratched your eyes out
but sat like a lifeless toy
forgotten stepped on broken
and forgotten again

i was no fun anymore

i feel your grasp on my shoulders
your annoyed sigh
as i sway backwards forwards
beneath your hands

not enough judith in me
to devour you with my flames
to damn you for defacing
what used to be my own

pure and honest heart


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

november morning in berkeley


not just because of you
but for many reasons
i feel i may have
put my mind through too much

it shakes like a leaf
in violent winds
and threatens to snap

saturday morning woke me up
hungover

from a friday night
of vodka in berkeley

and my mind came to a memory
of you
(lately you've been
coming to my mind)

and it seems it never stopped

the thought restlessly paws at me

if i had a buck
for every time i thought of you
i'd be a rich lady
headed to the opera

but it rains
and i'm headed to san francisco
for the day

i've lost my bearings in
the sea of fog

and the smoke of
too many
(poorly rolled) joints

and i grope but cant feel
the beginning or the end
to all these blues

only you and you
whether i am here or there

or in transit
between the two
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------