From NOEBIE.net
The poems and lyrics included here have been written in the 21st Century. They are presented without context or unifying theme, other than my own halting pen, eclectic interests and prodigal nature.
Many, though by no means all, of them were written using Burroughs' cut-up technique, which is one of my favorite tools for getting my ego out of the way of the creative energy.
i look up to the heavens sunday night
if there’s a star up there to wish on
i don’t see it
if there’s a prayer
or an incantation
i don’t
know it
if there’s a reason
to believe
in anything
i suppose i believe
in leaving
well enough alone
i solemnly swear
or affirm
i swear
it’s not the tragedies that
kill us
it’s the paper
cuts
that awkward thing where
the woman who calls you her husband
reaches for your hand and tries to interlace fingers
she never does that – not in all these years
and it’s like somebody just tried to hand you a spider or
a bucket of something repulsive
and you pull your hand away and shudder
ew
was that out loud?
also, you’re in the same mall
where you strolled with your lover
just days ago
fingers interlaced
where you had your picture taken in one of those
coin-op photo booth things with the curtain
you still carry the pictures
of smiles and passionate kisses
in your wallet
and you’re coming upon the photo booth now
and the woman who calls you her husband
suddenly gets this great idea
he stands
blue
against a gray sky
memory
it’s loose gravel underfoot
you
remember one thing
you remember
another
and then the thing you wanted to forget
the bitter wind
chafes his cheeks
collar raised and
face set
he steps toward the abyss