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3 Poems by Carter Monroe |
Bukowski Headed To Nashville "Let it be known that on June 7, 2001, Dude discovered Charles Bukowski. A little bird sat on my shoulder and read it with me. The bird cracked up and fell a couple of times." Edison Edwards a caustic mugginess surrounds the territories this day light becomes dots - the phone is scratchy - the banjo sits in the corner beckoning, work -vs- play the theme he reads of morning vomit, first light beers, and a dirty bathtub replete with lines and green and rusty water the women are there, always, and buk don't make love somewhere, probably a clock radio, there's a bach fiddle song running up and down a consciousness held together by cynicism and a fifth of scotch the nasties come from time to time, but he chooses not to separate the fear - emotions are all the same the only thing that's funny - that makes him laugh is the over and over seeking of rut - the white rat negotiating the corporate trails - the cheese is somewhere at the end w/a BMW and a time-share every night in tunesia how strange you should refuse to know that I know that you should hide in eastern jungian confines anima/animus melting in a forge of buddha hardening to keep the heart from itself no bellows can cool such a cauldron of loss i'm freudian as such, there's no medicine here the fortresses of books, magazines, local dailies keep the public verbal dogs at bay - a cage without windows from which you could view your insides collectively meshed is more than a trap you've set for yourselves unacknowledged and "i don't want to think about that now" parents gone, eaten alive, offsprings back and forth ignoring the innocence, pursuing the guilt - the path is too tough, has always been stymied by shame the blankets spread about, the order you require all this i know as I sit with eyes closed my own closure being sought in fantasy of word and sound VISIONS OF INEBRIO VI. caricatured insomniac peeps through a bellicose vein les and eddie, carter and ralph, zappa and varese fiddling around in sync to a series of constellations that ramificate in a cerebral bouquet of metaphor untouched by misunderstanding and confusion is an infected battering ram leading to a platonic MRI he don't wish it was christmas 'cause there'd be real people, flesh-and-blood types, walking in and out of this wood/brick/vinyl/carpeted studio arrangement and they'd be saying, "i like it, but i don't understand it" and he don't know howta take that 'cause it's the same way he feels about most things, primarily foodstuffs "why do ya call it a casserole" but yes, there's a rapture, a sweet, cunning barbarosa medicine man in route to mexico to sweat out his mind in clay construction of resurrective initiatives cloaked in a post-mescaline haze, purposely masterful in a sort of strict nine manner - the closet door can't be locked away, so light is something he'll have to deal with
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