This site has moved

•April 7, 2007 • Leave a Comment

http://www.tunamartini.com

They sing, they all sing.

•March 21, 2007 • Leave a Comment

The choir sang

and the angels

made a crowd

to hear mortals

moan

All the sadness

and hope in this room

could sink battleships

you can tell the strong

from the weak

its in there song

and hidden behind the eye’s

and its hard to see

in the dim light

jazz cafe

My table, where i sat

was united cultures

of friendship

and a trinity

is a tripod

and an easier

leg to stand on

then one’s own

My head was pounding

and I left my body

and hid in the refined

confinement

that happens

when i have a headache

every day since i was seven

and thats not the pain

my people have felt

but my own

and very personal

imagine being a child

and trying to claw your eyes out

or asking your parents

to do it for you

throwing up

was sweet relief

and not the point

of defeat where

I once was drunk

taking hang overs

like heart aches

and moving on

what the Jazz Cafe

My head aches

and my parents

and even this poem

are yearning for

is a forgone conclusion

where there is none

and thats Why life is obscure

and you feel perturbed

when you have a lot to teach

but even more to learn

I lean left on an oreo

and right on a twinkie

and these junk foods

hold more substance

than a fancy meal

served by a snooty waiter

it has more soul

than stolen rock and roll

I have always made new friends

and lost touch with old ones

but we are all brothers

and sisters

How sweet freedom can be

when we allow ourselves to be free

how easy love is

when one drops there heart

dusts it off and runs full speed

into the daydreams

moving at such a high velocity

that it becomes reality

and we are all smiles

and thanks

The choir sings

there sweet escape

giving even more

than what they take.

Disgrace Land

•March 15, 2007 • 2 Comments

Today i sat at a bus stop

a brick bench

outside of a saloon

where drunks got to gathering

and doing what they do best

crawling inside bottles

hidden in the dim lit

atmosphere of another

lost generation

with no definition

sitting out in the sun

I wished them well

and wanted for them

to experience beauty

as I have seen it

but then thought

about how crowded

that might make things

and I have always disliked crowds

but I would never

crown myself a coward

I walk tall

I hold my head up

and saunter regally

The king of the city

regarded as a pauper

On paper

is where my blue blood

spirit flows

and no one knows

but those

who take the time to read

and nurture the seed

and watch it grow

Where do we go

with how little we know

super computers

will one day

take the place of poets

as our hearts become machines

and our dreams are LED lights

when our mothers are bored

with our souls as programs

our binary language

can not defeat the virus

as we watch our lives

pass by us

I am still at a bus stop

not waiting for anything

and enjoying the sun

and I would like to think

it is also enjoying me

Youth in Asia

•March 14, 2007 • Leave a Comment

The difference is the horror

and the happiness

the tears of a clown

is the only

happy medium

I’m rare

and full of rage

making another page

in a long line

of failures

the success

has yet to come

and I don’t plan on it

this is mine

and your just a spy

trying to figure out

my obscurities

in your scrutiny

you find less of your self

I think it’s sad

how you will never know

the hell you cause

and the heaven you stray from

Oh earth angels

why do you hide

behind the cloak of

security

mad men want your blood

and all I want is your tears

so give me your suffering

and I will say

I have suffered as well

give me your tired

and I will offer you my bed

and watch you sleep

a withering creep in the night

stealing your peace

laughing to myself

give me your poor

and I will tell

how I have been poor as well

and that was the time

when i found happiness

or believed in the illusion

going to the well-fair office

my nine dollar fishing pole

and my orange cat

pumpkin, who is dead by now

but lives forever

in an unhappy child hood

of a tiny tin soldier

Chicenitza

•March 13, 2007 • 1 Comment

I wanted to make something beautiful

and my mind went blank

and all I had was this

a pocket full of lost hopes

and broken dreams

a stomach full of hunger

and a heart made out of lead

sometimes my mind

thinks I have cancer

I have to cut it out

and can’t

fearing men in white coats

with rubber gloves

knowing they are

only humane

and if angels

where doctors

and dentist

I might trust them

a little more than I do now

How have we strayed

so far from eden

It should have started off bad

instead of ending in rapture

and after the fire

and brimstone

the meek shall

crawl out of there caves

sun starved

dark dwelling

idiots

to inherit this earth

it is mine for now

and I give it all

with  a small

rate of interest

I do expect you to pay it back

in forms of literature

or live as a character

and be interesting

it is harder

than letting the world

end before you

lets take a stride

past the mold

and be hero’s

of solid gold

W.N.D.

•March 11, 2007 • Leave a Comment

We, the kids of Chaos

who stand distantly divided

and are of the same

shadowy past

over midnights

and trials and tribulations

we emerge

as you imagine

the legions from hell

or fire storms

we burn the wicked

in our wreckage

while leaving shells

of souls

this service

is brought to you

by the weeping mothers

who never knew how to love

we sail her tears to new dawns

if this wasn’t a desert

I could get a drink

something cold and stiff

and I would turn

to anyone who would listen

and say, remember poets

the anti archetypes of men

the down cast

and down trodden

Remember poets

so you don’t forget

how beautiful the sky can feel

or that nothing gold stays

and how each day

is something to be defined

your friends but die in the desert

but not in hearts

there they float forever

in free from

Writers never die

they are just reborn

with every arranged word

and deranged verb

The diction haunts

till your disturbed

with delight

and you cant fight your urge

to find your own courage

so develop your inner deluge

and start with this

never forget poets

writers never die

they are just reborn

Hoarse Hockey

•March 10, 2007 • Leave a Comment

 

 

You want my blood

and I’m just giving you vinegar

and at each step

I am more eager

to feed your fever

fill you up enough

to leave you

hungry

I know change

and depictions

I have seen flowers

as signs of forgiveness

but usually as an admission

of guilt

Your tall stilts don’t stand

so high

I have always given flowers

for the right reasons

like when things suck

or one needs a horticultural hug

I’ll even bring some

to your funeral

and I picked one out

for each and everyone of you

Smell my carnations

my roses

My tulips

and daffodils

sniff till you get a nose full

or carry my pollen

to lovers

and be

beyond existence

it’s where the truth lies

Men behind curtains

and more curtains

with men behind them

and so on

making circles

till I am dizzy

I have never been sick

from a traveling carnival

though i have tried

all the fried dough

and zipper rides

I find myself

on this merry go round

and my stomach is not happy

and neither am I

 
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