May 31, 2005
Real Estate
rumagged through the rental section;
for the skin of your teeth
they can set you up pretty nicely
the waitress is polishing barnacles
and her length
makes her a target
for my crockpot dialog
after all
the curves of her magnesium
are flush to the shadows
and her halo is dimly lit
my wife carries around
a pack of razor blades
for moments just like this
to make sure my hands remain
outside
the sample bag
embryos float inside the lava lamp
and I need another drink
but the man sitting on the broken rail
is burning a hole
through his fingernail
and the bartender is listening
to no one
the sunlight is falling
apart
through the duct taped windowpanes
above the poker machine
I can see a blind man
stepping off a bus
and I feel a certain amount of envy
for his shoes
only a three toed sloth
could maintain the proper amount
of urgency
when it comes to finding a place
to settle
in this city of transients
Posted by Drexler at 09:48 AM
May 30, 2005
Inspiration to Stay Put
"New Orleans; if you can make it here, don't leave"
found scrawled on the bathroom wall at Markey's
Posted by Drexler at 08:55 AM
May 27, 2005
Montezuma and the Hood
montezuma tequila
and flecks of angel dust
on my wingtips
a liquor store
minus the liquor
is worth about the same
as a broad in tight jeans
minus the zipper
driving a Pontiac with Michigan plates
but I'm just the chauffuer
leading the sheep to an assassination
from the rear of the procession
gas station fluxuations
and rest stop chamberpots
drive thru gutbusters
and deep fried delivery menus
inside rooms with broken handles
and screwed down alarm clocks
broken glass
beneath the underpass
I wear the miles on my face
like a set of dentures
1100 miles from the 2nd scene
broken socks
and a throttled liver
Im ready for
the season's finale
before I'm written
off
Posted by Drexler at 09:11 PM
May 16, 2005
the monitor (7/2003)
we look to the videography
for approval
the monitor lies
but it tells us
what we need to know
cushions our
tender embrace
our shuffled
moments of passion
I prefer
lovers lane
in the back alley
the ravaged flesh
the unbridled passion
the skirts
that have no hard time
gathering
when I kiss
your mouth
the wonderland of fortune...
the hiatus I take
from the rest of the world...
the place that we frequent
when those who lie
lie lazy
and allow us to drift
I love you
for the freedom you allow
for the words that you speak
into my ear
like the realization
of a dream
like the answer
to my prayer
if there is any justice
my love
then this tempered affair
will remain undisturbed
Posted by Drexler at 05:21 PM
Hencho en Venice (5/2003)
its only when I walk
down Speedway
or am riding my bike
along the boardwalk
after dark
that I giggle like an otter
how much I love this place
when all else
fails like usual
there is still my city
to keep my spirits soaring
Venice, my dear
is the only sanctuary
worth coveting
she trickles down the vine
into my glass
whenever it is running
on empty
she is the lady that I
will never cradle
but at least shall
treasure in my eulogy
the rest,
hookers, sloths, dissidents;
they can gather the carnage
from the summer crews
remains
I will balance the historics
and straighten the B&W photos
neatly inside the appropriate columns
as long as there is some 80 proof sludge
to keep my mind
fuzzy around the edges
never will I
do anything newsworthy
but at least I was a part
of an era
a time and place
that was as irresistible
as it was irrepressible
Posted by Drexler at 05:10 PM
the art of communication
we are busy either
polishing each others brass
or
tiptoeing across eggshells
when serious inquiries
are unholstered
every response or offering is a mixed drink
watered down
no one goes for the shot glass solution
the sugarcoated pill
band-aids with purple dinosaurs on them
are more the modern method
for most ages and wages
perhaps thats why I fail
with the female populace
they dont expect what i give
and I expect nothing less than what I offer
but asking for the truth
with a poker face
is calling your own bluff
the results end friendships, marriages
and other harmonious illusions
when someone you love
asks for the truth
be sure not to mistake it
for what they really want
and once youve settled on what that is
orchestrate it as gracefully as possible
the truth is the disfigurement
best kept beneath a robe
Posted by Drexler at 05:02 PM
turned on your back
I carry the cat
over to where the roach lies
feet upturned
striking at the air
the cat looks at me
green ovals puzzled
as if to say:
'you took me from my resting place in the sun, for this?'
I apologize
and walk away
kill another beer
and stare at the hole in the wall
Once there was a photo over it
a nail in the hole
but the nail came out
when the woman took the photo
and smashed it on the floor
I step onto bits of glass
from time to time
they clarify any doubts
I may be having
about our differences
another beer
glance over
and find the cat
back on it haunches
toying with the roach
fascinated by
a hopeless struggle
that can only end
in defeat
I throw my beer
at the cat
and turn off
the light
Posted by Drexler at 04:53 PM
Chilito Brigante
brewin a batch of chili
with the fundamentals to go
I sparkalize a bowl
and let the current tow
theatre in the forest
dramatizes the inner city
the abcess of people
make the cynicism seem witty
or witless
depending if youre on thier hit list
my greatest hits
have yet to be recorded
yet the image of the facts
appear to be distorted
Ive got alligator boots
and a hat mad of straw
mermaids got crabs
to hand over a claw
or two
or two times four is eight
as I run out of time
to conjure up a date
that states to the effect
that I was home alone
when my car drove itself
into a cellular phone
Id botch the pattern
or whatever you wanna call it
if my belly were as empty
as the ass end of my wallet
see you in the river
I'll see you in the bed
I'll see mercury on the sundial
dancing around like the dead
Posted by Drexler at 04:43 PM
In the Grease
I woke up one morning
with nothing to say
the crows were crawing
from power pole perches;
puzzled by the sun
I stood in the shade
and followed a trail of ants
working maniacally
around a lake of soda syrup
I had nothing to say
to the blonde skirt
posing with indifference
unaware of the dust
settling on her style
the cars came shuffling along
and didnt seem so different
from the ants
only a difference in size
made them distinguishable
from one another
and I had nothing to say
to any of them
Posted by Drexler at 04:38 PM
memoirs of a wilting
it was not my own crime
but one which I had acquired
I traded the rights to my mid thirties
for six weeks on the road
with a woman who was
already spoken for
she wore one of those, rocks
on her finger
that
was the first, and last
thing we sold
it resides
in a pawnshop,
a few acres outside of
Albuquerque
I had a dufflebag
and a camera
she had about the same
or maybe a little more
those type of details
were not
what I was paying attention to
her skirt rose
and fell back high
with the guidance of my able bodied hand
the sunlight hit places
it had not previously reached
and she reached a place
that was famous
for its shooting stars
this was to go on
for weeks on end
under the various guises
of stralight
sunlight
moonlight candlelight
we robbed liquor merchants
of their finest wares
and rewards
with my shiny silver pistola
and sped away
in her cool blue machine
like a tidal wave
later
the retina of the desert
focused on the dusk
and blended the elements;
creating one hell of a photo
which of course
I took
evevrything was in its right place
we had no time
to even draw breath
it was a precaution
we had agreed upon
if only
to forestall the event
of waking up next to
a disappointment
or the reality
which waited for us
underneath headlights
and obligations that we had burned
on the fire
our second night out
gas is cheap
compared to chains
that most folks
secure to thier souls
I think the road ahead
stretches farther back
than it is obliged to reciprocate
at least that
is what we are hoping for
Posted by Drexler at 04:21 PM
minarets
turn my back on the sunset
only to be confronted by the moon
by the glow of displaced light
reflected on mirrored eyes;
the faces of minarets
rows of brick and cinder
ribs filled with starlight
entertain the coming dusk
tidy hurricanes whip the sand
furnishing the seagulls
with nervous tendencies
gold tassels dance chipperly along her shifting balance
copper tones and silken curves
annihilate common sense or chilvary
smoke strings itself through the windows crease
wisps along the senses trail
ignites some mid summer afternoon ideas
here
in the dead calm of winter
Posted by Drexler at 04:14 PM
Q
...parachuting the moon...
a springtime falsetto, many nights abroad
linger in our daily yearning
romanticized
as we sleep beneath the frozen earth
tending light for an empty hourglass
veins of icy water lay bare their arms
in the industraial centers of commerce
in the congested defunct fairgrounds
in the defeated alleyways
of Venice
history deconstructs the truth
narrowly escapes destruction
like foam exploding under the weigh of water
in winter, the waves fall with a certain
permanence
echoing our fears that the tide is shifting
that the years ahead
will not be as forgiving
as the ones we have lost
find comfort in whatever form
they will be sure to condemn
nothing is owed
to the celibate practicioners of life
I have no doubt
that when the dust settles
we will be under it
Posted by Drexler at 04:03 PM
wooden boxes
felt ribbons
lying on a grave marker;
strictly regulate my double standards
sworn to sobriety
toast it with a shotgun shotglass
negligee satin touch
virgin skin alluding to wet apint
organized mayhew, calculated clutter set aside
luckily no one pays as much attention as I
to the dirt beneath my fingerprints
to the cowardice behind the wisp of my smile
the absence of echoes, of voices
fill the canyon inside
draw silence from the heavens
these thefts in my heart
sever any hope of sunlit afternoons
by draping themselves over
the skylight to my soul
if only an utterance of relief
were a memoir
rather than something
to aspire to
Posted by Drexler at 03:57 PM
whisky and the wetlands (9/2003)
shadows writhe under the tarmac
a concrete sky
bolted secure by the approach of autumn
I line my glass with Bushmills
drop down into the unemployed position
and watch the disolve occur
the sunlight
the moonlight
wax figures in motion
pigeons contemplating a dialog
with a plastic owl
nothing lasts longer
than the waitng room blues;
the lateral movement
(still months away)
weighs against the wallet
the lining in both it, and my liver
are enough cause to pause for a refill
the woman i love
leaves me with good liquor and dope
she knows there is more than one way
to distract
the motion sickness that I incur
whenever the wheels
dislodge the rust
and begin to turn
she knows other things
without me having to paint them
under my eyelashes
or on my tombstone
it is easy
to love a woman like that
one day
this will all be murky
and I
will be far removed
from it
sipping on someone else's finest
sweating it out on a weathered couch
losing daylight
as I try and decide how far
the clock will turn
before I decide to tune it out
like everything else
Posted by Drexler at 03:47 PM
everyday
the sad days exude
they furnish us with blonde curtains
hung on jade hairpins
waiting to sway
on an afterthought
the sad days keep
all the synthetic blends,
the paisly patterns
with beveled tides
on the other side
of the bars
on the sad days
water falls from broken flower pots
from the rod iron balconies
that support them
working between stone
and concrete
working back towards
the earth
on the sad days
snippets of laughter
spill through the irony
that keeps you caged
and well fed
it burns through the facade
so poorly concealed
it makes
the sad days seem
like the only possibility
Posted by Drexler at 02:39 PM
into the blue
so, one last fraud
a final diversion
from the tomb
even though
it is yet to be shaped
tomorrow, vows are taken
consequences are exchanged
and full speed ahead
into the blind night
stroking our dreams like a tender child
headlong into the challenge
a voyage for two
into the open air of life
Posted by Drexler at 02:28 PM
thermograph
take down the window dressing
take off that confusing skirt
all I need is a bottle
and a spiritual guide
to lead me through
your mechanics
to solve this
continental drift
its cold in this bitch
and Robert Johnson aint comin through
too clear
on the transistor sound
vodka and the sale tag juice
will waddle me through
comin in here
wrapped in your burnt ivory towel
reading this trash
kissing my mouth
in spite of it
I'll wrap my paws in petals
if it makes you feel any safer
down here in the dark
behind these mile high windows
cracked panes and all
last night
the parade ran through the streets
we guzzled down the concoctions
and snatched up some memorbilia
I flashed off some frames
for the people in the mailboxes;
spread far and wide
back in the zone
we no longer occupy
Posted by Drexler at 02:19 PM
the zombie
using my cock
as a coaster
isnt exactly
what I had in the works
for the 7AM
fuckaround
I can tell
by the look on your face
that you
didnt either
now
its vodka
and Polaroids
its
writng
with this pen
on your ass
to make the connection
between the two
Posted by Drexler at 02:14 PM
strays
girls with mashed noses
no elegance of the fawn
in these grease stained t-shirts
sleeves rolled up
revealing bruises, whose origins
remain unkempt
no bras to fill
with an echo of youth
the raw tongue of the nipple
desperate for shelter from the magnetic eyes
from the notations of the lustful
that wander the streets
bleached hair in oily strands
slung back to wherever it hangs
and the hungry eyes
garnished with a dab of mascara;
remains form a better day
they write
a sullen song
a hint of truth
an executed murmur
behind the shuttered curtains
somewhere beyond the blue;
the stained glass of the sea
Posted by Drexler at 02:01 PM
sinking clocks (12/2003)
the writing is on the wall
over the fresh paint
I'm diggin in deep
for the long haul
down
the old man cautioned me to the wind
about the inevitable decay
how was I
to circumvent
the phantom of decline
how was I
to navigate the stitches
in the backseat of my mind
Ive barely had the time
for dust to collect upon my bags
and already
I find myself eyeing them
so eager to make the leap
into the new;
just a shadow of the cliff
on the other side of the old
some come to this town
to die
that was not my intention
nor was it
a reservation
but I imagine that's the reason why
some of us
end up sticking around
we suffer from an idiom
called hope
it suffers
no one
Posted by Drexler at 01:51 PM
Return of a Native
the surrounding had me feeling
surrounded
under a microscope, in the spotlight
rather than diving into the pool
I dove into a fifth of agave plant
skipping the lime
forsaking a pledge
that the others wish I would make
clearing the room
has always been my greatest art
I can clear out an entire house
if I really let my mouth wander, if I get enough fluids
sometimes, I attempt to keep my mouth closed
but then I open it to drink and everything just
spills out
usually at top volume
but isnt that what I'm here for?
tragic comedy relief?
dont people come to see
the drunk perform?
like a three headed snake
like the bearded lady
it seems to me
it seems to be
my calling
my act has not aged well
no
the fawns arent exactly wrapping themselves
around the magnet
anymore
even the faithful have begun
to carry a tire iron
paranoia;
friend of the thinking man
keeping things out of the shadows
keeping me
in the dark
you can't domesticate the urge
to believe the whole world
is against you
because they are
I steal enough glances
to read people's thoughts
convincingly
hospitality
sometimes binds the hands
it embraces
but i cant see how there is any time for that
right now
these threads
are slipping
scattering like dust
when a law is laid down
I need a new act
I need a new venue
I need a rest
just as much
as everyone else
Posted by Drexler at 01:32 PM
it called for play 39 (5/2004)
so there she is
in the mirror
holding her eye
screaming 'there it is, I can see it!"
later on
"we call this one here;
the stirrin the molasses"
said he
as he worked circles around her lower garden district
thing are definetly looking up
(I think)
when you start reffering to your life
as your career
while in the 3rd person
anyhow...
I started giving it to her
like an epileptic
Miles Davis and his crew
blew their goddamn horns
kinda like Im blowin mine
and when finally
I left the room
so to
did the music
I washed my dagger in the sink
and cackled like a wild coot
she started singing
about how my shit wasnt so hot
and as long as she's singing that tune
we all know
everything's gonna be alright
Posted by Drexler at 01:20 PM
harmony amongst beasts (2/2004)
not too long ago
the world was a much smaller
place to inhabit
there was the grocers
the liquor locker
and the cube where I
put it all together
but 1200 miles
on the 10 east
and 2000 square feet
at a foot below sea level
changed all that
and while once I was
a caged bird
there is now
a feline
in here with me
but perhaps I should be grateful
at least there is more space
in the cage
and someone to keep me
from falling asleep at the wheel
Posted by Drexler at 01:12 PM
May 15, 2005
dog bus
wrapping twine around my possessions
getting them ready for the cross country ride
on the dog bus
two days and a few hours
with some of america's
finest examples:
the unforgiven
the forgotten
the forsaken
the fuct
it will be:
fast food in the slow lane
small children with huge lungs
fixed windows with broken air
large bags in short spaces
hard stares on soft skin
it will be
my long legs
with nowhere to go
but numb
I'm looking forward
to the destination
but in this case
I could do without
the journey
Posted by Drexler at 05:55 PM
May 13, 2005
Ladies
regard the society of women
as a necessary unpleasantness of life.
and avoid it
as much as possible
Leo Tolstoy
Posted by Drexler at 05:09 PM
May 12, 2005
the jacket (6/2003)
Ive got someones lip gloss
smeared on my mouth
and somehow
that gets me to thinking
about Pablo Neruda
and his doves
so well concealed
so readily revealed
the fluid in my spine
is slowly returning
to my brainpan
but im not sure that it will help
much
with this jacket
that found its way onto my back
Ive never seen it before
everyone likes
the way it smells
but it is not a scent
that I recognize
certainly not
my own
not that this leads me
towards any thoughts
of actually taking it off
it keeps me warm
and in rotation
but I get the feeling
that they will bury me in it
in other news
the gloaming
lies in a handful of dust
that I left outstretched for charity
its a word I just learned
and figured Id use it
before I found out what it means
not even the melancholy sirens
of distant harmonies
have much to lay on the table tonight
other than reflections
of a face Id rather see in the travel section
the walk to the corner market
only takes a few minutes
maybe I will do something
constructive
on my way
on my way
to buy the poison
that keeps me alive
Posted by Drexler at 12:59 PM
delivery contestants (6/2003)
struggling with the reverb;
It seems
that the neighbors pipe
is taller than their lungs
that their television
is louder than ear plugs
I placed an order
for some Thai cuisine
feeling little sympathy
for the creatures above
whose culinary designs
and cinematic preferences
this evening
sound to be of a
lower criteria
than my own
there are better things
than frozen microwaves
and the endless remote control
for the palette
but of course
there is no need to stress
any of the choices
that might raise questions
among the cobwebs they inhabit
added a new member
to my family in the courtyard today
neighbors paused to inquire
into my lifestyle,
to add their ten cents
on the layout of the cacti
I just sipped tequila
and smiled...beneath the surface
down here
we dont pay much attention
to the idiot box rabbit ears
of cultural banality
we dont listen to the ghost stories
they tell
about the boy who whistled tunes
that no one else knew
he had a beautiful voice
that no one ever heard
he had a charming smile
that no person ever saw
he had tales to tell
that no one would ever believe
no
down here
is where the ghost stories
are written
just ask the dust
Posted by Drexler at 11:29 AM
May 11, 2005
empty fifths
hollow chambers
and empty cylinders
together, they consume the day
dirty dishes dont have much time
to be what they are
everything is spic and span
everything is broken
falling out of the family tree
wrapped in a mexican blanket
there are tortillas and rice
but no cervezas, in the icebox
rain is falling against plated glass
while wind cuts through the sycamore
and the clouds;
they keep the volume low
lower than I care for it to be
the telephone is ringing
but there is no one
at the other end
just digits and machinery
doing their bit
my inner space
is well furnished
but this outside world
is desolation
sitting here
in a shoeshine chair
a long way
from where I need to be
just waiting on a bus
that will take us
back to the sunlight
back to the songs and dance
that still resonate in my mind
Posted by Drexler at 03:56 PM
May 08, 2005
The Art of Living
art turns the world
not the deities
when you fly over Los Angeles
or Athens
the housing tracks
and their cookie cutter design
every third one, a repeat of the first
designed by mathematicians
and bankers
That is art
it is the art of calculators
and inside those homes;
the same
those with the lazy eye
not to see beyond the domino effect
that they have chosen, that it creates
and recreates
everywhere
from the dishes
down to the cutlery
from the oxford knot
down to the 9 to 5 cubicle
all the way down
to the children that they bear
this is art as well
the art of manicured machinery
for that is what one becomes
a machine
and after so many years in that style:
a broken one
when you are riding in the back of a bus
through the slums of Mexico
or Burma
the ragged piecemeal shacks
all in rows
staggered, like the lurching steps of a drunk
each unique to its neighbor
in the way of its varying scraps of color
and the condition of broken boards
the shapes of corrugated metal
that form them
Unique
but the same
to the despair
to the lives
that live within them
this too is art
the art of hoplessness
passed from one generation
to the next
from one regime
to another
what one man may simply discard
another may find, his only possession
and the distance between them
does not exist
not here
nor there
at least not in any practical sense
this too is art
the art of poverty
and for them
both those who live inside the cookie cutters
and those in the shacks
it is only while in the presence of plaster saints
and stained glass icons
inside the white vaulted funnels
decorated with the thorned man
bleeding from the wrists
and feet
hanging from the cross he was meant to bear
for the practical purposes of the guilt basket
passed among those with nothing
or close to it
and into the hands of those who sleep in silk
and solitude
It is only here
that they are led to believe that such lives
as those which they live
are necessary, and good
for there is a man; one who stands
while they must kneel
one who instructs
that they must beg
for forgiveness
for trying to get through the day
through the world
through life
they are told: suffer
it is required
it should be cherished
it will prepare you
For how can you know joy
if you cant endure tenures of misery?
How can you recognize clarity
if you wont submit to senility?
How can you be shown the right path
if youre always making your own decisions?
How do you know you ever really loved someone
unless they are taken away from you, from the living
by your friend; Jesus Christ?
For there is a better place, my friends
Above the clouds
Behind the stars
Beyond your understanding
Never Never Land
I think it is called
and when your bones
finally lie bleaching in the sun
or the worms get into the box and take to the flesh
You just might be allowed entry
or perhaps, given a residence
in this, 'Promised Land'
as long as your coins and banknotes
continue to land in the basket
What is this place like, you might ask?
Well,
its all biscuits and gravy
You'll be fitted in free flowing white linens
that dont ever wrinkle, or, get dirty
for there is no dirt in heaven
only soil
You will not have to pay taxes
or for gasoline either
and you will sleep soundly,
if sleep is what you desire
You can feast with the Saints
or dine with the virgins
Yes, you can move about freely
and visit with everyone youve ever loved, and lost
Well, that is, if they subscribed to our Laws of Devotion
But then again
who among you would want to mingle with sinners and non-subscribers?
Heaven:
It is, my child, whatever youd like, or, need, it to be
Go ahead, fill in the blanks.
It sounds pretty swell, doesnt it?
'Yes, very much so, but whats the catch?'
Well, there are a few conditions
the fine print, as they say
You must dismantle your robust spirit, Pride we call it
and that free thinking way of life, must cease
Snuff out your desires as well, they are slothful
anything that brings pleasure is evil, a sin
and you must devote your life to idol worship
study your bible, if youve read Mellville
youll see the similarities
also, being a Republican might help
You look troubled by all this my son
but you need not be
for this is not life
that you are experiencing now
this is just a precursor
a test
for the eternal episode
If you screw up once in awhile;
its OK, just come and beg for forgiveness in my little wooden booth
Oh, so many sins that you are guilty of, already, by default
but if you say ten hail marys and rub your beads
nothing you do will be counted against you
you are Forgiven
However, if you REALLY fuck up
If you are, for instance; a non-believer
lacking the common sense needed to comprehend
that a man walked on water
or parted the red sea
or in He, who rose from the dead to save you from yourself
Well, dont expect an elevator ride upstairs
or a free pass on the the winged chariots to the golden gates
Nope, straight to Hell for you boy
Fire and Brimstone, red men with horns, pitchforks
Hitler's there, Richard Burton too
An ugly scene all and all
Read Dante's Divine Comedy, the Ciardi translation
youll get the idea
'But how do I know that all that you say is true?'
'FAITH my boy, Faith
you must trust in me, follow me blindly
no need to question things, for I am a sheperd
and you are my sheep...
'all right, sign me up'
And so this is art as well
it is the art of manipulation
the art viewed and sold
to the confused
the dying
the lost
it is the art for those who reach inside for answers
but can only conjure up their ignorance and doubt
And the artists of manipulation know that smell
of the ignorant, the confused, the scared and the meek
The artists know.
They dont even have to come knocking
They know that they will come; the lost, on their own
they always have, they always will
and to no fault of their own
sometimes the world just seems
like it has nothing better to offer
sometimes
its just too hard to find
and of those who reach inside
when in need
and CAN conjure up the answers
or at least, a sense of direction
and are empowered by it
Those who find sunlight in the shadows
That can break free from the chains of the conveyer belt
Free their hearts from the vice grip
Well, they are the lucky ones
because for them life is not a queue in which one waits
for a transfer from this place, to a Sunday morning fairytale
it is not a purgatory which one must endure
while one awaits a vision of some well crafted mirage
No
It is an adventure, a challenge, and a thing of beauty
I feel this every day
in the curves of the woman sleeping beside me
on the mirrored streets of reflected neon
in the shifting colors of the gloaming
at the bottom of a bottle that swelled with fine agave spirits
in the images crafted by men, attached to the spines of literature
in the birdsong at dawn, beneath a foriegn flag
in the laughter of the innocents in playgrounds and schoolyards
I find it everywhere
It is there, if you resign yourself to finding it
you only have to open your eyes
and awaken your senses
To have faith in yourself
and in those who have faith in you
If you can do this
then there is no need to worship false idols
and follow in the footsteps of the great majority
and this is art too
This, my friend
is the art of living
Posted by Drexler at 11:32 AM
May 03, 2005
the ruffle of wings
curling around the sing song of a flame
is not a realistic heating resolution
but I admire your poetic license
and creative anatomy arrangements
there are easier ways to say that
but they are not to be said by me
falling from the treetop
while waving a white flag
was not my idea of surrender either
however
it was either that
or say that I was sorry
and we both know how cold
hell can get
on a day life that
perhaps I will be draped kindly
across the riverbed
as coyotes howl at the misjustices
that they inflict
maybe they will pause momentarily
and hear the ruffling of my wings
lying dead on the earth
remembrance
it is all that I covet
from afar
Posted by Drexler at 01:46 PM
May 02, 2005
hyaline
it was at this point:
tantalized by streaks of light,
Dylan speaking sense,
that my bandwidth collapsed
indefinitely
I've seen this face in the mirror
far too often
scuttling around with a broken back
looking for that final straw
so that I may make amends
with my maker
so that I may make love
to a blurred notion
and chamomile textures
there are no more nations
to conquer blindly
or request with a straight face
Every color of the rainbow
has been charted and mathematically solved
that photo I never took;
worn smooth and shallow
by the crease where the watermark lies
That can only mean
that my thoughts linger on past endeavors
where some kind of imagined glory lies bloated
sharing with me a dog-eared grin
and a port of call, or maybe it was a bottle of port
a sense of accomplishment
for accomplishing little other
than dropping the ball
What does the world have to offer me
to keep my interest
before I insult the wrong person
with cloak and dagger tactics in mind
27 years has been long enough
to realize everything else is just a re-run
or a repackaging of some previous flame I nurtured
into smoke and darkness
Posted by Drexler at 06:41 PM
little beasts
with time to kill
and the things in my mind
closing in on a stillbirth
I stepped out into the mystique
and closed along the magnetic pull
seating myself on the pagoda at the end of Sunset Cr.
the triumph of the sea
swelling pragmatically under the cobalt mirror
couldnt snatch the attention from
the usual parade of athletic prostitution
all the aggressively well geared folk
ears capsulated with the sony
springing along in their nikes
only their little beasts know the joy
of a mad scramble in the morning
leaping and chewing on their ties and binds
pulling their roller girls with the high speed chase vigor
romping about like a wayward drunk on the sand
while the cement runners speak into their xylophones
disrupting the nurturing calm of the sea
cracking my focus on the natural
and redirecting it to my current issues
of dismal proportion
women who drive you all over the chart
throw cold water on your smile
I nurture them the best I can
something to do with love
but little to do with the state of grace I need to possess
to endure the tragedies that I see off in the distance
out past the lifeguard station and the sandpipers
beyond the confused structure of choice and neccesite
beyond the minor stumbling blocks that little beasts overcome,
in order to enjoy the simple pleasures of this life
at times like this
I know who is really on the leash
and have no clue
about anything else
Posted by Drexler at 06:28 PM
smoked salmon
tarter sauce or blood
I cant tell which it is
staining my to do list
there were no torn limbs hanging from
the eucalyptus tree
it was a savage garden in the lowlands
where I chose to seek rest
apparitions were heavy
but agitators were few
it was never less than a hundred
in the shade
if I never wake
let me rest
the contents of my remains
have already passed along
the news
sorry I didn’t give any notice
about the sudden divorce
of spirits
its just that I
never knew I had my own
as the lime fizzles
and the motor
is left running on a different schedule
I thread the high-wire act
with a slipknot
and call for a witness to the prosecution
there is no easier time
than tomorrow
Posted by Drexler at 06:23 PM
Nora and the Silkworm
it is quiet tonight
I find menial things to examine
brew up some stale bread and minestrone
on the gas range
I shake the orange juice bottle
and fill a glass
I read 170 pages of Celine
in relative obscurity
over the period of 5 hours
clicking on the machine
once in a while
to see if you’re around
but youre not
and it all emits such silence
even the stereo
dares not to speak above
a whisper tonight
soon I’ll pack it in
after struggling
with this page for a bit longer
I’ll cast off the remaining lights
and wrestle your absence
into a dream
to only be awakened
by the promise of your voice
Posted by Drexler at 06:20 PM
real men
whatever happened to the days
when men drank
like they wanted it to kill them
all I see now are these sows
who say no no, one glass is enough
I don’t know about you brother
but when I want to celebrate
or dwell
I don’t need a drink
I need a bottle
and that’s just to prime my pump
Id just assume assassinate my image, born from christ’s
(as they're so eager to remind me)
than uphold some frivolous code of righteous plasticity
the lawmakers and Mary Kay adhesive artists
are nowhere to be found after that closing time phone call
when flares burn in your sockets
and the bones in your hands ache from the unconscious process
that’s the time when a bottle of sloth
plays the role of shoulder and shipmate
listening at whatever station
you choose as your temptress of debasement
In the morning
there is silence with such stationary objects
unlike the ones
who take no time in firing verbal lightning
into your splitting skull
unlike our friend
who is always happy to oblige the 8 AM urge
unless it has nothing left to offer
though it usually has a friend just down the road
if you have the proper tools of procurement
something to drown out her banality
and uncouth barbiturates
in the end, what will any of it matter
we’re all worm meat
at least a few of us will get our fill
while the rest sip from glass straws
and puree the calories
Posted by Drexler at 06:13 PM
teeth are falling
yeah, the dust ruffle is not nearly as low
as the depths I will plunge to
to drive a stake into my headstone
waiting with the roaches, with the forgotten stones
for the bus to deliver me a little closer to solitude
I fend off the chill
curse the resurgent delays that mime
the wonderwall despondency I find grotesque
and later
when I spark kindling across the chastity belt
of some golden-tressed nymph
I hesitate to delay the improbable
for all the obvious reasons
they should make a guidebook for
all the gridlocked souls we commonly ignore
passing us in the street, at the dinner table
and other oddly familiar places
I inject novocaine into my conscience
so I can digest my daily routine
etc, etc…
better to pour them
long and strong
better to pretend
theres someone out there who cares
we should never give the truth
a moment to settle the dust
Posted by Drexler at 06:10 PM
seated near the debris
up with the rabbits
down with the foxes
that’s my m.o.
if you can untangle
the urban hymn aspect of it
never to clever to forget about
leaving a trail of crumbs
for the literally challenged
I am not so gifted,
or cosmetically short changed
that I need to go around handing out bitter pills
to the day glow crowd
I just like writing manuals
in braille
I craft several ceramic charlatans
from the usual female mold
engrave the most devastating features
that I can rummage from my barstool memoirs,
from the plagiarism notebook
that we all engage when the inkpot is fuct
anything original is a myth
if we don’t consciously take
the subconscious is always on the lookout
for an easy grift
at three in the morning I’m out in the alley
waving a pistola at that evenings mistake
hurling one truism on top of another
she tries to run me down
just like a Johnny Cash song
but I toss a discarded chair through her rearview
she screeches away like a banshee
back into the jungle, from whence she came
I go back to the hole at the bottom
of the stairs
and pour a tall one
sit down at this word trap
and get down to the brass tacks
Posted by Drexler at 06:06 PM
orange blossom special
sparrows are chewing bark off the rings under your eyes
its no wonder
you look a little older than you really are
I poured antifreeze into the queen size
see if I couldn’t stir up some heat between us
but you were hung up
on the Johnny Cash playing on the Victorola
so I whipped up some potatoes and boiled some corn
packed my bags
and headed for the highest rise in the county
the clouds were running like mascara
across the face of the jaded sky
wheat swooned to the serenades
of the seductress wind
I crawled up the dirt road
and lied out under the shade of an acacia
a jug of wine by my side
near where she used to lie like a hot poker
on evenings when the fire that burned inside of me
matched its intensity
now, I just listen for the wolves
that come crawling out of me
plunder the wine
and raise an axe to this tree
so no memory goes undestroyed
no proof to remain
of something that died
long before the coming of fall
Posted by Drexler at 06:01 PM
jaw jacking winos
in the end
it was all due to hip fever
and a labyrinth of whiskey and rum
that I had my heel punctured
by an old canine friend of mine
now that I think of it
I stepped on her hip
her bad hip
that’s when I got my ticket punched
why was I walking backwards you might ask?
one of the jaw jacking winos
was twirling her batons
how was I
a man of high moral aptitude
expected to miss a feat like that?
I was only trying to make my way
to the water closet
why the dog was in my path
only Ulysses could say
as I said before
I had hip fever
watching the whirling dervishes
throw their mantles around
its true
I was in a bit of debauched daze
the antique rum I had gambled on
was gathering no dust
the whiskey was etched
in the grooves of the stylus
how was I to know that my dogs dog
had teeth that wise?
privy to my profligacy?
so anyhow
blood began to flow
all over the recently steam cleaned job
the women ran around with stain remover
and blood soaked napkins
I just oozed and sipped on my cocktail
eventually we plugged them up
the holes
and I limped my way
to the toilet
for that elusive piss
when I returned
there was hardly a trace
of my demise
people began showing up
and the girls had a story to tell
needless to say
there was no more hip fever
to be had on that day
but I’ll have the scars to prove
that such things only happen
to those of us with
the lazy eye
and the thirst
for jaw jacking winos
Posted by Drexler at 05:52 PM
Clinical Static
we took the pills
what else was there to do
the book I was reading
was 300 pages old
and I still had 400 more
so a little diversion from that
was a welcome mistake
I remember my eyes
going out for awhile
to check on the sun
and the speakers in my head
reckoning with the volume
she began to undress
praising the tactfulness
of the heat
and addressing me
with grandeur
I stuck my head
in the tub
and forced the cold water
on
in the drain
I saw nothing
for a very long time
and then
my fawn came
and talked me back into
the front room
we began to do
what we always do
and I suppose there is nothing
wrong with that
I woke a few hours later
with her entrenched near my side
dreaming
struggling to my feet
I pulled a tray of burritos
from the fridge
and heated the oven
to accommodate them
there was enough vodka
to kill a horse
and so I intervened
on behalf of the beast
the jazz is crackling;
it dances on waves of smoke
the overhead is dimmed
to an agreeable frequency
she still slumbers
and I still linger
in a world where nothing
interferes
with my good time
Posted by Drexler at 05:48 PM
a horrocity
its not even a word
but you get my gist
yes, its always the same complaints
or plaintiffs
women, liquor, dope
and all the crossover episodes
I can endure
surely, you must say
there are other things
and I am sure
that there are
but none that interest me
none that grow in harmony
with the cactus
and four leaf clovers
this one is for
the crickets
and the pagodas
that keep me dry
in the summer hours of the spring
this is for the critics
I have yet to gather
to bully my offspring
preferring their daggers
to your gems and jewels
Posted by Drexler at 05:45 PM
the new style
so your father asks...
what would you rather have Steven
a good bottle of vodka
or
a good book...
well, sir..that would depend on my mood...If Id spoken to your daughter that day, I would probably take the vodka...if I hadnt spoken to her, Id trade the book for more vodka...
...now showing...
I just smoked a bonglit
and now im feeling kinda tan
looking like fidel castro
driving a convertible sedan
every time I sit down
to start a conversation
a woman shows up
with a mouthful of degradation
I heard clearly
the posture of her threat
so I sipped on some rum
and told her where she could get
friends in higher places
had slipped me an advance
of the new radiohead album
and it killed my urge to dance
it didn’t help matters
or none that I could trust
that the cylinder of her thigh
took a chisel to my rust
Im 28 years old
and stand about 2 meters high
when asked about it later
it brought a tear directly to my eye
let not jump the gun
or off of the ship
not when I can attach
my right of passage to the cabinet of her hip
a bit full of myself
yes I know
but better my stories
than an order to go
Im sure you catch my drift
or you wouldn’t have stuck around
youd be sitting at the border
waiting for me to leave town
posthaste
it was not to be missed
when all the virgins checked their wallets
to see if I was on their list
I knew my tenures
as confidant
were already in foreclosure
earlier in the day
when I lost my panama hat
and forgot what I was gonna say
anyhow
the tendons are all pulled now
but the ice, it is very cold
and it doesn’t matter to anyone
if its blood
or if its gold
it doesn’t matter
to me either
it all came to pass
just in time for a breather
from the devils behind the glass
...
goddamn little fool, I love you like you
were my passport
why
do I do this
because id rather fail
and flounder
than sit on my hands
and bark like an old dog
Posted by Drexler at 05:25 PM
fine dining
the shadow of the poet
is always at leisure
organizing strikes
against the count
the turnstiles of the fan
weave blurred images
with the taunting assistance
of the desert wind
sweat pours from the brow
that keeps me from dominating
the field of ponies
roaming the acres by silent decree
back here in the flesh
the potatoes are boiling
the chicken stands
its call to execution
the only thing that excites
the filet ala carte
is the chef
who, having consumed
three quarters of his life
is now making an attempt
to gourmet his way
to the candlelit affair
she has proposed
the wine is plundered
along the way
the manner of speech
is stifled
with the passing of the torch
as long as the damsels
provide the plea
I will always
be the cause
Posted by Drexler at 05:17 PM
Under the Verve Label
another drink and I
wont miss her
that’s what the man
on the harmon/kardon
keeps repeating
I turn it up
and fill the glass
one more time
I look forward to the days
where Ive lost
everything but the desire
guzzling rotgut with fleas
and los paranoias
gnawing on my ear
then the real drinking will commence
no more distractions
no more women
to charm my fingers free
of whatever bottle
I was about to engage
I steal kisses
from the mouth of the fox
4 days a week
she keeps me going
with her charitable submissions
we both know
that things will never
be to our liking
but things seldom are
in this life of denial
and repression
the best you can hope for
are moments of purity
fleeting between split seconds
and the gallant ideas
we never dare to pursue
Posted by Drexler at 05:15 PM
The Gemini Trail
kick up some dust
on a southerly trail
chasing the stars of a gemini
scorpions have sketches
inked on them
but you have to come closer
to see
I pass by an open mirror
and look outside
there is a black tree
with hooves and claws
waiting for the spring
I close my eyes
and continue
a plane passes overhead
and the windows rattle loose teeth
a beer fizzles in a green bottle
delaying my arrival
momentarily
now that I stand here before you
captivated by your arsenal of intrigue
I can only say
that the thing I have done
may seem unruly to some
but to me
it not anything to lose sleep over
and if you could just hand me
my passport and the check book
Ill be moving right along
you are struck
by her expression of gratitude
how it always seems
in hindsight
to have been a nice farewell party
the two of you had
yes I know
this was years ago
but I wish that it seemed
like it was just yesterday
Posted by Drexler at 04:28 PM
aftermath of an interchange
im a hatchet
and I suspect my gecko
has a roach in his cave
I mean this literally
even if its not true
there is a pulse
in my forehead
it is a vodka beacon
to remind me of the prize I have achieved
for drinking the whole bottle
I listen to Chris Martin
bleed himself dry
and thank my maker
for the good things in life
even though I usually run them over
trying to get myself out of park
rubbing salt into my wounds
keeps me awake
and aware
of the coalition between
black and white
it sharpens the line
between them
and I am always in need
of that particular service
being a bit of a lazy eyed hack
when it comes to the yellow light
and the pedal on the right
so today
I shall ride my bike
along lands end
leave some breadcrumbs
for my lily skinned lover
in case she sneaks down
the coast
and surprises me with an impossibility
in the more likely event
of my sticking a paw in the pill jar
you will be notified of any changes made
to the club car décor
to the inner sanctions
we decorate
with bold words
and bright windows
until then
keep your skirt
low to the ground
and your eyes
up in the clouds
that is the way
I see you now
Posted by Drexler at 04:24 PM
long winded beasts, like myself
flushed
flooded
there are worse train wrecks
to cause
I possess the morals of a hyena
and that is probably an insult
to the animal
however
Im not interested in being the guest of honor
at the church potluck this fall
even Leonard Cohen
has a fair idea
of what the future holds
and it is not a helping hand
a smoking pistol
seems more likely
as I lay dying
I will not curse anyones name
other than the one
my mother gave me
and Im glad she is not here
to see
where her bouncing boy has landed
I am hunched in the wheat
waiting for the sickle to rise
hoping I am worthy
of the blade
if not
then we will be married
in fourteen days
from now
like we agreed upon
inside the walls of a garden
where I laid down to rest
and you offered your pillows
to me
I am gracious in defeat
secretly relieved
(I must admit)
to be off the market
in these days where sunlight
rarely breaks through the foliage
and into the inner chamber
of these dye eyed fawns
they are too busy chewing the grass
because it is green
to appreciate the sol
and the waterworks
that falls at their feet
but I love you
there is a tremor
in my lifeline
when I think of it
without you
and I suppose
that is as close
as I shall come
to completion in this life
closer than most
ever dare
nearer than the stars
shall burn
deeper than the wells
from which we drink
those which we toast
on the lake
as blue torpedoes
wisp around our inactivity
we draw breath
inside an embrace
that keeps the dream machine
rolling
and I don’t need anything more
as long as you wont accept
anything less
Posted by Drexler at 02:12 PM
notes from an evening well spent (2000)
Where to start?
In no particular order
at all
Everything that is wrong,
Women
Everything that is right,
Women
Be the writing?
Or be as good as the writing?
Indecideness.com-munism is acid reality
the answer: see what happened to Donald
Grant me the rewards that are equal to the risks I am willing to take.
The director sees the structure of the ideas.
The writer, the consequences of them
Reaching into the darkness and finding a pen, which is the only light I need
A written thing cannot live this life, but the mind that wrote it can.
The answers life provides are not worthy of my questions
A seething, rancid trail of fog
Produces nouns, verbs and bitter displays of mistrust,
showering me in brunettes.
Trails of fabricated tears,
eat through the truth like acid
These are lies, lost without their women
Seconds split apart like atoms
Making more than 60 moments in one minute
One hundred minutes in an hourly wage
500 hours in an atomic day
Days, that pull you apart, or in opposite directions,
slowly; as the mind falls away from the facing
and you realize that the clock has soft and hard lines,
that dilate according to the position of the sun,
splintering concrete into windows that revel
a switch to flood the corners,
with alkaline and brilliance
Darkness branches into ceramics rings,
places where truth lurks undetected.
Forgotten, like the sons of our fathers
Men who were left blind from a bright shining lie
bubbles.com
misty, melinda, breanne, sabrina, sandy.
marisa, tammy, missy, justine, cindy.
such sweet distractions
a reunion,
or fixed ruination
or a place for an arrival
like the greyhound station.
a stuttering arrogance,
that flutters when spoken to
sharp words feel violated
like my barrier when broken through
My friend,
If you are still here when I am gone,
then hang all of this on the wall,
as a memorial
and a testament.
accept all of this as an apology
for the question that I answered for us both,
so that one of us could finally live
vampire.com
take the acid
so that you can uncover the Secret Cocaine Vampires network
they suck from you
and they suck from you
until youve sucked it all dry
and there is nothing left of either of you
figure it out tomorrow
.com
Good-night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good-night till it be morrow
re: page 902
living today in TommorowLand,
instead of living TomorrowLand today
We’ll get back to this shortly
treating life as if it were an endless weekend
assuming that Monday will never arrive.
we’ll just figure it out tomorrow
TommorrowLand.com
The light at the end of the tunnel that keeps going out
Is it I?
In McStyles we trusted
As alone in my thoughts
as I am in my life
so many thoughts
tonight
As alone in my thoughts
as I am in my life
so little to bring to light
tonight
The feeling of being complete lies somewhere in the middle
an empty handed riddle
She is here, ever present
fumbling for a key
that would unlock my mind.
Or so I imagine.
my christmas tree;
some lights shining brighter than others
singular in their splendor
undiminished in their form
Waiting for my presents,
or my presence,
to arrive.
Writing as desperate as the ink that captures it
Never change this to make it more legible!
For then you could read this as it is truly written
So imperfect in design,
that is perfect by default
Experimenting on my life, not in it
This is how you get results.
But at what price?
sacrificing poems
since I cannot find sleep
I leave them scattered all about,
mound upon heap
all this due to retina damage
You may be done with the past,
but the past is never done with you
without myself there would be nobody
If only the delivery sent,
were as pure as the intentions meant
Do the cocaine off the area which surrounds,
but not quite encompasses, perfection:
the navel
Or, the crease where desire meets fire
Which is why we always end up eating out
Because sometimes the drugs win
How much harm can you do to yourself,
before it shows up on your resume?
Greetings From FantasyLand
FantasyLand brings that insane giggle that I crave
and ideas of which I have all to myself
Better to live in FantasyLand.
but you cannot stay there.
Instead, make FantasyLand into TommorowLand
and start living in TommorowLand today
Why does it take losing the tongue
for you people to realize there was a voice of reason that spoke to you?
Now you are left with only the words
but not the voice whose passion was necessary
to find understanding in what was being said
In a delusional state of clarity
Which lies somewhere in all of this indecision,
Is the key to the fabric of our existence
Which I have found to be:
a boy
writes a poem
for a girl
if the mind could distance itself from these thoughts,
then perhaps insanity would be enough
signing off now
U.S.S.com
or
One Souls Attempt To Rise Above Zero
and wade amongst beauty
until it's efforts are finally
not enough
Posted by Drexler at 01:16 PM
a quote from a realist
Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but I see now that it was meant to destroy me. Today I am proud to say that I am inhuman, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing to do with creeds and principals. I have nothing to do with the creaking machine of humanity---I belong to the earth!
Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it, turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and the inert slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always grasping and clutching for the beyond, for the god out of reach; slaying everything within reach in order to quiet the monster which gnaws at their vitals. I see that when they tear their hair with the effort to comprehend, to seize this forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other path to pursue. A man that belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and just, because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less intoxicating, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness
Henry Miller
excerpt taken from "Tropic of Cancer"
Posted by Drexler at 01:11 PM
The Ghosting Effect
Where does my shattered libido lie?
in with the drunken sultana?
That creature casts only corroded wishes and fishing nets
into those hellish pools of oblivion
and for her own amusement no less
I crouch down low, lean against my inner devices
mumble things to the plants
darkness takes shape, achieves residence
bright, tinny notes, ride along crisp waves
they emanate strength through composure
until they fall victim to the present
where upon, they vanish into the past
I, with a crooked ear, listen for the future
where are the gauntlets I have always heeded?
tools to catch the numerable fragments of thawed ice
as they fall from the broken ceiling of this world
bathe my soul in tears from god
absorb some of the guilt, for the testimonies I have given
where is the high hanging lamp to dry the vacant sidewalks?
shining like that grin that I could never recollect
just her reflection in a puddle within my mind
she is more of a personality with a personable effect
like that destination, to which I never arrive
there is no importance tagged on its ankle
for it is the imagineering that is the real journey
locations are just thoughtfully conceived backgrounds
like faces
eventually some day,
this moratorium on money will languish no more
and some shall finally begin to gather in my baggage
when the numbers grow strong enough
I shall deport them, off to take up new residence with various agents
allowing the pieces to fall into place
then, I shall take flight
across the entire flag, left to right
and over the sea on the other side
this time when I land, it will be on my feet
on foreign, yet, familiar soil
Spain
whatever you hold for me
hold no pretenses
the wonders I seek out will come from within
ridding me of the internal trappings vocation, that still lingers
I look to contract amnesia and start anew
ground zero
virgin to the earth and self
here,
I am just wasting away
contracting strange ideas
..sew that tear in the sky closed
that wide laceration.. caused by the cutting wind..
if only to keep the rain from breaching my altitude
or
to allow me to manifest the gifts I have been given
give me something to do
let me rebuke my flaws
grow vegetables
and cactus that form fuchsia buds
analyze the texture of sand
by placing some between my incisors and molars
grind my wisdoms away, into dust
this way I wouldn't bite my tongue as much
or speak so much
to say so little
Posted by Drexler at 01:04 PM
Sean Penn
Droplets of blood spot the snow
engaging profanity and the such
Into a mirror I quickly glance
and finding it completely unreliable in its narration,
I turn my back on myself,
closing off the conscious thought process
A return to the light table
reawakens the beast within
and I welcome such true humanity
to this bizarre forum
Nostrils flare around the looking glass
working fiendishly around the crimson mishap
vacuuming up chalky drifts
An explosion in the central nervous system
triggers the desired response
causing the mind to recoils in horror
and I cackle at the purity
of this graceless moment
They look like white leaches
and what an inappropriate analogy
from someone who recently called love
'an approaching realization'
Posted by Drexler at 12:57 PM
Mobile Fidelity and the Cacti
Tilt my neck
to examine the spines
imperfections on the cover
send me into scheme mode
so I rotate ninety degrees
and trace over my previous footpaths
taking to one of the various posts
that I retain in the front yard
I closely examine the cacti
to see if it has grown any
since the last time I checked
four minutes ago
Silence speaks to me
as one of the various neighbors
retreats back into his abode
re-entering my apartment I re-examine the spines
and begin to laugh
at the pure insanity of my idle time
and obsessive-compulsive behavior
It is too much to bear
so I go outside
and check on the cacti
Posted by Drexler at 12:55 PM
Under the Volcano
In the vortex
of the volcanic triangulation
thunderheads and rum concoctions
drain the sky of its aquatic bloodline
lightbulbs flutter and fade
like moths wings and promises born on the witching hour
Fog drapes over the sedated landscape
sheltering our view and disclaimers to warmth
Iron staircases corolate reflections of light
as smoke bellows from industrious towers
and lungs of depravity;
launching rose petals into foreclosure
lime seastones slowly reclaiming the shoreline
and all of us; calmy claiming innocence
of events forseen
and fortunes foretold
under the sheets
under the volcano
Posted by Drexler at 12:51 PM
Le Dale #1
city of rain
wears down the interior
defense
its either
pin pricks
or hand grenades
the film
over my skin;
a straight jacket
braided by wasps
spring buds
bloom, swell
in strange places
dead zones
monochromatic landscapes
100 proof avenues
with mangled sidewalks
confessions spilling from barstools
whores in doorways
inviting you
to stay away
cab rides to nowhere
for 8 hours of nothing
beads; faded
by the reign of the sun
by exhaust
they hang like the dead
from the arms of oak trees
I spy them from rickety streetcars
from cast iron balconies
hotel room windows
where I sit and catch the rain
cradle it in my palm
draw on
a bottle of vodka
waiting
for whatever comes
after the rain
Posted by Drexler at 12:45 PM
Venice
Behind tin shutters
and star lit curtains
melodies fill a vacancy
left by the moonlight
Behind closed doors
and parked cars
sweat is being brewed
candles are fluttering
nightgowns
are being laid to rest
Down south
girls giggle atop a swing set
about their chemical alterations
and my voyeuristic inclinations
while hobos howl at the moon
Down here
in the twilight of my youth
I mock the world
as it passes me by
I see old men cry
as beasts unearth
that which they have hidden
In the aftermath
some years later
long after now
we will wonder
aloud
to ourselves
how such a place
or time
was ever lost to us
and have
no reply
other than the tears
Posted by Drexler at 12:43 PM
Decadence Canyon
butterscotch threads
wisp the face
unveiling a source
of the gradual deceit
So I advance beyond the present
and right into the past;
the useless,
prolonging the inevitable
Fashion doppelgangers
posing for the propaganda man
luring undeserved attention
from the followers club;
whose slight ‘defects’
keep them from being members
walking blindly
with bright eyes
babbling into slave phones
polishing each others price tags
filling up their heads
with credit card resolve
Late at night
after static overfills the void
I retrace my steps
(in a different light than before)
and rekindle my affair
with these dormant streets
and their helpless points of inspiration,
Letting the fog envelop me
until I disappear into midnight
re-emerging on the other side
still wearing the expression
of a man who sees too much
in every single thing
Posted by Drexler at 12:41 PM
Way of the Domino
casual extra marital encounters
and
the upholding of self-aborting decrees
were never things
I took pleasure in
Can we all call to mind
the removal of the chain
in doorways where the bested man
has just minutes earlier
departed
or even the toppling of glass bottles
the pyramid structure, going the way of the domino?
There are no victims
just players
some clock in on an automaton figure of eight
and sign over their souls
to the garbage men
others take on the struggle
to beseech the seam
tear a hole in the clouds
and kindle a little flame for themselves
up amongst the stars
Posted by Drexler at 12:34 PM
TailLights
go sell
that smile
under the disguise
of a light orchestra
go find something
that fits
better than your opposite
I have no desire
to redeem you
or myself
tonight
tonight
I let the fire
burn out
Posted by Drexler at 12:31 PM
Serving Time
waiting on a woman;
like being in jail
all those wasted years
in parlors
in the company of a flask
and a comfortless couch
treading through magazines that mean nothing
serving time
until its time
to get lost
every day spent
with the one you love
(whoever that may be
at any particular time)
you discover at least one thing
about her
that speaks to the back of your mind
saying
'this will never work'
'this will never last'
so you pour one drink
after another
over that voice
and light candles
and whisper dreams
and consummate
the tired flesh
and somewhere beneath
there is a clock ticking
which you somehow manage
to forget ..
for a while
none of this
wears you down anymore
hope is something
you cashed out on
long ago
the less you come to expect
outside of the inevitable
the more you can endure the rotting fruits
of your labor
and so
life fails you
the women fail you
the springtime fails you
your body fails you
the list wraps around
your heart
like a vice
deeper into the bottle
deeper into the black
looking for a better ending
that never comes
Posted by Drexler at 12:25 PM
The Importance of a Fan
the bottle and I
sweat in harmony
reminis about the days
when the fan blades flew
straight through the oppression
that dirty bitch crashed and burned
one week ago today
a replacement
crawls through the mail
probably lofting
somewhere in Des Moines
or Baton Rouge
on this muggy crypt of a July eve
where are you
at this moment
my love
planted horizontal on your box spring
submitting yourself
to his panting
his questions and pleas
have you made it
even that far
the boulevard below
offers nothing but restlessness
it turns over
here in my procession
like a slow blade
and I wonder when I will at last
be able
to call you my own
love you freely
as my woman
as my little girl
when will all of the clutter
be swept aside
so our path will be a little easier
to embrace
Posted by Drexler at 11:55 AM
D. Duck and the Stereosonic Medicine
dredging the piggybank
we found no palatable solutions
in fact
we found nothing at all
disillusioned, however briefly
I absorbed another droplet
and fashioned myself as Icarus
Retreating into the now
there came an insidious crash
a web of adulteration entered
entangled in the suffocating drapes of reality
I sat up
as well as I could
and shoved a landmine in its path
but such feeble attempts at sovereignty
go unnoticed by those hitherto
a lanky swan
crawled from my clutches
and into my arms;
keeping my hands busy
while other forces
were at play
Dense bludgeoning noises aside
I recovered pretty well,
showering away the miscues,
shedding a second skin
as if it were sweat
and perhaps it was
Seamless shapes came and went
as they pleased
driving foreign tongues into my tightly stitched nightmare
and caressing my impaired generosity with meat hooks
Sometime before the dawn
I woke upon my floored mattress
naked and wretched
To the left:
a single burgundy candle still wavered
paying its final respects;
its compatriots having already passed on
A disengaged wine bottle lay famished, on its side
On the right
beyond the soft glow:
a tangle of chestnut tresses
draped like a bouquet over an ivory shoulder blade;
protruding from the undercarriage of a Mexican blanket
on the far side of my bed
I made no attempt to stir her
or recall who she was
I rose tentatively
like the Second Coming
and slowly lurched toward a water source
...equilibrium dropkicked my longitude, latitude
and cracked my skull on the porcelain sink, speckled with rust
The jarred mirror in front of me beckoned
revealing a violet indentation filling out on my forehead
blood began to pepper through
I got to my feet
located the kitchen
and found a plastic chair to avenge myself in
Someone had left a full set up
on the table
so I searched for the mainline
and sent it home.
...time fell to the wayside
leaving me with nothing to lose track of..
I was shaken alert
by someone left over from another lifetime
...eventually I found partial focus
(one eye having been glued shut with blood)
and tried to amass the situation
borne from this very body
but light began to dissolve
and night, like locusts, took to these badlands
while I
took to all fours
crawled to the divan
and began vacuuming areas of the coffee table
with a glass straw
Somewhere along the line
I noticed that my records were scattered all across the floor
some cracked, others broken
and I began to cry
Posted by Drexler at 11:17 AM
The Killer
a black pool gathers
under the cloak of midnight
slowly sifts through cracks
in the hardwood floor
the mallet drops
from his left hand
and lies silently
with the dust
with the darkness
the moonlight grants form
to swaying palms, ravaged by the wind
their shadows come streaking across
the room
reeling through the windowpanes
that tremble under the pressure
the forces
of the world outside
he goes to the sink
in the kitchen
and washes her
from his hands
makes a cup with them
and raises it
to his face
he cross-examines his steps
mumbles explanatory devices
reasons
that justify the deed
steadied in a haze
he drags his coat away
from a chair
turns the knob
and steps back out
into the emptiness
of a lifeless night
Posted by Drexler at 11:09 AM
Isolated views
People tryin to poison
my isolated views
fill the kitchen sink
with my melancholy blues
I orchestrate the finger puppets
from this basement garden alcove
leaving the directions to the show
burning on a portable gas stove
The glass has become so heavy
watching the ice thaw
that I place a disposable coaster
on the instep of my lockjaw
and the tenants above the light fixture
tend to lend me to their ears
turning the engines over
to the disenchantment of the gears
Skeletons in the closet
fillin out my wardrobe
I got the sensitivity curators
chewin on my earlobe
the taxes they’ve created
for the socially upright
wont outlast my unemployment vodka
a quarter past the midnight
Spittin gems
spittin venom
find me a 17 year old virgin
in case sensitive denim
you’ll find me in a locket
behind silver strings
that shatter when the illusion
of the telephone rings
Posted by Drexler at 11:06 AM
the 99 cent slice
walking through the quarter
looking for a slice of pizza
or a burger
something cheap to dance with the liquor
below
I find a place
where rape is legal
trying to charge me $3.50
for some cardboard mopped in grease
I miss Venice
and the 99 cent slice
it was just a stroll down the boardwalk
the whirling brunettes on roller skates
making it look easy
the cinnamon girls
giggling their velvet secrets
as I made
some sort of progress
south
under the shade of the palms
with your paper plate and napkins
golden retrievers
leaping towards their sea bound frisbies
cats on studded leashes
you cast your remains
to one legged pigeons
and seagulls
you chuckle at the truth
of the garbage can graffiti
take some warm water
from the fountain
and head back
north
so here I am on Bourbon St.
drinking bourbon
from a flask
wondering which back street miscue
will lead me to the southern versions
of all my west coast treasures
they seem so lost to me here
only with time
will candles light
in all the appropriate corners
of places that I shall come to revere
as my own
like those I have displaced
out west
in hope of finding a harmony
that somehow
was always lacking
near the sea
Posted by Drexler at 11:02 AM