February 24, 2006
city of lost stations
in the dream
if you can call it a dream
for its more like
the same chapter of a film
reinventing itself again and again
fueled by insomnia and insects
by liquor and codeine
by hollow water bottles
and padlocked gates
seperating us
from grey streets, vomit, graffiti
rapists, deformities, bulletholes
these things I take with me
under my pillow
that feels like so many clods of rice
beneath my grimy curls
and grisly cheeks
I wake after some time
and poke at the clock
alone in the empty hours
coughing blood
and choking on phlem
breathing like the marathon
no water
the room saturated in sweat
my mind plays with stock footage
absurd obsessive compulsion
preventing a relapse into slumber
the hours drag lumber through the dark
somewhere
somehow
I escape
wake to a curtain filled with sunlight
steady my vertigo
and dress
search my pockets to varify the appropriate coins
and close the door tightly
caution the stairs
and find the deadbolt bolted
call the attendant
and hit the street, reeling
all I want
is some water
the early hour peasants
offer crates full of dyed cereal
and sacks of mildewed confetti
water guns
and spider masks
three blocks later
its shampoo
and vegetable oil
years of it
mountains of condensed milk cans
but no water
I find myself in the apocolypse
barrels of bubbling muck
stirred by clubfoots
chipped glasses full of steam
in the claws of onlookers
I pause for breath
glancing into the bed
of the truck beside me
assorted slabs and loose ends
of meat
the sable head of a cow
velour contour
lies gracelessly atop the carnage
its onyx eyes glistening
speaking aloud
but suffering nothing more
than the awkwardness of its dismemberment
another head
stripped clean
other then a fuzzy little nose
that someone must have forgotten
I sit down
the train tracks
are cold and reflective
the morning is rising
from behind a broken building
light polarizes
the circus of the inferno
I head back
the way I came
stumble into
two bottles of water
and carry them
back to the dark
Posted by Drexler at 08:19 AM
February 15, 2006
cafe turistica
cold tile and shambles of rain
lace the bevelled runway
powerlines look to be
telegrams to incompletion
and a hollowed and bound feline
suspended from a hook,
is just part of a cure
for whatever ails the cause
guitarists unsure of their keys
lean beneath false domes
and pluck at sad trivialities
while the pigeons just add
to the general idea of confusion
tourists in their tourist costumes
sit behind windows and tables
in the tourist cafes
sipping on imported fare
and in their daydreams
in all their experiences
they see nothing
they seek nothing
nothing but home
I order some kind of soup
from a garbled looking man
working from a hole in the wall
something to warm my hands
and take my mind
away from itself
Posted by Drexler at 02:37 PM
May 16, 2005
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
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
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
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
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
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 02, 2005
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
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
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
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
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
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