Welcome to the official re-launching of the Art Never Dies website. 

Anybody wanna hear some poetry? 

We talked awhile that night
A façade of words
Through which we could both see
It was happening
Her and I stood
at the edge of everything

We knew nothing
No acquaintance was needed
I breathed her in
Dark eyebrows framed her face
Accenting the brushstrokes and soft colors
A portrait of allure
Shades of escape
Hues of a landslide
Doors creaking open
An outstretched hand

Tortured soul
Let this painting be mine
And home would never be the same
No walls, no ceiling
Sacrificed by her admission
I allowed this
And braced myself
For the fall

I drank too much of her
Lost for a time
The guilt of thirst stung
Like a marquis driven into flesh
Again and again and over again
    
At the end of the night
The unsung notes of
Wanton
Reckless
Abandon
Coded on my breath
I kissed her cheek
Stepped back and watched her go

She smiled
It was real
Alive with promise and passion
Her love like napalm
In the jungle of mediocrity

I opened my arms
Palms to the sky
All my life
at that moment
Ceased to matter
At the edge of everything
I lept
and watched as it all fell away at my feet

Her hand was warm.

 

Friday, May 30th, 2008

An ode to public cell phone users…in the spirit of Bukowski

Put down that cell phone before I kill you

As rude as the smoker
More frequent and annoying than the telemarketer
As dangerous as the drunk driver
As thoughtless as the serial killer
Public cell phone users

(I’d rather a knife through my ear, please)
Than listen to the soul-sucking wag of tongues
Flickering over their neon keypads
The ubiquitous cell phone user has invaded every corner of public society
And infected it with wasted and butchered dialogue
For all within earshot to hear

A cancerous virus of inconsideration
They are on the buses
In cafés and coffee shops
They’ve infiltrated once quiet bookstores and parks
Where the echo of their vapid discourse continues to resonate
Long after they’ve moved on to the next trite conversation

Their diatribe and laughter and exclamations
Of joy and sorrow and indignation
Are a poor reflection of the basest mediocrity
Their bloviated inanities rudely poke the sides of us
Who want nothing more than to avoid
This assault on our individual introspections  
Their words linger in the air
Like the poisonous formaldehyde of cigarettes
And always drifts towards those of us
Who can stand it the least

They are blind pilots of ignorance to all around them
Behind the wheel is no exception
That their own and others lives are in peril
Is of no consequence or concern
The speedometer is neglected
Nearly as much as the mirrors and windows
As if they are the last drivers of the apocalypse
On deserted roads carved out to the respective paths
Of their superficial existence

Drive on, construction worker
In the pickup with the 10-ton payload
One hand to steer is enough to stay clear-and that could be
But why are you always driving right behind me?

Drive on, soccer mom
In the mini van with the kids in the back
The gossip is good and going slow is okay
But please not on the entrance ramp to the freeway

Question the public cell phone user:
Do you know?
That your voice is significantly louder
We can hear you better
Than the person who is supposed to be listening to you
That the people around you just don’t care
Where you are meeting this Friday after work
Or what shoes go best with that plum dress-you know the one – the one with the white flowers on it

We don’t. 

Do you know?
We’re touched that you love your girlfriend
But say it to her face, she’ll appreciate it more
That your conversation is so disjointed
Pointless and uninteresting
That it’s impossible to ignore –like an aural wreck on the highway
That everyone around you is silently cursing your existence
Thinking bad things about your mother
And hoping the brain tumor develops sooner rather than later

We are all thinking these things and more, dear public cell phone user…believe it.
You have died a thousand times at the hands of total strangers.

Even through headphones of our IPOD’s
Your dull, half-witted speech snakes its way into our ears

The drone of insignificance deafens

So please – put it down.
Killing you may be out of the question…
But to slap the shit out of you might be worth the charges.

Thursday, March 9th, 2006
A sprawling European resort in the South of France, perhaps the Riviera. Befriending members of the mafia who are eating at an outdoor cafe. Jovial, fat, Italian men. Later, with some people on a couch–few familiar faces. Distant, past friendships or maybe not. Perhaps Lance, from Decline of the West. A stripper offers to dance. I decline and hold out my hand to keep her away as she is approaching me. She stumbles forward and vomits into my lap. Shot glasses adorn her breasts. The distant friends laugh. Lance laughs. I think of punching them in their faces, but decide to wait. After all, I have friends in the mafia. The bathroom is uni-sex and the toilet seats are all broken or missing. The stripper pulls back a curtain and steps into a shower there.

In the bow of a speeding boat, rocketing through shallow, muddy water down an extremely narrow channel. Several times I am almost flung overboard. But I trust the captain. Another boat meets us head on in the channel. As we rapidly slow down, chocolate water floods over the bow into my lap. The water will make it difficult to hang on once we speed up again, as it slips between my hand and the rail of the boat. I mentally note this and worry. Perhaps I should alert the Captain. There’s a Mandarin Chinese man, very distiguished looking in the other boat. He has a well groomed beard and he’s dressed in a silk white robe with red oriental letters and designs. He’s holding a white box. It says something in fuzzy red letters. I read it. The message makes perfect sense to me. I make a mental note to remember it later. But I know I won’t.

And I don’t.