writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 

(though untitled, the following quote, from a poet-friend of mine, is relevant: “...beneath the layers of orgasms and bullshit...”)

Justin Taylor

& the mist rises in the field
holy goddess is bleeding in America
there are prophets asleep on couches
harbingers driving ford astro vans
the sunrise is nothing to whine about
in complaint or praise

I dare eternity to blow me
I am made hard by the callousness
of others
you aren’t the end all of everything
just as I am not the beginning

tonight we learned
that acceptance is a daydream
that everyone is a genius
that gin mixes nicely w/ vodka
& Black Label&Miller Lite
��& caffeine pills

tonight I burned a candle
at both ends
it was a conversation
there was endless dialogue
and brilliant silence
I was a grease-stained paper plate

now where are the martyrs?
off to sleep on beds of nails?
fuck that!
I rise like demon sphinx
in dawn light

blackened lungs
scarred flesh
kill to live to kill to live
offended by the posturing of trees
but still in awe
this life whose rhythm
I can barely tap out
still drives me outward
forward, upward, face first

toward unknown dimension
of time and sound

sound is true
what I hear I allow
to play no tricks
so with this oath am I marked
��for all time

defeat was not possible
I will not be dominated
don’t ever ask the artist
to put away the brushes

perhaps the brushes go there
��I think
thought fills mind w/ dread

paltry mack trucks
like 30 tons of bullshit
oppress travellers
��like rest stop signs
a convenience but at a cost
we did not ask to pay

I wove bracelets
from fallen pine needles
as we elected not to discuss
the routine of moonset. True
desire is undying trust;
“don’t write that down!!!!”
��I tell myself

but heed this call o wizard
of mystery&confusion
listen loudly temptress
that moves in shadows&is elusive
I’ll yell fire
when I smell burning
so don’t smoke by the tinder-box
unless you’re ready to run

narcoleptic Uncle Sams on street-parade stilts
are dancing in the mind
of the heart of my mind
thick wooden pegs beat irregular patterns into gray
��matter
one day this will all be a warm, lost dream

but today I stand tall
beleaguered but persevering
today I chase whiskey
with a glass of ocean tears
my blood is tidal
I bleed on the inside
and still I walk on

on to dreamland
on to mexico
or maybe just on home
safe passage would be nice
��welcome even
but I won’t request
what I can take for myself

a sickness is blooming
the cause is the cure
you could have a thousand rosetta stones
and not need a single one

waves are crashing on heart-shores
��lifeguard eyelids are fluttering
��don’t speak of what’s plausible
it is as was will and may be
yet, sweet yet!
word of endless cowardly possibility
in the name of no conclusions
do I raise another round

you will find me in the circus
after your lonely nights of mourning
you will know me in good time
as angel of the empty spaces

the future comes in molded plastic
I’m more inclined
to a cardboard box
rip it open with your fingers
when you think I’m ready to be plugged in

tiny white flowers were growing in silence
on the side of the highway
where we stopped to piss
I stared at them intently
through the passenger window
not really wondering
not really questioning
not really analyzing

I merely did register
white flowers growing
��amongst the weeds





Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...