Skip navigation

Tag Archives: poets in my mind



Last night Mike told me he believed the stars are alive

today we walk with the yellow haired child

eyes of the auctioneer’s furniture

fell into mirror specks

the mirror specks reflect Mike’s wife Jo Ann

the expanding universe of Foster’s on the corner

of Polk and Sutter

a four or five headed portrait of Ginsberg Corso McClure

Lamantia e Kerouac

I hope La Vigne paints it

Haselwood is washing his teeth

the yellow haired child like the light in Foster’s cafeteria

Boobus NcClure

is making all kinds of metalic sounds in the kitche

Publicity! Public spectacles!

Artaud writing against the superstitions of the text

the morning is burnt with smells of cooking and cooked stars

It’s nirvana!

It’s the last goof!

It’s pungent silk worm disease!

It’s beautiful ship of state undulating its ribs!

The Books, it never changes to stop

AGF, Chorizon

Ursula Rucker, Children’s poem

Lume Lume, Rupert’s all wrapped up

Lydia Lunch, Pass like night

Jim Carroll, Praying mantis



Fatti illuminare

fino a dove non arrivano gli specchi del guardare

nelle ore bagnate di quando la cecità ci duole.

Fammi tendere l’orecchio alla tua pancia,

fammi ascoltare il ricordo che porta

di quando si frantuma il tormento

in spesse croste d’argilla.


risillabare le parole

a spicchi,

agrumi che dissetano

nell’ansia di prender forma.

Isabella Bordoni


Last night was the nightest

The moon full-mooned a starless space

Sure as snow beneath snow is whitest

Shall the god surface the human face

Mad Season, Long gone day

Screaming Trees, For celebration past

Pearl Jam, Save you

Isobel Campbell&Mark Lanegan, You won’t let me down again

Nirvana, Dumb

Patti Smith, About a boy



I think

you’ll find

a coffin

not so good


They strap you in

pretty tight

I hear

it’s cold

and worms and things

are there for selfish reasons

I think

you’ll want

to turn

onto your side

your hair

won’t like

to stay in place


and your hands

won’t like it


like that

I think

your lips

won’t like it

by themselves

D. di Prima

Beatles , One after 909

Chob, We’re pretty quick

Jack White, Freedom at 21

Morphine, Top floor,bottom buzzer

Ani di Franco, see see see see

Sinéad O’Connor, Untold stories

Beck, Paper tiger



I looked into the room a moment ago,

and this what I saw-

my chair in its place by the window,

the book turned facedown on the table.

And on the sill, the cigarette

left burning in its ashtray.

Malingerer! my uncle yelled at me

so long ago. He was right.

I’ve set aside time today,

same as every day,

for doing nothing at all.

coney island

coney island



Gill Scott-Heron, Running

Last Poets, Related to what

John Sinclair , Consequences

Lawrence Ferlinghetti with Dana Colley, I’m waiting

Ursula Rucker, Philadelphia child

The Books, It never changes to stop



what is jazz, but spirituals

played thru saxophones

& trombones,

spirit voices

thru metal tubings

& the terrible repetition

of the formal premise, viz.


at its best, or boring

when the spirit doth not move,

oh what is blues

but spirituals with a line


that is structurally,

& in content just a prayer

to the gods of daily life,

to ask the blessing

that the body of another

may lay warm in the bed

beside you at night, and the rent

be paid, and a meal

on the table, with the sheriff

far away

from the scene of the crime,oh

what is jazz but the registration

of the human personality

in relation to the spiritual,

stripped of literal meaning

but full of sound & portent,

direct as the voice of the gods

John Sinclair

Morphine, Take me with you

Jonathan Wilson, Her hair is growing long

Joni Mitchell, Cherokee Louise

Ani di Franco, Still my heart

Lee Ranaldo, Off the wall

Sixto Rodrigues, Can’t get away




What in this face, less clear and clearer

the pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger-

given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye

whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet

under sleep, where all the waters meet.



Hatfield & The North, Going up to people and thinkling

King Crimson, Ladies of the road

Gentle Giant, Nothing at all

Gong , You can’t kill me

Led Zeppelin, In my time of dying

Traffic, Who knows what tomorrow may bring



I have come to catch your voice,

Your constructed notes going out of the throat

With dry, mechanical gestures,

To catch the shaft

Although it is so straight and unbending;

Then, when I open my mouth,

The light will come in an unwavering line.

Then to catch night

Wading through her dark cave on ferocious wings.

Oh, eagle-mouthed,

I have come to pluck you,

And take away your exotic plumage,

Although your anger is not a slight thing,

Take you into my own place

Where the frost can never fall,

Nor the petals of any flower drop.



Love’s Ghost

Among the leaves and the rolls of moonlight,
The moon, which weaves lace on the road-white
Among the winds, and among the flowers,
Our blithe feet wander — life is ours!

Life is ours, and life is loving;
All our powers are locked in loving;
Hearts, and eyeys, and lips are moving
With the ecstasy of loving.

Ah! the roses! they are blooming;
And the June air, throbbing, tuning,
Sings of Love’s eternal summer —
Chants of Joy, life’s only Comer;
And we clsp our hands together,
Singing in the war, sweet weather;
Kissing, thrilling with caressing,
All the sweet from Love’s rose pressing.

Ah, so easy! — Earth is Heaven, —
Darkness, shadows, do not live;
Like the rose our hearts are given,
Like the rose whos blom is given,
To the sun-gold, and the heaven.
Not because it wills or wishes,
But because ‘tis life to give.

Dreary, dreary, snow-filled darkness!
Heavy, weary, voiceless darkness!

We have drifted, drifted, drifted, you and I,
Far apart as snows and roses, sea and sky.
We have drifted, drifted, drifted, far asunder,
Any my lonely voice uplifted in sad wonder,
Heavy with its own sad calls.

All your love was of the summer;
Born to die among the roses,
Wither, scatter, like the roses,
Leaving me the gray-browed Comer,
With the ashes on his forehead,
And the winter in his hair,
With the footsteps slow and solemn
Going down the endless stair,
Joy is gone and you, my Lover,
Gone in other ways to hover;
gone among the summer places,
Gone to seek for summer faces.

Bright-faced Joy was not for me;
Born among the snows and pines,
Gray-faced Sorrow was to be
Imaged in my mournful lines.

Love, not born for cold and sorrow,
Only for the sweet sunshine,
I shall keep your face forever
Hidden in this heart of mine.
In its light, one spot will brighten,
Keeping fair the sacred tomb;
Like old moonlight it will whiten
The inviolable room;
Like the moonlight it will whiten,

Softly, all the darkened room;
And the broken stalk may put forth
Memory’s ghost of Love’s old bloom.

March 1892

roses on the road

roses on the road

Sonic Youth, No Queen Blues

Body/Head, Murdress

Chelsea Light Moving, Lip

Lee Ranaldo, Waiting on a dream

Loose Fur, Apostolic

Jim O’Rourke, Happy Holidays!



cafe Mogador,NYC

cafe Mogador,NYC