no_me_gusta_ok

Earthquake

a selfish lover
pounding a fuck
into my college roomate

Earthquake

penatrative masturbation
legs wide open
(hands braced)
waiting for it to end

Earthquake

a pre orgasmic tremor
- no shocks -
too late.
( always unrealized)

Paper work.

The last dusty breath of every dying man-
-Sighed out and reborn to Another page of gridded blanks.

Title?

Up to the sky in a swirl.
Concrete Steps pound time into the skin of the city.
Rush hour clad in leather soles suffocates the sidewalk with ignorant apathy.
Air used and reused-
-----(eternity as a silty corpse on corporate windows.)
The boardwalk is lonely.

FreeWrite-only draft (while on a bus...) I'm afraid this must have been written while still obsessed with Kerouac. Feel the influence? It doesn't really read like prose, but it doesn't really write like poetry..any ideas? sections to cut? something salvagable? basically whatever. Just getting something out there.


Model of a Greyhound Bus

I painted her once in the nude. At that bus station, fully clothed, a woman was born of my own meager sketches. And just now the bus driver has kicked my muse off the bus. (Liar as it were. No ticket. No clothes. Modeled out of her element now butting heads with the man at the front.) “Soulless!” the boy behind me called him. Pit pattering of rain through San Jose makes my mind spin. The lights a blur. An artist without her model turns to another. Ah! I am Ethiopian. I am off to Humboldt. Do you smoke? Will you watch my shit? You look like you smoke. Say, do you go to school here pretty lady? The Northbound bus pulled up in all it’s dated glory. Shaszmmmhzzz.Invisibly the fan creates a mass suction. Whsshhahsshh. Sleeping people do not notice these things. --The lights of cars like sprinkles on a birthday cupcake decorating my view on the rotting highway. Billboards of capitalist splendor sport cars, movies, and lovely ladies. I have a dollar and some loose change in my pocket. How will I be an American tonight? The Ethiopian in the back is singing his own beautiful song. Like the lull of a wave his voice embrace the note a split second longer than expected. Unsettled. The couple behind me has finally run out of meaningless things to say. Sighs of ignorance dot their spattered reality as my seatmates. The girl who gave her naked body to my canvas, where is she? Stuck in the limbo betwixt here and there? A grey station of lost destination. And how did I not covet my muse, letting her off the bus, letting her to a night of delay. A man with a glowing apple is seated across the aisle from me. His eyes sink and sway, tasting deep into his skull, glazing over and dying slowly “I don’t know what I’d want to be, a prostitue?”-- An impulsive voice ripping at the edges of my patience. The cars are at a stand still. Already 15 minutes late.