Last Penny Lane Open Reading Poem

16 Apr

Poems%20From%20Penny%20Lane_WEB

Last Penny Lane Open Reading Poem

 

while watching The Notebook, The Machinist, The Chronicles Of Ridick  and The Day After Tomorrow

 

chapter 1

 

another shit day for Trevor:

the scratches burned like fresh meteor strikes

the rented refrigerator inhospitably bleeding

and the wound which had replaced what was

no longer left of his insides, it threw darts

 

like an empty dinner table, circumstance plotting

against him on a full stomach smoking cigars

in an expensively gutted study

wet bones remember details

                                     love has a real bitch for a mother

and on Sundays she looks just like Joan Allen

naturally the screenplay was flawed, but fuck it

damage will star in the sequel

corny dialog already promised it’s own dressing room

for Trevor, it was obvious

the moon fucks like a pitchfork

this corpse just wasn’t going to heal

 

chapter 2

 

that’s why god left us running water

the fact that she never slept with him yet snickered

and yellow post-it notes

and ridiculous bathing suits

and long nights that live on unpaid utility bills

and warm photographs of cheeseburgers,

                           so often the pickles be damned

 

the batters box is a myth, the moon whispered

across which slide these all-star daydreams

that he kept regarding the powerful difficulties

involved with reaching her home plate

 

heartbreak is solar powered and when the sun goes down

runs on the myth of blue shutters and late night movies,

Jennifer Jason Leigh cinema nipples and a complete

preponderance of other meaningless shit

 

you’ve got a lovely manacle

she sings to him when he’s sleeping

the tune, it seams familiar, like misplacing

your library card at a strip club, the kind of thing

you don�t realize until months later because that’s

about how long it takes things

                                  ain’t it?

to get that one damn Motley Crue song

out of your head

 

chapter 3

 

my brain feels like half empty bags of junk food

and un-relayed phone messages

the price of being miserable travels by dogsled

when you’re trying to get thru something

 

the trying creates cracks and the cracks chunk off

into icebergs and the icebergs melt into incalculable bar tabs

and the bar tabs merge with failed crock pots

and hungry time machines which transport our stomachs wearily

 

back to the days when grandma tried to save us

w/ pepperoni pizzas & giant hamburgers

i built a raft out of the empty ketchup bottles

 

the death of ginsberg provided an ocean

made a sail out of old books and my trusty vcr

and beneath the cover of broody movie trailers

with the past screaming things that don’t rhyme w/ bon voyage

     i got away 

 

chapter 4

 

if you look close you’ll see the scars

forged by the plastic cups in which

the pharaohs once made us to piss in

today the ghosts of these misplaced drug tests

 

lease red convertibles and haunt the deleted chapters

of what things like this used to feel like

the day she almost killed herself playing King Arthur

with a disgruntled milk truck, the way the paint

 

refuses to dry upon this canvas

of (fuck you/the world needs sappy)

kissing her goodnight

 

chapter 5

 

your lungs are like radio

& i must’ve swallowed the dial

because now the only station i get

is the sound of you sleeping

 

and as for the commercials:

you’re totally missing the part

where Vin Diesel gets schooled

by Tootie’s granddaughter

 

the facts of life ain’t diggin his sci fi

but the furian is smarter than all that

in this life shackles are just the price of doing bid-ness

it’s the angle of approach you’ve got to worry about

 

it’s those landings you walk away from

the good morning sunshines that feed the toasters

the breakfasts involving midnight pancakes

smothered with i’m fucking you now but i’ve got

a fiancee waiting for me in a tie somewhere syrup

that’s got these mercs working overtime

 

there’s been a bounty placed on love’s head

you’re totally wanted throughout the galaxy

i know

 

these pillows have served time in seven parsecs

but don’t worry

i’ll watch your ass

 

 

 

(written for the last open mic poetry reading at the Penny Lane coffee shop, Boulder CO)

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