August 1, 2004

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  (Note: The photo above is original art composed mainly with “oil pencils” (my medium of choice in the 70s). I call this my “acid poster” and it was created in 1977, and currently hangs in my bedroom. Clicking the photo should bring up a full size 1152×864 image in another window. I was reading in someone’s blog yesterday (and forgive me I can’t remember who it was right now) a quote by Hunter S. Thompson, and a lot of memories of the 70s started to flood back in my consciousness. It has been said that if one remembers the 70s, then they didn’t live through the decade. For lack of a better word, I will say I, like many, practiced rampant hedonism through most of the decade, when I was in my 20s, young, naive, and eager for new experiences. I took lots of drugs, consumed gallons of alcohol, and wrote tons of poetry. I just transcribed “Empty Beer Cans”, from 1979, one of my longest and most convoluted of the pieces in what I now lovingly call my “Bukowski” period. (I am purposefully leaving out the literary links, by the way. Hunter S. Thompson: wrote “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” Charles Bukowski is an L.A. poet. A websearch for either will turn up myriad links.) )

  (I was able to get the poem up on my server this morning before the FTP program crashed (a regular occurance, since I filled up my MB quota on the server, and no matter what I delete, I still am having problems, so I am lucky when anything actually gets online. I did “destroy” a lot of pages, but there are still more to go, I am afraid.) This is a rather disaffecting “memoir” of my life in the time after I realized I would never get together with Cathy, for whom I wrote 60 poems in 1978, and pulled out all the stops in my addiction to liquor and illegal substances. There are profanities in the poem, which I have “modified” with asterisks. The subject matter at times deals with drugs and drinking, sex and hedonism, which were present in my life in 1979. I make no apologies. Part of what makes us the people we are at any given time is our experiences in the past, and these experiences help to mold our perceptions of ourselves. I might regret the time I took too much acid and brandished a knife at some of my friends, not so eloquently “ending” a raucous dinner party by destroying my group high school graduation photo, and nearly cutting up the aforementioned “Acid” poster, but it happened, and I can’t change it. I still know some of the people involved, and I was “forgiven” my inconsistencies and outbursts. Besides, Morgan used to destroy his art all the time, to prove to me the “impermanence” of artistic integrity, so I was “destroying art” inspired by his shenanigans. Well, after one of these “crazy nights” I woke up in a sea of “Empty Beer Cans” and composed the following poem. Don’t read if you don’t have time. It isn’t really that good, and is filled with disgusting imagery and sad feelings. It is one of my “epics” however, and I’m glad I have finally transcribed it and positioned it on the web on the 1979 page.)

  Empty Beer Cans (Passive Reflections on the Insanity of Life)

  a thoughtpoem November 28, 19791:00 p.m

   He lay, silently, eye half open
   revealing the liquid besmirched lens
   and the crooked wire frame.
  Ahead the plains of green nylon weave
   half shining from the morning sun
   half dark from the spilled ashes
  Looming in the distance….
   the untamed forest,
   of half-empty…
   and empty beer cans

  An arm swings stealthily aside
   in an effort to upright him
   toddling under uncertain weight
  A leg juts forward and knocks over
   a lone tree in the forest of cans
   the timber falles carelessly
  The eyes misbelieve they’re in focus
   But all that can be seen
   is the forest
   inhabited only by fears.

  “No Aura Inspired”

  Blank was the face blank forever scorned
  Wishing not, wanting not, hoping not
  blank as the walls should be
  save for the stains running in place
  down…..down
  No words yet no future
  A dirty sink filled with the empty beer cans
  And no thought as to the outcome

  Why? was an existence, never a question
  And one knew in one’s heart
  the answer would never come
  The girl was an enigma
  The evening’s events forgotten
  Only a few faces
  And snatches of unheeded conversation
  This would be the day
  maybe
  The end….
  No aura inspired the first thought
  No beauty in the flora
  No feeling in the songs
  No question this time, just the emotion,
  Un heralded
  Un defined
  Un sure
  But underlined

  Heavy in debt to his senses
  The blank face found refuge in time.

  “Late Morning: Hear the Children”

  Romance arrives to they who wait
  But the children have no time
  They laugh and cry, emote to a world
  Thet slowly dies, tears in my eyes
  The immortal question which tears my soul
  Is born in poor children today
  We laugh in a world peopled with death
  It’s the children who have to pay,

  Suffer the little ones, unfinished souls
  Only innocent truth do they speak
  They fight little wars, with only themselves
  That they’ll never win, no end to begin
  Our waste witheld wonders will never see birth
  And I see in the children today
  That problems reflected in empty beer cans
  Are meaningless, when the kids have to pay.

  “Faith”

  Repeating the same words again, as if I were
  reliving the last acid trip – listening to
  the last refrain, staring at the same
  beer cans pile up over the centuries.
  Again and again and again
  like the record stuck in the repeat mode
  like doing the same job over and over
  driving the same route
  Eating the same meal
    Deja Vu
  But it all has to end somewhere
  We think again, putting on the same song
  Rock and Roll – Deja Vu – drug stained
  revelations of some acid crazed mind
  saying
  I see the future and it is death

  But how can one live like this forever
  Over and over and over.
  The song is familiar but do we
  need – familiarity breeds…breeds…

  As I begin the same thought, the one
  I lost in eternity, I see the same
  pattern
  Is it true we do it over
  Until we get it right
  And will we ever get it right?

  “Manic Hallucinations”

  I frequently die in disgusting dreams
  Overindulging with outrageous themes
  Thinking, rethinking I’ll show them all
  Hearing so crisply the kind Satan’s call
  Kill ‘em, just kill ‘em and leave me alone
  Why must they scream at me, bug at my phone
  When I get letters from old enemies
  Why can’t I learn to sting back at the bees
  And when I need communion with those whom I love
  Why don’t they ever come over

  I drop lots of acid, think I’m insane
  Converse with the heavenly powers that feign
  Throw things at the window, bash the walls with my head
  Hope they find that I cried when they all find me dead
  When I fall in love, I can give it my all
  I can change positively, and reverse my fall
  But she never hears me or just cannot try
  I know I’ll just keep it up till I die
  When I need communion with those whom I love
  I guess I never will find a lover.

  “Like a Snail on the Edge of a Razor”, or
  “Live Fast, Die Young, and Leave a Good Looking Corpse”

  (Certainly is a credit to those who know the references
  for life I need a handle-hold
  A grasp

  Read about those less fortunate than myself
  Shed no amount of pity
  And laugh)

  Then climb in the car and find a station
  playing something with a beat – something
  to be celebrated – cram the gears
  forward – step on the gas – weave
  between the lanes a tapestry of
  existence with no purpose except
  excitement – speed fast so you don’t
  have to look at the faces of those
  you pass.

  And you have to pass
  Or else you fail

  And the razor only pretends to be a friend

  “Nymph”

  I’m not fully awakened by the knock. It’s my
  day off, so naturally empty beer cans piled
  up all this morning until sleep rescued
  me from a drunk. It’s always like that
  unless I pack a couple sixers of bull in
  my belly. Ever wonder why they call it
  shitfaced? When you’re that drunk you
  just don’t care….After the third knock
  (they know I’m in here, they hear the
  stereo) I find my glasses and answer
  the door. Must be late after noon,
  sun’s nearly down. The door opens to
  reveal a friend. The girl across the
  courtyard, begging again for drugs.
  This is a frequent happening. I’m
  drunk. Someone takes advantage. But
  they really don’t. I happen to
  have what they believe is the key.
  If only they knew I tried so many
  fucking keys – and I keep trying -
  but I know they’ll never open the
  lock…I invite her in. Her fragrance
  overpowers me. She knows I like her.
  If I were writing poems again she’d
  be prime subject, however I’m curious
  about her. She seems to be much more
  than what she shows me. The feeling’s
  mutual; I’d like her to read my
  poems and get to know me; but
  I don’t know why I don’t reach out
  more eagerly for her. Right now I want
  to grab her and hug her, I feel she
  needs comforting…She offers me
  downers for a joint. I refuse.
  (If only she knew how down I really
  am, she wouldn’t offer.) I decide
  to roll a joint for her anyway. I
  know she’s only going to share it
  with someone else (she shares everything
  with someone else, and I feel that people
  take advantage of her – she let’s them –
  but, well, anyway somehow I know
  she and I will never be soulmates,
  although I want to hold her, tell
  her I’m her friend – and feel she
  needs me as I need her…As I
  roll the joint, she does something
  unexpected (remember I already passed
  out earlier and I’m not on an even keel.)
  She breaks down and tells me
  she wants to escape from her existence.
  (That’s a typical downer thought.)
  Then she says she’d like
  to live with me for awhile.
  (I treat this as the insane thought it is,
  although for me it would be a blessing.
  Might be for her too,
  if she sin’t just on a down.)
  I think it over, and agree – she says
  I’ll be surprised when I see her
  again the next day with her things.
  I am surprised – she comes over
  the next night (still obviously in a down)
  with her boyfriend. I’m not sure what
  I should be thinking or saying.
  Who can be sure in this type of situation?
  Obviously I say the wrong
  thing…Now it’s nearly a month later.
  The boyfriend is mad at me!
  The girl hasn’t come over at all.
  Not one small word of explanation.
  I’m very upset, yet very touched.
  I don’t know how to feel, yet I
  feel very strongly even more so
  for the girl. Life is really insane.
  This elaborate explanation is only a preface.
  I wonder if I will ever
  see the nymph again……..

   Dipping but a fingernail in the
    waters of my troubles
   The nymph flirts with desire
   I tremble as I carefully
    try not to burst the bubbles
   Try not to come too close to the wire

   She’s essential in her insistence
    that she feels the same as me
   But the nymph cries imagined tears
   And I really do not try
    But real tears I see
   And I glimpse actual fears

   For only but a moment I feel
    I wish to share myself
   The nymph smiles through the haze
   And in only but a moment
    I feel great imagined wealth
   And a strength to last through the days

   Nymph, I hardly know your name
   But I felt good when you came
   I relish love in all it’s ways
   And I hope forever that it stays
   But nymph what happened
    Now you’re gone
   Disappeared in some setting sun

   I’ll wait all my life for
    the nymph to again show her face
   Although I know it was an illusion
   If I’m active or passive
    I’ll always lose the race
   And forever dream of her vision.

  (This poem finished 2:50 p.m.)

  
  “Melody”

  If I feel bad I’ll listen to a melody
  Infuse my sould with the music
  Suffer what the singer suffers
  Live each note before it happens.

  If I feel good I’ll listen to a melody
  Infuse my soul with the music

  If I feel
    I am the melody
     and I shall dance
      and mean it….

  “Stifle”

  Choke
  When did it begin and did it end
  And did we forget to define it
  And did it die
  And why do I always regret that I’m here.
  I only want to call somebody to my side
  And say I love you
  Why don’t the words come
  Why isn’t it simple anymore
  Did clarity disappear.
  Go on a date with someone else
  Days off are wasted with yearning
  And little else
  Accomplishments are things we hear
  about in 3rd grade honors class
  Was somebody pushing
  Or were we pushed out of shape?

  “My Friend Tom”

  Whenever I feel really bad
  I think of my friend Tom.
  Words cannot begin to express my closeness
  My feelings of serenity.
  At times when we’re stoned together
  I can’t relate -
  But I feel this is because he
  is much deeper than I
  I’m an insignificant ant in the world
  Consumed by feelings of insanity
  and bellicose impurities
  A tattered derelict on the road to hell
  I am a shallow mudbank
  A dying stream
  But my friend Tom
    ….is a friend to all.

  “Reprise”

  What can be said of empty beer cans?
  There’s always too many to throw away.
  They must cost a lot to maintain.

    And sometimes
    Beer cans are found which are full

  It’s all such a waste

  And isn’t it a shame I know it
  As I stare at the forest of
    empty
      dreams.

  
  /entire manuscript finished 3:15 p.m.
  November 28th, 1979 MFN)
  

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