When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When you're laggin' behind an' losin' your pace
In the slow-motion crawl or life's busy race
No matter whatcha doin' if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of your cup
If the wind got you sideways it's one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slippin' and the feelin' is gone
And your train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but you're lazy to fetch it
And your sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know that it's wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from your pony are slippin'
And your rope is a-slidin' 'cause your hands are a-drippin'
And your sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And your sky cries water and your drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashin' and the thunder's a-crashin'
The windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops are shakin'
And your whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
An' to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born?" And you start gettin' chills and you're jumpin' from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And you're knee-deep in dark water with your hands in the air
And the whole world's watchin' with a window peek stare
And your good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flyin'
And your heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And your jackhammer falls from your hands to your feet
But you need it badly an' it lays on the street
And your bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think your ears mighta been hurt
Your eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterday's rush
When you were faked out an' fooled while facin' a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
It's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on your mind that you wanna be sayin'
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on your tongue, sealed in your head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And you're scared to your soul you just might forget it
And your eyes get swimmy from the tears in your head
An' your pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and you're starin' at his teeth
And his jaws start closin' with you underneath
And you're flat on your belly with your hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
You say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hangin'
On this pathway I'm strollin', this space I'm taking
And this air I'm inhaling?
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailing
On this mandolin I'm strumming, in the song I'm singing,
In the tune I'm humming, in the words that I'm thinking
In the words I'm writing
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinking
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking?
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make your heart pound
But then again you know when they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
'Cause sometimes you hear 'em when the night time come creeping
And you fear they might catch you sleeping
And you jump from your bed, from the last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of your thinkin'
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that's somethin' special you're needin'
And you know there's no drug that'll do for the healing
And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding You need somethin' special
You need somethin' special, all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows your troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at your looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rolling long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that you're standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many times you might get kicked
You need something special, all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said, maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And your trouble is you know it too good
'Cause you look an' you start gettin' the chills
'Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dim-lit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Rantin' and ravin' and takin' your money
And you thinks it's funny
No, you can't find it neither in no night club, no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
No matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on your ticket stub
No, it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in a cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hairdo or cotton candy clothes
Ain't in the dime store dummies an' bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knocking and tapping in Christmas wrapping
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute, look at my skin,
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow,
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry,
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No, you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made of paper maché
And inside of the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn you in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind your back, my friend,
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all the rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're fooling you
The ones that jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down your hat
Saying, "Christ, do I gotta be like that?
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty, that stuff ain't real": No, but that ain't your game, it ain't your race
You can't hear your name, you can't see your face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that you're seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you go to Brooklyn State Hospital You find God in the church of your choice
You find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In Grand Canyon
Sundown
rare blue flowers
rare air
"all i ever wanted was to walk
in such a place with you"
Mmm something rad i had while washing a window
head and a buncha good squeeze, long sex lunch
delicious watermelon striped panties in my spit
from The Twitstat Poems by Chris Weige
What was it I saw at the top
of the world as I fell
asleep last night?
Cats arguing on the rough roof
The instant those fiery lilies let go
a handful of flame petals dropped
to the kitchen floor & the men & the women begin
the war of the orchids
The land of politeness inside my head said
you occult deep notion of nothing
you average spiritual manhood you
sachems of molasses, you hidden national will
you fractals, splintering powwows of disorder
you ladder in the meadow
up which I climb in pointed shoes
Listen:
There is a great lake called Pleasure
the color of your eyes and nestled
in the bay--
Out of black rock:
a fresh-water trickle
(from The Monster Lives of Boys and Girls)
we go over a river
riding an Arabian horse
that changes into
a Siamese cat
the day
you write to me
from Tokyo
Can you tell I’ve been reading Allen
Ginsberg?
I’m on “Birdbrain!”
“Birdbrain runs the world…”
And I’m drinking this great Gewurtz
so I should be happy, right?
I wonder if I will really have the balls
to send you these poems.
I have small balls.
I have the smallest balls.
Oh! A postcard of O’Keeffe.
It says, “Sometimes when you least
expect it someone is thinking of you.
Lovingly.”
don't feel you today
you must be asleep
or out in the country
i would like to
bake us some bread
would like to curl up
inside your right arm
while you read me
to sleep / to sleep
with your voice
such a comfort now
we would grow
calm
*
when fantasizing
you became
a windshield placed
carefully
around a hybrid flower
"my love is building
a building
around you"
my love
is building a new
flower
*
reading you
i feel fresh water
coursing down my throat
i feel unlonesome
awesome
THE JOY TRIUMPHANT
Oh to be alive in the world!
Alive in the world!
In love with the world in the world!
To be drunk in the presence of grace,
and alive in the world,
so very alive in the world!
To be enthralled with it all
with the thrill
of being alive in the world.
Drunk in the presence of grace
and alive in the world!
One in the world,
one of the world,
in love
in the world,
so alive
in the world
drunk in the presence
of grace
and alive in the world!
*
NO MONEY IN ART
You can be a dancing brontosaurua
in the Glimmer Twins chorus,
a terrorist, a therapist,
an expert on the clitoris,
go back to barter, protect Jimmy Carter,
write rubber rain checks,
run an obnoxious discotheque,
sell meat thermometers, metric odometers,
snowmobiles to Eskimos,
leave marks that don't show!
You can preach self-reliance,
form an East-West alliance,
force strict compliance,
cure Herpes Simplex,
be a stooge for the complex,
get an MBA and an MFA take some MDA
and be MIA in the USA!
You can be a security advisor,
a market analyzer, a human breathalyzer,
some sweet thang's protector,
a short arms inspector,
a radiation leak detector,
a Soviet defector!
You can forewarn of the apocalypse,
make burgers out of beeflips,
do talk shows, trade quips,
one, two, shape those hips!
Be a military advisor to El Salavador,
believe in a winnable nuclear war,
collect empties in the Cass Corridor!
You can join the CIA, get on MTV,
tells the little Gs & Bs how it's got to be.
Get rich in the struggle,
find something new to smuggle,
be a liar, a conniver,
a Tupelo truckdriver,
get real behind a laser,
locate a real and present danger,
be a major deal arranger,
oh it gets stranger and stranger!
But I gotta tell you Honey,
don't let it break your heart,
but there ain't no money, Honey!
No Money in Art!
*
FIRST POEM FOR ST. NED
Like the difference between
driving back the edge with art that cares
and driving onward foggedly through
delivering a sopping maniac to his mama.
The vehicle of discovery needs a valve job.
The motive of the day is pure annihilation.
The song goes something like
"You don't have to live like a refugee."
Watching out for the mind police.
Worrying about The Beaver.
Aware of unseen forces.
No lights on the instrument panel
but we have the stars and the moon
and the glow of the brainheat
to show us one version of The Way.
Let's drive everyone crazy with art that cares.
Drive them out of their homes,
away from their comforts,
into the terrible flow of hyper-over-extended
oblivion bound inner upper jetstream.
Take the third right past the golf course
and look for unmarked sedans.
Sniff the October breeze for sniper scent.
Kiss, kiss, and run for cover.
Run, run, and kiss your mother.
