Beatsperminute

"Happy Ides of March,"

Judas jabbed as he passed all 180 lbs of my meaty frame

A gold bracelet around his ankle and a ring in his nose
Telling stories to you and yours about his hitchhiking trip through Italy
"Make sure you Stand upright," he told me, smiling widely

with a grin three thousand miles wide

Lonely rucksack bum with his buddies and their swiss Army knives

Like comedians, stabbing me with punchlines

Waiting a beat for the laughter to subside

Nineteen or Twenty Beats per minute

before Plunging me with another. I can't breath.

With a grin three thousand miles wide

Across our great president's land

from fog entrusted red and rusted Golden Gate

to Lightning Strikes atop the Empire State Building
Standing Proud like a god
Thunderous Thunder thundering
like ancient Titan's mythos or
heartbeat of a hummingbird
One thousand, two hundred and sixty Beats per minute
Steady like a freight train roaring sounds of speed
while railing at the speed of sound

theoretically, as that mad Jew Einstein posited
"Am I going mad?" he asked through gnashed teeth
running calloused hand through that shock charged crown of whitish hair
"Sometimes I think if I had my way
I'd sit around naked watching porn all day.
chocolate, cholesterol and chocolate

until my lips turned blue

or my balls fell off from the dead beating of hand over hand masturbation"

three hundred and eighty four Beats per minute
Sitting there like Buddah laughing
Or Goin' out for 4 AM cigarettes one two or three
vicodin for four five six hours, days, years, lifetimes...

"And wine of course" chimed the coarse whine
"and wine to dull the pain of pleasure"
Not virulent but reflexive ventures
Because I never wanted heaven in a pile of pills

little boy who wanted to grow up
standing upright, eating chestnuts

swimming in rivers and drinking goatmilk and talking to priests

Able to amble fields, mountains, valleys working farm to farm,

All zen and toy tractors

Like those Beat Poets growing out in the Oklahoma prairie somewhere

Like noble blades of wheatgrass, standing upright

blowing in the breeze but being blazed over by

gas guzzling federally subsidized motorized mowing monsters

two hundred Beats per minute.

And things go apace.

When you think of how truly great and wise

must be the
rumbles, that rush
Pseudosentenced to a dog-sled chain gang, Mush!

A cymbal has one third the brass of a tuba but
turns more heads when it crashes.
Eight times per song, 2 times per measure, one time per beat
One hundred and twelve Beats per minute
Empty noise with the obscure

allusion to and illusion of importance

Not unlike my art. All technique. No soul.
When I finally do grow a soul
I may just sell it in a sweepstakes
to save up money for my Harley
Open Envelope Now!
You may have already won!
or some such nonsense.
That day I told you about synecdoche
Hoping to impress and bed thee

When all you heard was my prediction
"They're gonna rip off your heads--
Your aspirations to shreds"
Not meant to hurt you

a little because you were a better writer than I.

Beat away at those statues standing upright in

Your honor. Reduce them to ruins and beat you down

two or three Beats per minute

Until by tearing down something great

I have built myself up out of the rubble of ancient stones
Standing upright with a grin three thousand miles wide

Your personality's laced with addictive substances

Every junction of your letters

Leaves a legacy behind
eternity means forever, you know
and Your pride can keep you company
long after I have gone on
mumbling some story about
every letter you ever received from me.
How you first regarded each with caution
opened slowly and with great care
You can tell they are my envelopes because
they, too, are sensitive to disappointment