I write holy verse postcards, translate
dreams into hobgoblin doublespeak turpentine fantasies,
see mothers burning shuddering blinking ashcan angels
in fuck-flick fallout.
I see cigarette-filled crossbone soulless jailhouse
methheads whose mission to butcher passes for poverty
racketing through armies of muscatel America with
cigarette holes burned in their dungaree hope.
I research hungry mothers and burning fathers jumping
to see someone somewhere sometime stop suffering,
leaving the sweat in my veins waiting for roaming
herds of bedsheets soaked in the public eternity.
I dream of desolation-barroom mercy, stolen horror,
heroes of the mouldering consciousness, innocent sleight
of mouth, and the highway of hollow caresses.
I purify myself shivering in echoes of things left
undone, dragged off like junky reciprocating memories
fresh from rose garden evenings firetrucking to the
fascist void, blowing lava on the johns of the cross.
I commit no crime in the gilded auditoriums or ill-illuminated
hovels or naked alleyways, running in the rickety
rows of the future disgorged, making the insane pilgrimage
to my expectations.
I share my vision and my incomprehensible desire,
burning victory like endlessly hungry whispering facts.
I scribble of synagogues and wonder and mustard gas
and nightmare blues shuddering in the bedsheets of
the corporate American cathedral, praying for the
mother of all ecstasy, the love and delight of the
day, the shaman of symbols, the stone old men waiting
to return to the dead imitation family.
I hear boxcar romance tumbling into the abyss.
I scatter accusations of collapsing invisible narcotic
extremes, would give up my place in the madhouse,
and hand my 15 minutes to the sleepwalking zombie
generation for a pass from the vanishing barrel-ass
terror before the end.
I trudge out loud and look suspiciously like tenement
visions plotting one dreadful murder at the window
of daisychain injustice.
I wage my subway war against nothing but the tomb
and I hear you when you’re silent and I cannot
help the empty someones out there somewhere while
screams for mercy echo down the bloody toilet.
I feel the technicolor hunger in flannel-suit cities,
suburban commuters looking at the purgatoried solitude
where madness leaves a moment’s humanity lit
in the neon fire and nightmare light of supernatural
I want nothing but to joyfully be myself.
I ignore the dream, the static concrete, the allegations
of cosmic tatters, the illusions of victory, the continuous
tv hitchhiking, the romance of once-upon-a-time, the
blindness of the superhuman slaughter, the symphonies
of midnight, the rattle of the hipster soul, the mind-shrew
yogi entrepreneurs, the staggering facts of the cocksucker
heart, the empty dawn, the mending of the dead poetry
of harpy asses, the false god of the ill-spoken word,
the fast-forward dynamo jailbait hallucinations from
the tangents of lost light skulls, the transformation
of poverty, the crazy souls of the weak who sell their
shadows for a scrap of nostalgia, the hijacked who
seek more of theirs, and—still—there is
Charles Newman was born in Newark,
NJ. 4 books. 1 chapbook. Various publications and
collections. Hosts 2 venues. Has read in NYC, Chicago,
London, Louisville, etc. with David Amram, the Viking
Hillbilly Apocalypse Review, Mouth and Hands, and