POETRY ATTIC: Beautiful, Damn Beauty & Picturesque Lies

// Photography: Jeff Wolfe //

BEAUTIFUL, DAMN BEAUTY

The look of the counter girl
makes me remember something
about me, so I stare.
When I look, I look for every
last detail,
back to the pig-tails and
the trips to the lake.

Lost diary entries,
each yearn and heart crack.
She just hands me my
stupid coins with her
“get on w/ your life” eyes.
It’s like that everywhere
I go today.


My backs been to it all along.
Those that play together
know how to get by.
Never lived up to their
healthy ritual dances -
they move too fast.

Flat-footed, in daydream shoes
I stand away for long lengths
until I get “IT”!
Burst out of the study
into maddening oncoming traffic.
I barrel through
thinking to go against the flow,
pushed the opposite way.



Find the nearest potion
giving energy to
unlock their secret language
and hook into their
syntax of bright nonsense.

Unable to rattle loose anything true.

Alan Watts mountain talk
doesn’t translate.
Deaf ears send me back
to the odd streets, the weird streets.
I sit next to path-man,
spirit-man,
guide-man.
Talk from a simple place.
Easy conviction.
Leveled up from my old seat.

See that mirror he holds up to me
and there I am,
sit and be free.
The talking comes from
where I need it,
dad voice I never knew.

All the blood and particles,
cells, and waves are happening.
Third-eye goes inward to see
swoon of creation.
Come untangled from
bad looks that
dent from the outside.


Every type of cosmic
energy I need is my
birthright.
Go to spirit fires
in holy woods place
to catch my breath.
This granted access, soon revoked.
One out of a hundred understand why.

Go a thousand miles inside
to a ledge
to hang my feet and throw
off heavy rocks.
All my silly books
go up in the sky.
I hear a musical sound
drifting me a comfort
from a perfect memory.
It’s up to me to design
something new.

PICTURESQUE LIES

A spectacle of hard shapes.
Subtle delusion arouses me.
Drink up the town,
mad reason bleeds pure.

Eyes begin to dart,
speak in run-on.
Head is a storage for sweat -
everything closes in.




Crooked painting hangs
over broke beat typewriter.
Smoke sails into patterns.
Blink into new temptation.

Burn up candles all night,
wait for you.
Anxiousness inside,
eyes linger on walls.

Glance fades into darkness.
Listen to an empty phone,
speak when afraid.


Browse at too thick books,
leaf through pages,
delirious for truth.
Round the bend back to religion.

Dizzied by twelve films,
still onward to mindful music selections.

Dance all combinations of movement.
The lost pictures of Godard,
Fellini in a splendid heat.


Sweet liquor swells,
driven against picturesque lies,
shaken – isolation – tamed.

Hysterical eyes come
to something
never imagined.


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