most recently cause he says “fuck” more, but here’s a link from his myspace blog.

john sweet Last Updated: Jan 21, 2008 Send Message Instant Message Email to a Friend Unsubscribe Invite to My Blog Gender: Male Status: Single Age: 39 City: Endicott State: New York Country: US Who Gives Kudos: Debbie Kirk i (2)

Wednesday, January 30, 2008   DEBBIE DOES THE INTERNET and you know you want her

If you have stumbled onto my blog and are saying “who the fuck is this”…at the moment the website is in the final stages of construction. BUT you can go to (sigh) my myspace page. There’s a link on the sidebar. pictures, artwork, publishing credits, all that shit. If you’re into that. Personally, I think my poetry speaks for itself.

 

I’m out of the practice

Of living

But I feel an urgency pushing me from all sides

As if I had better say what I have to say now

Before its too late

I have those dreams

Where you try to scream out of fear

And cannot

I delusions of grandeur that I’m going to be fine

Everything is going to be just fine

If I just hang on

A little longer

 

Stuck in the south

Scared I might blend in

And wondering if the birds get here round winter and think

“that’s it?”

And I see them sitting on poles and wires outside my window

And wonder if they, like me, are just waiting for this winter to be over

Counting the days, hours, minutes, seconds

And then losing count and having to start all over again

 

After a while the numbers blend together

Like a barcode

And you just hit the deck

And pray for a war to break out

So you could atleast be a part of some action

 

Most days I just sleep

I can’t afford heat

And I can’t afford to get back

To my familiar stomping grounds

Im saving money

But I fear it will take forever

 

I fear too much of everything these days

Something I always tried to fight

 

I’m too tired and weak to even ball my cold hands

Into fists

 

 

But I’m learning a lot. I’m really learning a lot.

I watch TV as little as I can

Even if it means sitting in silence with myself

 

I set booby traps for the red dragon

In case he comes after me

But I end up forgetting where I put them up

And fucking myself up over and over again

Rinse, repeat

 

Even my closest friends wont offer me a hand up.

I spent two weeks in that roach infested shelter for battered women

But I lived

So I’ve stopped asking for help

And stopped waiting for it.

 

Things that used to bring me comfort

Now cause me frustration

Only I could be so critical

Of even my level of enjoyment of things

 

I’ll make it out of here

My story is too colorful to end this way

Even tho I don’t see colors now

I smell them around me

Waiting for me to stand up

And lead them to canvass

Paper

And home

 

I don’t trouble myself with  idle thoughts of suicide anymore

Finding it childish

 

But sometimes I cock my gun and watch the birds all day long

Arriving at the end of their marathon to find nothingness

And before I make my exit out of this hell hole with the colors

My big parade

I might take some of those birds out of their misery

 

A mercy killing

Of sorts

 

And other days I wonder

If someone will do

The same for me

 

But I don’t get my hopes up

 

i keep hearing about people googling themselves?  I have actually told people who were annoying me before to shut up and go google me.  heh.   so i tried it. my name is so common you think im an insurance saleswoman.

so if you’re gonna google me like the hip kids google debbie kirk poet.

I can’t believe people really spend time doing this.

but, it is funny.

People often tell me that I write like Bukowski.

I usually hit ‘em back with:

“I don’t write like Bukowski, But I probably fuck like Bukowski.”

Almost anyone can be a drunk

And dabble in the words.

 

Neither candy bars nor prostitutes

Were cited as his muse.

Bukowski simply had it,

And when he left he took it with him

Deep in the dirt

In the real underground.

 

No one will ever be able to write like Bukowski, it’s true.

But I smile as I put a tampon in my pocket and head to the bathroom.

Back and belly on fire from cramps

And I think:

“Bukowski would’ve never been able to write like me either.”

Poetry

Is

The personification

Of

Masturbation

 

Sitting at the typer

Using well trained hands

To touch all the right letters

Spelling words

Building sentences

Constructing a fantasy

That makes you temporarily forget

Who and where

The hell you are

 

It takes an ego to write poetry

And it takes an imagination to masturbate

Especially consistency

And I’ve recently begun to believe

That consistency is an art.

 

Playing with words

Manipulating images in your mind

Blood rushing through your veins

Instead of blood rushing out

Onto the floor.

 

If you watch enough TV

I think

The urge to write

Is slowly suppressed

As is

The urge to get off

 

Everyone and

Everything

On tv

Are perfect

 

What makes the poem beautiful

To me

Is its imperfection.

 

What makes masturbation beautiful

To me

Is that it takes less time

Than writing a poem

Having sex

Or going thru the line up

Of cable channels.

 

 

 

I am the Snake handler.

Wandering from town to town,

with my hands in my pockets.

 

I light up the churches

in my path

With my fiery ways

 

I work

Real

Miracles.

 

It’s just cold enough

outside to see my breath.

 

Black and smoldering charcoal gray

illuminate the stained glass

and reveal the real truth,

The real beauty

It casts its shadows on all that is near.

 

Black angels of smoke

chisel away at the foundation

of lies.

 

My snakes go slithering in…

Looking for refuge

In the revelations of false hope.

 

I watch the debris

Gracefully fall to the ground.

I paint my face with the sot,

But I’ve already won the war

 

Puddles of holy water seeping

Out  everywhere

And reflect my image

The image of a god.

 

I summon my snakes

To return to me.

 

Then I throw one more bible on the fire

And regret that I didn’t take the wine

Before I threw the match.

spent all day in Richmond with my best friend Dawn.  Just getting home. I’m halfway thru my review for Bottle of Smoke Press for Father Luke. He’s amazing.  To bed now with a movie, tomorrow I’m supposed to talk with Victor about David possibly doing the cover art for my next project Sirens.

Will give a real update soon, i promise. I’m exhausted. Dawn’s son Jack is 5 and we played pirates all day.  Mostly he just makes up the rules and decides who wins, hes a typical kid.  he has a little mohawk.   A friend mentioned that I should do teach for america since that’s what im going back to school for. Also, I did two years in AmeriCorps.  I’ll check into it. hot shower, lemonade, bed with hmmm, I think I’ll watch Mr. Show tonight.