Wednesday, June 24, 2015


Intoxication        Jesse Bercowetz

Running along side the fast moving train, I hoisted myself up, my boney ribs scraping across the dirty wooden floor of the giant cargo container. I was thirteen, adrenalized and directionless- along for the ride. Feeling at home, in that cool dark echo chamber of corrugated steel. 

Some say the tracks literally divided our  town. Looking back I see it as a special kind of scar tissue the kind that you could flatten Lincoln’s head on. 

Hours were spent in dark rural shacks where pale bodies huffed glue from wonder bread bags. We were like Seeds planted in gooey resin soaked couches -spongy carpet landscapes  nurtured a Nano collage of cock roach carcasses and Marlborough butts.

Across town, a few joints would get me in the back door to the university ceramics lab. There I could indulge in tactile self-expression. I could smother my punches elbow deep in the red Kentucky clay.

Although art has been the constant through out my life. It was Christianity that saved me from trucker’s speed, grape flavored pure grain and juvenile detention. I too saw Satan in the bathroom mirror while tripping on purple microdot. -The red guy in the mirror tells the truth that no one not even God wants to hear. He is the angel that vowed never to serve man. You can find him on page 155 of Picassos’ Picasso. 

Turns out I wasn’t ready for the truth.

I came to on a school bus that had been roller painted blue, not sky blue and not royal blue. It was a dark Pentecostal blue.

That first tour of duty was a messed up gathering of tent revival love. You could witness epileptic prophecy and you could see the furniture fold and float. 

It was the Kentucky Derby and religious tracts, cigarette packs and little plastic bags littered the streets. Dusty scuffed Donald Ducks preached redemption time. 

The smack of antiseptic hit the back of my throat. Next door: there was some praying going on and I was doing it. I told a paraplegic boy he would walk again! How horrific of me!! Misguided, insane, teen-age chemical disaster. False prophets and charlatans times ten.

I was a fountain spilling violet chunks and yellow neon  strands . With the toilet in a bear hug I stood up ripping  its guts from the floor -twisting at the hips with one foot of the ground-  I tossed it out the window.
Shards of glass raining down, chasing their porcelain brothers. American Standard. 

My gloves were made of stop signs and ruby plate glass droplets.

After the tornado my eyelash swept the spot of sidewalk right above where my cheek had landed. The texture changed twice with each blink: smooth chewing gum, sand paper sidewalk. I was paralyzed, hog-tied in some type of leather and chain police get up.

The letters came out backwards, upside down and mutated. Numbers transform into topsy-turvy monoliths of dense carrot cake confusion.

 My marks threatening to make up their  own snake-handling language.

An impending doom ignites an impulse to draw-- anything: a rock star, a barbarian, pot leaf, crucifix, color-field in the palm of your hand. 

Draw a girls face reflected in a vile of suspect liquid.

The post intestinal thud of balled up pizza and cookie dough overkill kept my thinking busy and bowls like mortar. My tablet is a junkies hazed out everlasting index of movies and episodes. All  consumed since this course began. We’re talking about bullshit junk like all 5 million seasons of Californication and NY Ink, LA Ink, Miami Ink and Fire Fly. 

While Planting trees. the gritty dirt scratched and mingled with my sweaty sunburned skin. It was a manifest destiny etched in crusty soil and peeling flesh. Trees would be planted from Kentucky to New York. Under the green interstate flicker -highway men wore tights and women held tools. They all wore capes and clean up was their plan. 

The  battle is to finish. Compelled to morph  cursive and then slither and jive to stay in the lines.

 Jesse navigated a completely foreign world he felt stuck in the mind of Richard Dreyfuss - he was building Devil”s Tower from mash potatoes and shrubbery. Eventually he would leave the family behind and board a neon saucer headed for “no turning back”. 

the savage questions

the savage questions
to lookers
and on lookers
to overseers
and below zeros
heres to a fitful response

feeling sick
i scrambled out
to reconnect

the problem
certainly is pumping
and oft time


i remember the cloak of invisibility.

i remember the cloak of invisibility.
and now
i've heard
the threads exist.
i can imagine 
the women with the craggy smile.
she lives with spiders the size of my hand.
she milks them and sells what is sticky 
and not called a drug.
she works these threads 
into fabric 
that erases

with its folds.

This bird sings certainty

This bird sings certainty
Feathers    beaded    droplets
Beak    of cradles   IV

Talons of talons   III

He is a member so
consider sticking close
Of the soar all day club

Water and wind and magic wands
Swirl of swirl II

Trust takes your breath away
Freezer of freezer I

The leap is the thing and we just know it so
stay close to the edge 

Crumble of crumbles    0

The largest hook

The largest hook
Gone mad
Then fastened tight
Oh what a factor
Swimming the tainted solitude
How he calmly explained 
The difference
And it surely made sense

And the first tulip came
Mistaken for trash

Tho the lord had warned us
Still well killed
Before arrival

I write to you
A soapy cleanse
A deception
To apease the angry crowds

Who's patience buries deep in the dirt of decay

Sweet heart sister.

Sweet heart sister.
You’re the scent 
of burnt rubber.
An interstate skid
in search of the right font. 
Calligraphy brother.

In your memory:

I build a pile of socks  
atop a chair that rolls.

I build dust on the sill 
of unread books.

Death is the format that shimmers
this Journey.

I build a watery collection
down bottom.

Fermenting sludge 
down bottom.

I build dank Pharos’   chambers
from a cast-iron 

Mountaintops of body parts-
pasted together
like rice crispy snacks.

And that’s the anthropology of a bird-feeder.

I keep you at arms length

I keep you at arms length 
For a reason
I turn the music off
And the lights down

That’s what has happen
 that’s where I am at
with the living 
with the dead
with charlatans
And false prophets

I kiss your body 
in my dreams 
The cold chases me toothless

down the hall.

And theres Absorbtion

And theres
of the good body
During war
I don’t know what I believe
And that evokes memories 

Of the purely endangered


how it can be.

The sunshine threatening 
these foggy leaf soaked mornings.

The business of being
busy is what brought us here.

Tracks in the grey gravel.
We used to flatten the heads of presidents.

Her pelvis like a window
shards .
My bones like a monastery’s
wooden floor 

Hugs the night in a
compact fabrication.

Our treaty a familiar

in a blank-out.
Not to be confused with a blackout.
how it can be.

The sunshine threatening 
these foggy leaf soaked mornings.

The business of being
busy is what brought us here.

Tracks in the grey gravel.
We used to flatten the heads of presidents.

Her pelvis like a window
shards .
My bones like a monastery’s
wooden floor 

Hugs the night in a
compact fabrication.

Our treaty a familiar

in a blank-out.

Not to be confused with a blackout.


Limiting ourselves to our conditioning

are what we’re made of.
Books of lies.
On shelves of lies. 
Cased in lies.
In the Stacks
of libraries.
Micro lies.
       Cro-magnum   lies.

The world   wide   lie.
Indras’    lie.  

History makes a white lie  
   so friendly
And black   most sinister.

We strive for fabled jewels. 
Noble lies that we live by 
    -like democracy.
A Forked tongue genocide.

If the whole universe is truly 
moisten with nectar 
then that would explain
the sticky surfaces 
and a population 
slimey and sluggish.

Theres a thing called    red-lie 
An action   painted   rage.

Like “by his stripes we are healed”!

a carpet of snakes like slither dreams

a carpet of snakes
like slither dreams

in a land where carrots and mud
are combination locked
in a rain speckled black
brief case

what’s new new
to the new
times new
equals new
plus new
to the tenth

in a land where garlic and dye
make ripple in an over chlorinated

a carpet of burned
can blistered heat

a carpet of khaki
can go each way

in a land of carpet
our wildest dreams

shag dread and full of crumbs

I was staying in a room

I was staying in a room
with rectangles and water.
caught lagging
soaked up to salty.
You like a waterfall
pasted over the free-way.

Our concept sat gloating.
spanked to a shrill.
Film flowing with crumble.
What sizzled was all splatter
With tear point and tear bulge.
Why when gods built them
them so.

Sometimes I get pissed.

Sometimes I get pissed.
Then I'm reminded.
There once was a time
monsters had no clear edges.
And bound in a instant.
People had heard of a boy
with chopped hands.
His awards for penmanship.
Dexterous toes
building deckled walls.
Stacked journals that study to the ceiling.

It had always been that way

It had always been that way
Our people soaked in pain
Creeping along that path
Never crossing that river
Never hugging the bush
It has mostly been that 
both then and now and tomorrow
Our teeth will become powder
Our fist burst into flow
What we do and don't are desires rule
And now just a puddle 
Now just a cup of tea 
An infant can drown by either
I love you shitty me -you the fuck of us all 
I will remember our dirty lousy hell 
with plant life and sweet insects and the lies between our ears
I will recall the flicker riding from flame to flame flicker
Passing in and it
pure up and up and gravity trickle low
In the time of twisted bones and goitered flesh 
Smiles so large 
they make you cry in private places
Fashions metal steel iron
geometric down runways flanked
Livers, kidneys, intestines
How do you mend a severed head
And what kind of jewel is appropriate
and how many pills does it take

And will the shades blank blank the shadows whole

Saturday, July 5, 2014

First Stanza

First stanza
is something about desire.
Why fear the dreadful words
never meant for a poem.

A yawning accommodates
the souls dirty mark.

In the distance
I see an assembly.
And I know that house quite well-
the dynastic of jumble and maladroit.

The blueprint is love-
whose erection is a creeper-
with rungs made
of evanescent sluices

And night pines
the dominance of grief’s
habitual stair-case.

And all and all
   and all.

The friendliest vein
of stratum
is a cool and brightless

This is not me!
This is not me!
Not what I am!

The Books

The books
are no longer held
with staples or tape.

Gospel today
fills the soul
like glue
from a Wonder Bread bag.

Like the photography of some vital
A passing of traitor -
disappearing the early morning

The gelatin silver print blisters
with foresight.

A reflex assumption.

One perilous lineage
hooked by clairvoyant creations-
only to defecate the denial of truth:

The dying beast is your child,
your demon,
 your God.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Mystery is the staple of our design.

Mystery is the staple of our design.
High-end and comfortable.
Stunning beyond bolder.
Step forth.
Yes its our calling.
New love
wrapped around your finger.
Geometric is our undoing.
The heat and the rumble
and the crud in the lung.

One week. One time. One
ounce.  Once...    Shhh...

Hold me.
An absolute disaster.
Everyone...get it?
A ticking time bomb  shine!
Take a look
All round any corner.
All round any world.

I walked through flowers-

I walked through flowers-
past Calvin Klein
reclining nudes
and airport eyes.

A monolith of inked up
A girl with doctored sleeves.
A boy swah swimming.
   100 plus.
and dialects.
    Only  1
motor bike insight.

Grimy Red Cross diary.
Bound by a string
some writing by Shakespeare?

Security with gapped up faces
enough to get a knuckle wedged.

How a hand can carefully
 block the wind
whilst spitting from a train
window what looks
like Dracula blood.

Shwe means gold.
And something else means tall.

We sat

We sat
in silence
Not a private sitting
with the gulls
and the crashing of waves
and the salt mist
Not even
Not beauty or corpse
Not even guilt or shame
Remorse    not even remorse
All the finger tips of the world
reaching back
To the remote right
before drip-dry