Kaminski Writing

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” _Kerouac

Tag: Poetry

In the Height of Heaven Stones

I’m going to grow my hair long
while I’m young and living.
I’ll drive fast
around and round the sorry continent—
Across forgotten lands
I’ll drive with windows down.

You were in the passenger seat
laughing or maybe crying,
I never knew with you.
I only knew the wisps
of your hair in my face;
the smell of your drugstore shampoo.
Your golden skin
and the sweat we made.

I shouted into endless
highway distance
when you left.
Unheard,
a ghost on the road,
I wandered off every exit
memorizing the face of distant godmade cathedrals.
I’ll climb their summits
with every tribulation of the spirit–
Crying out for mercy and more strength.

I’ll stand, or maybe sit,
looking out and back
to where I came from and how.
And in the height
of heaven stones
the wind will toss and pull
the hair I grew long
in my youth and life.

I’ll laugh so loud on that peak
you’ll hear me somewhere
on your own mountain.
Satisfied we’ll leave
to find one another
on some new crest.
Our bodies blending into
some godmade life.
I’ll breathe you in the mountain.

After long days I’ll lay in your bed.
You’ll run your fingers through my long grey hair—
mine through yours.
We’ll both know where we’ve been.
And I’ll love you with every ease of the spirit.

_ Kevin Kaminski 2012

Conquered

They climbed for a day,
maybe less.
The wind in their hair.
The men laughing.
One boy brought a flag
from his hometown.
They took pictures
and waved
at cameras.
Smiling with giant teeth.

The boy with the flag
searched for a place to hang it;
for a place to write his name.
He could hear cheers
from the other side
from his friends.

We did it.
He could hear them.

He turned back
to shout
and lost his footing.
The flag
flew.
His skull
scattered his name
across the mountain.

_ Kevin Kaminski 2012

The Poles of Highland Park

The lower stage
In Highland Park
Bursts with light and and semen.
Poles like scepters,
Stainless-steel erections of empty wallets.
Open pussy staring raw into the
Gaping mouths of skeleton-men
While unknowing girls line up for George Washington
In his underwear.
Wooden penis ready as well as armed on a white horse.
Beats beating the backs of boys
Hoping for a dance.
Hopeless for romance
She lowers her tits
Into the cherry glow of his
Cigarette.

She removes her amour
Beneath excited filaments.
Selling glances from her painted eyes;
Polishing the poles with dirty cloth.
Hoping to be paid in dirty cloth.
Settle-up with the clerk on the panty-line
Wet with Washingtons
Drowning in lives unfulfilled
Filled with mocking mirrors and music

Beats

Beating boys
Off in tenebrous corners.
Beating back the persistence
Of glazed grins drooling
In surrealistic pleasures
Reflected in endless mirrors
The angel in light descends the steps
Like lightning

–Oh?
“Hey baye-bee”
It’s $20 for a hand-job.

_ Kevin Kaminski 2012

Into the Dust

I draw your face with sandstone
On sandstone
Sloppily.
It looks like no one
But dust.
We laugh
And you destroy my artistic abilities with your words.
I am no Monet, VanGoh, or God.

We lay our bodies down
In the desert sun
On dust.
Waiting for the sun to cool our bodies
So we can wander home
In blind darkness.
So we can drive back to our room,
On empty
Going 90.
Through the black
Construction paper night.
We cut through.
Going fast.

I stand on the horizon
As you put your arms out
Into the wind
And we holler wildly
Into the invisible power.
We cannot hear
Except the sounds of rushing water
Cutting deep
Into the earth.

We gather the red dust
In our hands
We release it.
It flies.
It never touches the ground again.
We are giant egg timers
With all the time in the world.
So we throw stones,
And they too,
In all their weight,
Never hit the bottom.

I stand miles away
Looking out in a crazed wonder.
I leap.
And you cautiously watch
To see if I too will hit the ground.

_ Kevin Kaminski 2012