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dan donatelli
Dan Donatelli is a curveball poet from cleveland's east suburbs who writes like allen ginsberg's bastard son.

Works on this page:
Lunatic Pandora
Run Westward Fire Exit
Pass Me By
Shetland Incident
Five Nameless Poems


Lunatic Pandora

Where are you heroes of time and space, faltering cautiously through
Science, branded with knowledge, philosophy, and intermediate
Composition of essays.
- - - - -Living in woods, watching trickled streams of lakes work ways towards
Creaky old cabins with broken screens, fixed intermittently with duct tape
And the sorry old thoughts of age-old homage transfusions.
- - - - -Laughing alone feeling stupid but not really because the essence of Buddha
Always warmed you, lying on military cots with thick socks and no blanket listening
To the creak creak creak of small musical insects in oppressive blind midnight
- - - - -Working hard and hardly working to initiate patterns of thought, universes of possibility by streaming words across pages with nothing but everything to gain, thinking
Your words, though small and methodic, are your own and not uncle sams
- - - - -Smiling at your ideas breaking twigs on long walks through shaded paths thinking of the first behind the back pass, the first curve ball, the first general to instate guerilla war, the first slam dunk, the first home run, the first time you discover words go everywhere
- - - - -Shaking your fists at the lonely cummupance of day, and night, figuring the sun
Is reading your works like he read mayakovsky's and o'hara's, but really you're all just fooling yourselves into believing you will make a difference
- - - - -Tripping night after night in oppressive blinding blackness thinking of the first
Man to survive the trip up everest and how "impossibly zen" he must have felt, but it was all for naught because he never really got anything done more than survive
- - - - -Sliding down muddy balled up hills breaking twigs with the surface of your skin
And the blood bleeds to salty and red, there is a sign of life! there is a modern hero
Amongst us after all!
- - - - -Singing your chorus to the break of day through cracked chapped lips bleeding gums chewing on broken finger nails, forgetting about composition and forged documents screaming echoes at the foothills of the golden morning
- - - - -Bleeding sanctimoniously on the beatific green cargo pants, wiping the mud and blood together to make a new score of rhetoric like words dripping across the pages
From the clouds of your fingers, the storm arrives
- - - - -Chanting mystical poems "howl"ing at the light of the moon, disregarding the heat of the sun, as mud becomes dirt and dirt becomes earth, zen! Zen teaches you to
Feel the morning mountain air become your voice and then return to mountain air
- - - - -Resolving each moment of glorious, sacrificial pain to the bitter morning crisp, the blood still flows from open cuts cut during long walks in closed undergrowth and
While thinking of tripping with Morrison you trip without the bushes hands and cut
- - - - -Reading most strange verses of calypso chorus with islands in mind and the first
Rock ever used as a tool can be anywhere and the true enlightenment isn't in "that" rock
But in the "idea" of it, beating savage beats with new rocks you sing through cracked lips
- - - - -Sacrificing papers to the kindling of warmth of cracking fires as ash shoots up through tree branches and return, much later, as burning dust burrowing holes through
Green cargo pants
- - - - -Flaking white ash from greasy hair sticking to long foreheads, little pools of sweat collecting in ripples of the skin, thinking alone being alone zen alone God alone morning alone mourning alone writing alone bleeding
- - - - -Rubbing ash from tired eyes in the face of another day in the woods in this small shack built by a family from much longer before, they left their mark as you try
So desperately not to leave yours, just ideas
- - - - -Passing away thoughtlessly into the crevice of existence, streaming blood from open wounds and freezing in the cold of the hot summer day, burning written papers for maybe a wave of warmth as it all closes in
- - - - -Closing eyes of thought, eyes of vision, eyes of dire need, and needing nothing more than to close existence you close yourself from the world and resolve all the problems of zen, art, and revolution of principles of understanding
- - - - -Parting ways with lonely existence, coughing blood in the morning, raining words in the afternoon and burning them in the evening, the world is yours and then, when it's over, the world is every single person out there, existing in the mind, dying in the woods of poetry.


Run Westward Fire Exit

I lose my cool
and it all comes slamming down

pianos drip notes like bloody mary
from the sky

innocence burroughs its heart through my intrepid
motor vehicle

machines give me instances of freedom

jazz beats slowly in the songs i never hear
because i dont like jazz

sipping from glass martinis soaking
straws in the biomass
plastic filled airplanes
give me time for now

i feel the random awkward
motions of the cool voice
streaming leftward from

the fifth century

with basho as my guide:

the palm wind closes
but nothing's left to be heard
my own mockery

with o'hara as my guide:

oh! the porcelain shatters afoot!
now i'm thinking of wrist watches
working solemnly on the arm of
Larry Rivers

with carroll as my guide:

tiny soldiers march and i
can see through the plastic spoons
tomorrow is bleeding

with ginsberg as my guide:

though i often vision of delicacies on san francisco vending paradise
the uttered chatter contains undertones of
overwhelming squawks by large, black birds
of the first world of jazz

with kerouac as my guide:

i keep on working slowly
with the thoughts of nothing
in mind and no one to stop
working with me

and i'm left surrounded by age-old
homage confessions, children of technology,
bahamut, baseball,
childhood memories of hardening black
asphalt face first from a bike with
no control, shooting heroin in my
mental experience, designing
buildings - thinking a creator
living a parasite

motions i move to make moving easier

forgetting the past whims

the lost battles

the victories on the baseball field
sky maddening quickly under the
decrepit deceit of neverending childhood

i am interrupted by loving parents
but must forge on!

victory is so close at hand! cherish moments of glory and inherent defeat, much can be learned from both

always gaining, knowledge from my predecessors

roark had cameron
i have (see above)

include welsh and palahniuk, crichton, pirsig, garland, selby, puzo,thompson, burgess, buckowski

so many others in my literary fantasy pulitzer world

laughing at misfortune
crying at success

moving on from the past, memories are the anti-indulgence

live in the livin


wake up working smoking drinking walking talking smiling

letting the world burst into some drunken supernova, write it all down


Pass Me By

---I think the clouds

Clasping my hands---------------------a murder

----------------I cut my forearms carrying

------------------------Away from the corpse of an old state penitentiary

-------The small incisions

---Bleed light and throb

--------------------------------------------- "mad beats"
----------------In my heart

-------------------------------------------------------------A rave
-----------------------------And late spring black puddles
--Walking home from work

-------------------------------------------------------Light a match
Burn a finger

-------------------------Fuck up some smart kids
------------Start a fucking revolution

Time to die


Shetland Incident

A Shetland pony once
stepped into soft mud
and created a lake
the size of my hand.

And doctors say you can
drown in an inch of water...

in my backyard
a man once lit himself on fire
and had no lake to fall into

it's all just state of mind


Five Nameless Poems

1. Let the two of us
---------driven by shady highway cacti
--somewhere near Arizona
-----deluge the dry dreams
of acid jazz in the evening

2. I drip across the Atlantic
---------bottles in hand as I perceive
the simple truth that comes from stupidity
-------- like concordances or analogies
my body bent like hammock rest
or the sun's voyage down the eternal void of plasma while we all read along in one continuous line
--------one more time from the breech

3. Let you and I
----drift through the forest
---------like famous ghosts on film
------my eyes will light the way
it's a great escape

4. A cat on a cloud can
sometimes predict tomorrow's weather
------- my friend usually relays this
information- he can see it from his window
----- he lets me know if I should prepare
for tomorrow's baseball game

5. I paddle down certain rivers
------I created in haste
---Sitting on a hill basking in the
conformist cliched summer sun
----I created in my childhood
--and delivered to my parents

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