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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
blue
lasting
eternal
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
that
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
now
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
---------Razorwire
------------------------Away from the corpse of an old state
penitentiary
-------The small incisions
---Bleed light and throb
--------------------------------------------- "mad beats"
----------------In my heart
-------------------------------------------------------------A
rave
-------Drugs
-----------------------------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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