poem

Foreword
Madsen.
Poet.

I like him better than Kerouac.
Raunchier, more poignant.

He's got street language.
Images I can relate to.

Blows my mind with his drifts
of gut-wrenching riffs.

This actor is a poet.
Our best.

I'm proud to know
him a little.

His words show me
a lot about me.

A laugh. A tear.
He talks of now.

Thanks Michael.
Keep enjoying the work.

I do. I love the work.

Love,
Dennis Hopper
Foreward from Burning in Paradise, by Michael Madsen

Not Only is Michael an incredible actor, but he is also an accomplished poet. Having published 4 books of poetry, including Eat the Worm, Burning in Paradise, and Beer, Blood, and Ashes. His poetry, albeit disturbing at times, really captures the audience with it's truth. He doesn't polish everything over in order to make the world seem like a better place. It's life. It's incredible. His art is incredible to read.

White Hair
By: Michael Madsen

I figure I got
about 10 years left
to chase away
the old man.

I've seen him
late at night and
in the morning
after too much whiskey.
That's wish-key.

Maybe it's my father
I see or my dead brother.
Each man in his own way
must do this I guess.
The smart ones anyway.

I can still run faster
than a speeding bullet
and I know Superman
had a cigarette
once in a while.

Rain
By: Michael Madsen

Chicago, July 2, 1992,
I stuck my head out the window
into a beautiful rainstorm
and got my face and hair wet;
it was a nice welcome home.
The rain I mean.
The weathermen grumbled
like groutheaded goat snappers
so I turned the TV off.

The American flag wet
and flapping in the wind below me
reminded me of my father
who was born on July 4th
and named after the president of his day.

I saw a parking lot attendant
walking across his lot in
yellow rain slickers,
then a big fat guy in a white shirt,
black tie and black pants,
you could tell he wanted to run,
but he knew he'd look stupid
with his fat bubbling up and down
so he kept walking and getting wetter.

I was wet now as were my boots
by the window, and I felt like
a seed in Death Valley waiting
for my gut to sprout.

I left the window open,
drank two vodka tonics,
lit a cigarette and
didn't move my boots.

Jack's
By: Michael Madsen

I had this job at a gas station,
it was called Smilin' Jack's.
The owner was a rubber body
lump of ignorance who thought
he was teaching me grand lesson
of manhood, things that I knew
years before I set foot in his
hole on Dempster in Evanston.
"You got an answer for everything,"
he said, well, with him there
in that place it wasn't
too hard you know.
He told me to smile more,
said it "changed my whole face,"
so I went in the shitter
and looked in the mirror,
smiling from different angles,
again and again,
trying to see what he meant.
Ding ding the hose bell rang outside,
I had a customer.

Lost
By: Michael Madsen

Highway signs and daffodils,
runaway trucks and old men
in the Catskills, the sound of rain
in the early morning
and her beautiful face.
A train in the station
waits for us to get on,
steam so thick you just can't see.
Singing songs by firelight
under the overpass
at Highway 66.

Friday
By: Michael Madsen

A cigarette butt
fipped out the door.

The windmill turning
in the breeze.

A funny little black dog
who didn't even look over
when I whistled.

Scotch whiskey afternoon
with a sunburned neck.

Luxembourg
By: Michael Madsen

Rain drops sliding down
the windshield crying clouds,
feeling better, I took my belt off,
dropped it on the couch,
it looked like a black snake.

I can hear traffic on the highway,
cars driving through rain sounds
the same wherever you go.