Poem: Flickering Light

It starts so soon, because the internet’s fucked

in the head sometimes, and as atrophy is death,

life is philosophy, churning water memories

boiling a steam line to the secrets

of the universe, pilot a model boat

home by nightfall, chugging soft quick

bubble pounding, an artistic metaphor

to be sure, but in myriad ways less

then meaningful, it’s pretty not import.

 

If consideration replaces boredom in my heart

I will be more, or less depending

on the breaks of the waves, fortune is a fire

tornado, leafing away buildings

to skeletal dissonance, so what’s the use

of reason at heart, justification turmoil is political

gamesmanship, my mind lies on

my tongue, introducing indistinguishable

ideals and setting them to a death duel.

 

The world is war, whether it outs

ever or not, for every pinprick is

a disaster waiting, coming in threes

fours and fives, or just never-ending,

so if life is pain what is the point of poetry?

Poetry is above points, obviously, but

there’s an intriguing question behind

the question, what is the point

of questioners, without a god above.

 

Who are they to listen to us?

My questions are not for loan

or lease, and less are they mine

at all in the first place, every question

is birth stone bestowed, left to be

discovered someday, smashed open

and scattered in dust, sprinkling onto

words, so all must be related, somehow.

Poem: Flickering Light

Poem: How it Appears

Chastity and temperance are the sins of an egoist

barnacle pyramid octagon paragon slipping away

all the time, but boxing glove grappling opiate carcinogate

popsicles, frozen mnute maid stickers pricking

from the walls of the tunnel, but whoa, sorry about that

but I blister penis hands, no!

 

All right I’ve got to settle down, see I’m a very silly person

and I was giggling as I typed this, so I might fall in on and fuck

purity political apples poop sausage links like I’m five

but I’ll do my best, to stay in control boogie nightfall and weep

in the prison of a mirror, because this seems important

a thing to feel, this is growth.

 

See the screen of sense wagging a gay finger at me mister man

lisping with a whistle around his necktie, painting Dr. Melfi

on the can but from behind, ya know so ya don’t

see anything, seductive skinny nothing master hooked on

phonics, teaching me to understand the world, for it’s not

facts that stay, but effects.

 

Pimple pumpernickel pottery, but let’s figure it out period

popsicle pants, understand that feelings are facts

as life is love at the same run time death proof trailer

trucker blow job blister, action films are philosophy

especially  kung fu, for when form is function

beauty exists, looks like.

Poem: How it Appears

Poem: So Tired

Objective reality is a theater of shadows, we understand

renouncing desire itself, thirsty hope that the body

christ is a cracker, this is renounced reason, but it is not stupid

soul crushing complicity, it is praised possibility raising

a crowd surf politics, not one of us knows it is incorrect.

 

So void plane paranoia, I guess the answer is a kevlar vest

rumination, stitching verbs in the lining of everything

not tethered, knowing this is the only way, it seems as

though it cannot be so, defeatist feelings are not the sun

or the moon, clarity is not obstinate so there’s always hope.

 

Bare the body audacious, strip every opinion to the bone

revealing the truth of conscious, what do you see at the eyes

closed and twitching, if not a golden sunset, nightmares from within

have brought us here, so the solution may be likewise

dreaming a future, or just as likely not because of fatigue.

Poem: So Tired

Poem: The Waking Dead

Talking to myself is less lonely

or more, I suppose than silence

is a choking void, speaking like a robot

valium addict method acting a dopefeind

in a drama, directed by Arinofsky

on a sadness bender, under a shade

with sunglasses on, it’s from a Friedkin

script about the dead rising slowly

at first, and they’re weak so barely

any escape, and their disease is a curse

not contagious, so there will be no more

dead, the movie is ten minutes long.

Poem: The Waking Dead

Poem: Candlewax

I’m jacking off in a latticed waffle pattern

prison window light, scolded and sunken,

I write about reality, make it a legend

of virility, I’ve had sex and my penis is perfect

admittedly, it curves pleasantly and heaves

occasionally with passion heft and dignity,

unless it’s fatigued, inaction sickness

prescribes pornography, only a temporary

animated opiate, take two and call me again

in the morning, you useless husk, dry cracking

skin at the edges, my girlfriend

passes out sometimes, drunk on vodka

I provide with my accident, not satisfaction.

 

Drizzle on me sizzle, weeping I’ll be

in a magma puddle, straining my mind

and spirit both, so I’ve nothing more,

I wish that I had an explanation

for myself, call it an excuse if you want

but I beg no pardon, my bare back

under lash pleading punishment, something

tangible with a lesson I could take,

at face value, a simple hobbling

like I had once, correcting an arrogant

streak I selfsame felt, like I’d get laid right

quick, not years later in a fumbling

drunken mess, of which I was

the villain, getting fat on pop tarts

and white bread ham sandwiches.

 

So in a way I was rescued, and rescuer

it seems, so today together acting,

we will achieve greatness, standing as mine

a chaos emerald, beautiful and lovely

though tortured and blind at the same time,

moving in waves of motion fluid

surging up over, learning the patterns

of each other, we live in greater harmony

and love expanding exponentially

with the in between time, not wasted

space, smooth setting a place

for us to sit, watching the flame move

downwards, staying constant sloughing

material off, to the sides in ripples.

Poem: Candlewax

100 word story: The Fatalist

Hanging on a ledge by my fingertips, I jeopardize myself like this, and I know this, but I’m not worried.

I could die today and it wouldn’t really make a difference.

Not to me anyway, and they would all get past it eventually.

Probably, really they’d be better off, and let’s face it so would I.

Imagine all the heartbreak and pain I wouldn’t have to experience, and all the disappointments I would never visit on my loved ones.

It would be simple, and I’d never hurt anyone again.

But I’m only ten, and it’s my birthday party.

Oh well.

100 word story: The Fatalist

Poem: Straight Horizontal

The horizon isn’t

a line to crest and plunge, beckoning the darkness

to die and summon the sun, only an expression

of passage ticking forward, holding still your eyes

on it is a good way to forget that you’re dying, but yours will come

when the pupils mold over, and you won’t hear a bell.

 

See the future in your shadow, through the past raining

down in streaks, for to live is to die every day

beginning an end, tombstone maternity wards

build deathmatch nurseries, for the world is inescapable

horrorshow systematics, naught is to be done

but draw the shutters.

 

But buck up, chucklefucks, for love is real

whether or not it matters.  You can believe your own lies,

so sing them in songs that rhyme.

Poem: Straight Horizontal

Poem: Slam poetry

Trapped in red letters, stenciled on a memoir

cover, implanted in prisoner iris

chip before the music starts, the puzzle is plain

dusty wind sweeping, bars made of opinion

activism and shame, this is the condition

of everyone met, ever and on

for all time, floundering foolish fumbles

deaf dumb dilettantes, pacing bullshit

sound effects, like the space between words

makes a difference, performance like

actors dead already, I’ll snap at your cowardice.

 

That’s better, emotion makes no art

no rhyme no sequence, cool is honesty’s

rival, and alliteration awful anchovies

addictive and astronomical, looking through

telescopes is the best way to miss

the point, broad brush stroking

portraits of pincushions, mirroring what

we’ve all heard, all read in collective

pulpit pronouncements, only clap

if you agree, because that’s all

you’re good for anyway, cover the ears

of the children, and the parents

because there’s no point anymore.

 

So pow on a surface with a palm

flat, echoing the sound around

inside of echo chambers,  tension

grabbing at the strands, tie it

in a bow, clip it to your necktie

parading decoration, like a therapy

session group, ooh wee dope

is the best response, like you’d never

say if you were reading a book,

so it’s like improv, screaming scat

cats, and they are sincere

but you want art, coming in

costume dramas, not diary pages.

Poem: Slam poetry

Poem: My Fucking Story

I want to write like Henry Miller

but I’m too timid, never having uttered

the word cunt before, except referentially

to the term, not speaking of that

special thing I’ve come to know, tangentially

anyway, I’ve made it’s acquaintance

but it hasn’t spilled onto my pages

yet, they’re clogged with oil

and ceremonial masks, tipping bowls

of blood, I silently speak

volumes to myself, about the pain

I endured at the hospital,

in downcast eyes and words

not spoken, I know what I sound like.

 

My brain was damaged

traumatically and I know

I sound like a retard, because

I heard a recording of myself,

sick making of the time I said

it wasn’t me, I don’t sound

like that but I can see you

being curious, if I say

I was in a coma for 6 weeks

after the car accident I almost

didn’t survive you’ll be interested,

and I fuckin’ hate that.

 

I bet you like this poem now,

because it’s honest, but that’s not it

really, that’s what we all call

morbid curiosity, and when you

ask me after if my words

are true, will it excite you

when I tell you they are?

I bet it will, because you are nasty

little pussy ears, aren’t you?

 

I isn’t your fault, though, it is natural

a response to the interest, compounding

double time drama, think of me

in the white prison of smiles

gentle toning, clawing the ceiling

with my eyes, learning to walk

talk and think again, varying degrees

of success, that’s one of the jokes

that made me a hit of the ICU,

also an outpatient superstar

for 6 months, then I went back

to college for 3 years finishing

a useless paper piece, a diploma

I don’t even look at, because I don’t

know where it is, and who cares?

Poem: My Fucking Story

Poem: After the Bombs

On my back is a backpack, flavored rucksack

holding pictures of the past

canned food and your signature, saying “I’ll see you

again someday,” but it doesn’t matter

much anymore, for the world is fire

poison and knives, no one is

safe even for a moment

anymore, but I promise to you

and my descendants knowing my heart,

that after this is over, I will carry

your heart in mine again, for war cannot kill

the realities of the world, love in desolation

still shining like it’s colorized.

Poem: After the Bombs