Poem: Cloudcover

What if we couldn’t see the sky?

Ever, through the constant sheet

white water vapor, the sky is nothing

but blankness pervading, we couldn’t navigate

our way through the stories

of the night sky, no future above

or any hope below, in the capsule

world all existence is a shame, for the gods

all faceless, mirror nightmares

overtake us, we’d all be dead

probably, suffocating en masse.

 

Imagine a dreamless world, we might

be better off without the space above

making us believe, could the dreams be

simply different, stretching below

into our own dark souls, ocean colonies

would be tomorrow, probably

whales would be god

until we killed them, conquering the spirit

world shows us the end, without ever knowing

each other soulless, but we can assume

seeing nothing in the water.

 

Imagining this world, I can say

that love comes from the sky

in catastrophe, and that solar

is more than hope, energy from the sky

spelling the center soul

of the universe, the sun is the future

of god up above, never showing

its face, but hearing its heartbeat

makes us hope, for tomorrow to be raised

higher than has been ever

seen in the day, I anticipate

hotly the future burning above.

Poem: Cloudcover

Poem: Stone Faces

A warrior facade, that’s what they call it

in the daytime, the mask you put on, a scowling

bucket of crickets or something, crush in’ ‘em

to see killing as an art installation, scowl it off

the nothing you learn, tell yourself

the world is combat, in its heart and soul, if not

its bones, because it seems that some don’t have

to fight for everything, mirror eyes

are the only real

honest to god opponent, that you do and should fight

with pliers and a blowtorch, a couple pipe

hitters, the killer version, a phalanx

amassed on my borders, boxing me in

the tunnel to a nothing monster, I hope one day

I will grow past anger, for now it’s what’s there.

Poem: Stone Faces

Poem: Gross #1

Got a message from the future but it just said “sorry,” one kind of a thing

that fucks with your head on a Wednesday, to read that in the sunrise

with your tea in the smog, knowing that a hero never comes unless

it’s from within, feeling hollow is a way to avoid the effort stretch out for

a fruitful folly, but all you can smell is the sick scented fart of madman god.

Poem: Gross #1

Poem: Ring the Bell

It’s fight day, today

in the sun we’re roasting and anticipating

a bloodbath, packed in a blender

set to spray the walls with guts, screaming out the names

of our gods and loved ones, plaintiff

under the rolling pin

of progress, undirected asphalt sovereign

lords of deafness, under their hoods

we see the glowing eyes

are hypnotic, sticking us

with the bill, none are an ally

of any dead men pulling, permanent casino fixtures

glimpse hope as impossible.

 

I can see the hatch, above so small

to crawl through a crack

seems death down, to the core

of everyone, but they beg our pardon

telling to try again, once more to the breach

dear friends depart, clanking the shutters

down over the exit hole, glimpse the opponent

in the eyes, looking through

the mirror and me, locked in savage

combat of love

music art making,

Poem: Ring the Bell

Poem: Political Philosophy

Think of it, crazy rhythms and comprehensible conversational

nonsense words, that’s a party, but man that’s tough

to write at normal speed, because you can only hunt-and-peck

with your left hand, so when the ideas whoosh past

it’s too fast for you, you’re stuck and that’s all there is

to it, with this crawling pace it’s easier to sift out the sand

though, to see the shape of most things.

 

Is it?  Chuckle at your own arrogance, like you’re any closer

to the door or whatever it is in the center, just because you’re trying

my patience, it’s no easier to see the point now

that you’re putting an effort into understanding what

in the name of god is going on, it’s in fact more

frustrating stanzas clawing at nothing, but we’re not to ground yet.

 

You can instead realize that this poem does say something

about the way disability is double-edged, it forces an awkward power

into movements and speech, in many situations it seems to me

quite useful but I don’t fucking want it, the power to force

placation and pandering, eye-rolling donkeys to chew hay all day.

 

So you’re an alien, a stranger study to be made

of the world a symbol of how you’ve progressed,

which is not uncommon for the minority, all of us outside

looking in with judging disdain, but me they parade

with my trachea scar, it is horrid but a symbol

of power absolute, feeling a gross unwanted advantage.

 

Political philosophy is not fool proof at all, obviously

watching chatterers fumble, sweat and vomit

onto my TV screen and into my ears Sunday Morning

proclaiming what they’re told, whatever they’re told

regardless, everyone just does their job.

 

So here’s the challenge, take your job and shove it

whatever it is they expect of you, all of us together

must become uncommon, not just exceptional

but weird and misunderstood, standing on parapets

with a hazy surmise, seeing what’s coming

as none ever could and yelp horrified, by way of stating

the obvious, for we can’t deny it, any more.

Poem: Political Philosophy

Poem: New Experiences

oison, everything where stagnant, radar razor

searching dogs, swirls around above

within and without, it has dimensions unpredicted

ill prepared for and insulted thus, like steam off skin

spilling fumes, what poison the soul

in times of strife, don’t let seductive deduction

fog your mind, and never forget the struggle.

 

Remember that speech class?

 

Nice one, doofus, serves you right

to watch yourself, thinking you sound like a retard

because you do, but the top mind is uncluttered

with such considerations now.

 

My coma gave me an accent, irresistible to those

who hand out cookies at Subway, curiously

deceptive well-wishers, like parents and friends

who don’t call anymore, as if I would want

a babbling brook at my bedside, emotions and experiences

lived and felt as new, because they are new.

Poem: New Experiences

Poem: Hock Loogies

Where’s my fucking Fanta, motherfucking cocksucker

and you’re not even good at it, artisans take pride

in work done well

but you’re not of them, are you?  You’re just pumpy pumpy

spurt goblin madman, a lemming over the cliff

praying for a better tomorrow, stupid, take no pride

in your punishment, been asleep for months

in a great coma, now where’s my fucking fanta!

 

You don’t know never knew and won’t ever

understand the breaks or why they happen

the way they do, see this is the god finger

going right in your eye, we’re all pawns

in a maggot blender

begging for scraps, man, so take what you can

get when they throw it away, dress it up

marking it new, off-brand lazy philosophy.

 

With your new threads they will call

stylish, convince yourself of purpose

meaning and progress, stepping banana peel

abbreviated misgivings

of short counts, the world is a poison pit

all and sundry escape, eventually, so no

point is farther than simply to enjoy

what you can, spit on the ground.

Poem: Hock Loogies