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: 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

Poem: Birthday

I wish suicide was rare, because then

I could do it and still be different, instead of a hack

filling footsteps of those who aren’t

even my godheads, Plath and Kobain

are hero’s sure, but so are Brooks and Byrne

living in peaceful production, Spinoza was a prick

who couldn’t even get it right, so Camus and Hartman

had the best path, but I can only hope

that the accident finishes me

this time, and I’ll leave sadness

in my wake, just like everyone

else, oh shit there’s just no winning.

Poem: Birthday

Poem: Irony

A Peddler rolling through

jingle jangles, peppering bawdy

riddles by the pound, of fortune

cookies saying “TRY AGAIN”

next to a smiley face, upshot eyebrow,

emoticon grin, but they aren’t buying

translated laughter, so buy billboard

pasty faces, that will work

is the thought, strike again

to an 0-2 count, so he goes big

on a bungee over skyscraper

color platform, unicycle juggling

accordions, everyone laughing

to a gasp when he fell,

oh well, at least he was funny

once, an awful droll joke.

Poem: Irony

The Apple (100 word flash fiction)

“So far,” Colonel Johns said looking over the remaining rations, “it’s not lookin’ great.”

We were desperately starving, and there were six of us.  “We’ve got one apple, and that’s it.”

Chaplain Holmes’ eyes flicked from the apple to group captain Mandrake and then to the gunners Thompson and Dunbar, all of them craving to the point of breaking.

It was only Jimmy, the homeless orphan-turned mess hall boy, who knew what to do.  He lunged at the apple, grabbed it and flung it over the side of the raft into the ocean.

We all starved, but none were murdered.

The Apple (100 word flash fiction)

Poem: Gas

Speaking for me is thankless

drudgery like all other things

they tell you to be the best

empty at the bottom of a pit

with no pen parcel parchment

paper that would be no help

any way to quench the thirst

crippling your soul in time

eternally you too will suffer

hoping justice soon comes

though I bet the other way

which is sad to say seeing

all we’ve done is shreds.

OR

Rhythm makes everything

beautiful flowers everywhere

smelling fully all worth it

to have pain in your hands

over the fire in cask of love

shaping and forming a solid

plan to ask your feeling

in the face of fearful folly

loving what I tell you though

you’ve heard it once again

sounding like raindrops

on tin musicality percussion

glowing with joy in the world.

SO

Falseful and farcical forces

flashing ludicrous dichotomy

in stacks of paper blood

oozing over everything else

like a spark of inspiration

roiling under the sheets

coaxing love to fullest out

spreading the red farther

than ever in past distant

memories of war-torn sex

gospels being preached

to the penitent reticent

masses of foolish farts.

Poem: Gas