Poem: Exorcism

My apartment is haunted by a farting ghost

that I love, is a sensual certainty

beating heart batterer, occasionally depending

on the slings and arrows, she coughs fire

facials for me, wrathfully correcting the erection

of confidence unfounded, coiled springs tight

pound impractical timpani orchestras, might as well be

thunder far off, ominously percussive

sign that my trials are only beginning.

Poem: Exorcism

Poem: The Future

A recording, unfamiliar, pleading

pathetic parasite, phone booth floor-dwelling

cur, do sixteen pushups and hit the rowing

machine like you used to, it won’t make any

difference in the run, because you fell

in love, and now you know such joy

as you could not have imagined, unless

you were in the middle of a fit or something,

in a paranoid fantasy you may have dreamt up

a story like this, where all you could need

is nearness, getting to know yourself is hard.

 

Because I’ve never experienced a feeling

like this before, and to have it all the time zapping me

to my reaching out, and to feel a yipe

singe, ya know, so I get over it but goddamn

it feels like a hell bite, like oh shit what did

I do?  To let this crazy bitch, with more baggage

than a freight train, into my brain bleeding

ecstasy, making me drunk on it, and I forget

that I sound like a retard, it’s disgusting.

 

It’s not terrible, I know, and I understand

that you know what I’m saying, but goodamn it

I know what it sounds like, it sounds like

a grocer thinking “oh boy, now I gotta deal with this

shit I don’t need,” but that’s not even accurate,

it can’t be expressed in words because

it is so subtle I can’t really be sure I’ve ever seen it,

the genuine reaction to my glorious voice,

but I am sure, because I feel it the same way you do

staring into space, when you’re shadow is

a lamppost, I can go nowhere but straight

forward, into your arms a thankful grin.

 

Knowing yourself is worth nothing, for your love

is not you, holding reins with orders

barking, your champion is the spirit of dawn

and dusk, pulling you on chains to the dawning

adventure burning into the sky with a singeing

tail, chattering wordlessly with your old friend

in the darkness, passing out on Theta house lawn

where they don’t talk to you anymore, opening

the door to a knife cut horizon, carving you

a path, downward through time and space.

Poem: The Future

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

Poem: Interruption

Close the window, shut off the clicking fan,

raise the screen, get ready to fall in,

the jolt of a whining quest and I nosedive,

I cough in the sand, I hack the dust,

but I’m an artist, undaunted I’ll use it as fuel,

explore the process, write a poem on poetry,

I’m not really a poet, I hope and swear to god,

asserting and responding, the words won’t stop,

is this the endgame?

I try to write novels, satirically grim and violent,

but my prose wanders, swells indulged angst,

my characters are toothless, my themes are trite,

loneliness or joy, all black and primary colors,

so I write poetry, at night when I’m crusty with focus,

I look back over what I’ve done, I don’t hate it.

It helps to have a restless girlfriend,

she bursts with annoying inspiration.

Poem: Interruption