Poem: Ramble Man

He said the world is forever weeping, as he ought to

knowing the truth and seeing it everyday, back breaking

heft of a satan symbol, flipped and held upside

down over all seen, while skipping atop the ceilings

of churches, Ramble Man screams a notice, “We’ve been dead

since we were born, now that we’re naught but treachery

fear and scorn, what is the point?”


Wearing a tin foil tracksuit, covered in blood and hair

from socks to garters, nightmare snatches of a shrapnel fog

dreamscape symbolizing nothing, in particular

anyway for it’s only a feeling, when it pervades and shades

with uncertainty, naught will be accomplished, “Calling for help

beckons bullets in the belly, rather than just the need

pulling out my hair, leaving me wasted.”


Sardonically transfixed on the hole of the world

empty of all but a spark, the beauty of love

puppy breath and bath salts, hallucinate the future

dragons glass and steel, sharp edges everywhere

the sun shines,  Ramble Man warns of danger, “Safety is a myth

children hold in their sleep, god knows we are his greatest

mistake surviving, sleeping in puss.”


From what I’ve been able to gather, Ramble Man died weeks ago,

alone in a pit screaming probably, and no one will remember him,

so I wrote this poem for these figures, muttering gibberish all day,

and I wonder if they had homes once, and what set them this way.

Poem: Ramble Man

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: Villain

Regret is a bastard, that smarts as a reflected

sun in the eyes, grinning wet saliva sucking, like,

glowing in a fold of your brain, singing a memory

through grey matter, you close your eyes tight,

“Eric,” you call silently to the wind, “I’m sorry”

mouthing an apology, and he’s not even here

but it’s the best he’ll get, because there’s a voice

in me that is a question mark, calling shame

as it opens my eyes, “I’m sorry, Scott,” I say aloud

because I really did like you, and I would’ve

hung out more often, really I would, but

the myriad of reasons are pointless,

I could’ve pushed past, it is no excuse

for any callous laughter I may have joined

in or created, I was no hero when I was young.


However, in the long view, there were worse

infinitely than I was, I incarnate not just wrath

or a ripping spite, never achieving true big shot

status, which is all that matters in the sandbox,

construction sites and board rooms, quien es mas

macho man, so raise a saber get to death

dealing, cruelty is conflict fungus, growing

within the wines of warriors and refugees

alike, so don’t forget how awful it was, to see simple

justice, because it doesn’t exist in the world

you know, but guidelines exist you’re glad

to know about, like the categorical imperative,

and even with the example, I say my neighbor

had it coming, shouldn’ta been talkin’ shit,

for we all must igloo, humanity seems a torture

storm, grade school is only the beginning.


Is a lesson therein, or herein depending

on which of us is talking, is the lesson

of caution, nihilism, or cautious nihilism,

like a life-art suicide, Harold with a backbone

would’ve made for a short movie, though,

also love is real, glowing technocolor

in the trenches, because even camaraderie

makes life seem like living, for worth it

shines behind clouds, drying us all together

on an upward slope, regret burning

paper puppets in the sky, on the page

and the desk in the desert, because it is lonely

business to recount my wrongs, but worth

it, I suppose, if people know that I’ve tried

at least, this I suppose is not nothing.

Poem: Villain