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: Lackadazed

The sun ups and downs on the regular, shining a light

for all the money men and branded

bandit raiders, near as I can tell, the ones with stopwatches

tick tock at a trouble pace, I’m only an owl with eyes

to see the one hand washing itself, without soap

in a puddle, so the sickness pervades.

 

The news is a candy prison, but it’s tough

to determine the architect, through the dead eyes

in the mirror, staring nothing at all

right back at me, perplexed at my own seeming

callous nature, having seen it all

from my perch, I can’t even move against it.

Poem: Lackadazed

Poem: Sharp and Bright

Sting sweet, bush sticker, you’ve so rarely taught me

anything at all, because you can’t compare to the crusher

of an empty sky, I’ve come regarding you

fondly in a way, as if you were the toys

of adolescence, flippant with a buzz-off

regard, curling my face in reaction to the madness

of all the observable things, particularly stoops

under the open doors, speckled red dots

from life above, laying warnings down

so no one with eyes will overlook, tattoo’s saying

“NEVER GET A TATTOO” in newsprint

capital letters, lower back burning

the sentiment into my flesh, so I won’t forget.

 

Real pain has no homeland, it bites the ass

from two months, years, decades ago, but it is

you, as you are pain, it is both the effect

and the cause, recline on the sizzle seeking comfort

in chaos, a factory explosion spreading

disease all across, plague of genocides,

wisdom detracting distractors, an orange balloon

float farting over pigs and sheep,

listen as they scream a limbless rage,

see from their reaction how it’s best not to

listen to the negative, instead just open

your heart, let the sun burn in

because bursting is better than starving,

Poem: Sharp and Bright

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: Utopia

What kind of revolution lands with a plop, not a passionate

caucus of like minds, but the righteous ho hum

of the revelry, twiddle stash and his minions ruling

with an upturned eyebrow and a question mark, expecting all

but you to know the answer, while none are ever.

to speak it, for reality is a sense of burning tires.

 

It deposits its waste on the regular, spilling out over

the news every day, concluding hopeless tid bits

and ball scratching posers, for misery is a business too,

like all other things, working a neverending

cycle of tragedy, four digits dead is a jackpot.

 

Twenty-four hour coverage of the great sense

deadening, somehow survival has become a sport,

on the horrorshow, in and of the horrorshow

also, come to think of it, seems like it’ll be on the news

apocalyptic finality, but Bachelor in Paradise is on.

Poem: Utopia

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

Poem: Proud Cycle

Shiver awake the first day, and there was no sun

warming me or the others, though we could see shine

in through the ceiling holes, we were to together though,

hearts beating like ovens, we were kept keeping love

warm under the roofs, we prayed they’d not return.

 

The bad days born again, my brother died in a tub

drowning shallow water away, but those of us

holding hope sacked movements eternal, failing

first, but surrender has been taken from us, the weak

have no choice but to fight, live or die depending.

 

The overlords whatever they are, killing for fun

or boredom business decisions, the kernel

remains ever thirsty, for we will emerge again

wearing letters, knowing many will die this time

as last again, but resistance is foundation.

Poem: Proud Cycle

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: 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