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: Waiting for the Train

Who is it?

 

Just a lone man over the wrought-iron,

closing his eyes to the whoosh of the tracks,

whistling air through the gaps in his teeth.

 

What’s he worried about?

 

You wonder, considering disturbing possibilities,

a biker gang broke into his house, perhaps

or his wife could be screwing the pool boy, maybe

you considered it while watching him depart,

tense and angry, with his hands in his pockets.

 

Tripping him on to the tracks, would it be so bad?

 

Bet he touches his kids, he looked like one of them,

from what you remember, skin crawled in response to his tone

probably, you admit chastizingly to a fallacy,

but press on shiny soldier, heaven feels through your instinct

without hesitation, the man would die tonight.

 

Am I too lazy to be a Murderer?

 

Shame digs out of a hole, wimp its battle cry

writhing dirtwise, reminding of reality,

and he’s probably just, some douche,

paranoia is better than boring, and people suck

but most are only, bumping like a car.

 

There is no point.

Poem: Waiting for the Train

Poem: Oh Man

Who do you think you are?

it’s a good question, when you think about it,

me, I’m a massive living statue that shoots lasers from its face,

I guess, I’m a guardian of the realm,

perched on a rampart, black as ash on the sun,

ya know, basically, I stand watch is all,

they come in straight lines like space invaders,

and I make laser sounds with my lips pointing and pursing.

but do I, hit, anything, ever?

I wonder because I never know, or knew,

like all my kind I’m bound and blind,

it is an odd thing to call yourself guardian,

that which is not necessarily but could be,

am I on my side?  Or am I a spy?

 

Maybe poetry is poison.

I bet it’s odd to be the space between stanza’s,

to waver between conception and evincing,

does it think of itself in this way?

does the space between stanzas believe in existence?

No,

is the short answer, and the correct one also,

because it doesn’t believe anything, it’s a concept,

Is it everything?  Is it me?  Am I it?

I could believe one thing, or just as likely the other,

but who do I think I am?

 

To unveil the question I’ll start with the answer,

Andrew Halter, basically a nice guy,

I’m funny, obviously, as you can see, maybe,

but am I a crusader for justice?

no, I like justice, I don’t crusade, not yet I don’t,

maybe I’ll just crusade, figure it out later,

so as you can see I’m pretty unfocused,

if I had focus I would do great sad things,

speckle my lawn like soulless supermen,

they would haunt me like ghosts in The Wire,

but I’m glad and I don’t want to even know,

I could create a utopia with my loneliness.

 

there are no utopias,

nor were there nor will there be,

a spurious concept, utopia, like a miracle tonic,

step right up, step right up, everyone does their part,

I’m like please,

once there you try to hold, and mold stinks,

the ground decays, fear into hate, love into death,

heaven is constantly moving,

so that’s what I know, for the first thing anyway,

I am a pessimist, would be termed thus,

that’s the first thing, I’m also a philosopher,

allowing ideas to float, bubble pop and stick,

but I lack focus though, and so I’m left with this,

begin with no end, maybe see wisdom in the lines.

 

So is there a conclusion?

To the wisdom, does an end come?

smirking question mark wiseass,

I don’t know, what use are you?

I’m no use, breath and pause on a page, yammering in a desert,

piling words on each other, a sightless end,

this is all I am, an adventuring nothing,

going nowhere, questing thus.

 

And oh shit, I just read the earlier in this poem, and I sound like a dick,

like I think I’m the inspirational street magician, “just check your messages,”

and there’s just a voice on the phone saying “please don’t kill yourself,”

and it’s like “whoa I didn’t even tell anyone about the gun in my pocket,”

“the gun with but one bullet, you know the one,” my last bullet, you know,

but there I go again off on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known,

And bam, right there is a good end, oh shit I just fucked it up, again.

Poem: Oh Man