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: Really, No Comment 2

The world will end in plasma

tax rioting, all stabbing all feeling life in the flow

of blood there is much made, to be

the known and to know, your fellow man

but not in his origin, or where he comes

and for what?  We are not shadows

from before making mountains

of planted flags, we are a king

unless we’re dead, which is the way of the now.

Poem: Really, No Comment 2

Poem: The Last Game

The host held the mic at its base, wielding it like poo on a stick and jabbing it at people,

“What’s the answer?”

words pointed sharp, loud and aggressive at first,

when young, sweat beaded, teeth whitened, a positivity tornado,

after three decades, he hates it all now,

everyone, braying bitch bastards, mistake machines and turbo divas,

making eyes at the camera, never for cue cards and kissy faces,

“God you are ass-ugly,  stupid,”

and they laughed, cheered and put him in magazines.

he stares straight forward, asking himself to monolog, but he forgot the words,

weeping on the white tile floor, landing a squish moist mat,

six bullets in the revolver, ready to bang a curtain call,

“Get this wrong and I die”

he threatens with barrel to temple, pressing and shaking,

“Honeydew,” she said, though the answer was cantaloupe,

two words, short and sweet to be his last,

“so close,”

bang said the gun, everyone screamed

retrospect hilarity, and they study it in school now, too,

he wanted to win oscars, now he’s a psychology thesis,

“Richard Preston, suicide champion, the dawning of a new performance art.”

Poem: The Last Game

Poem: Theatricality

Theatricality

So wretched, slow and slurred are my sentences that they betray a disadvantage of mine,

Mark me, nonetheless that this hindrance is only as regards rhythm, or musicality perhaps, and it does not indicate a lack of insight,

Rather it indicates that my ideas come clothed in understanding you know not, and this disparity shows itself as an edge to my existence,

So trifle not, and step lightly on your approach, keeping any dagger hidden, for if I see the sun in your steel you will disintegrate,

Torn apart and scattered in light breezes, you will appear as leaves to the daily zephyr,

Whisking away cares of daylight, concerns of waking theories, until we see that we need not mark such as our lucklessness,

For misfortune is not mine, but a wealth of pallid and imperceptible subordination, so that I am given lengthy chains of dwarfish and intricate spiderweb woven hurdles,

And as I flow over and through as though they be dreams, or the babbling of a million madmen, or the farts of shiftless nomads.

 

But nay, I desire not to allay the life breath at mine own feet, though I have thought on it,

that I should wish to feel the leaving as it flows with color,

a monochrome puddle expands before me, or would were I to wish it and act upon disfavor,

for I feel this amber flood most intimate, making of itself an installation or commentary, not satirical, but plainly straight and true,

and reflective as I gaze on my own visage in its mirroring with expanding circles, the consequence of drops from mine own opened wrists of pure plasmatic hue,

it is an image I’ve seen in the night, lit from above, my floating camera glides in circles round and round my slipping minutes,

plaintiff basstones and plucking of low notes, the soundtrack of my death be wordless,

but this is an image and nothing at all more than that,

not my intent now nor ever would it be for I do not seek to vanish but consider the art,

I think it not sin to catch the early train, if thou wish to be gone, but were I to check out it would be public and long remembered.

Poem: Theatricality

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