Poem: In The Wartime

The battle was weeks of hell, baskets of mortar

dropped on a frozen rope, onto my friends trapped

with nothing to win, they are happy now

rendered headless, chopping off what we could

to drop into the sea, we are war machine screaming

merciless mantras, passing a chalice

boozy of humor, laughing with satan

at the suffering fireworks, burn the wound making

cauterized ruination, I fear sepsis

taking hold, for I will die before its done.

 

Pandemonium marketplace setups

selling soldiers to the bidder, elevated not

though square dealing on the level

with rules to follow, and malice aforethought

you understand, for a known game is just

talk of death to traitors and spies

wearing suits, costuming a new hell

in tatters as death in the mirror

again, the children are hungry

but nothing grows anymore period.

 

A cruel, merciless decision we made,

admittedly, to stand apart from fury

with sickly cowardice we turn away,

though we chastise ourselves and each other

for acting likewise, because flagellation feels

good when we use words, joy is diminishing

words we don’t like to use in public

but we still do, for wouldn’t you

if you had esteem waiting, but you don’t

because you only serve, like a lever.

 

Check marks, first thing is the first,

a nice fruity phosphate, Mountain Due

Condition Blue or something, tasting love

is sweet sunshine and comfort costs

money in peacetime, my arms rendered

useless but to pull a lever, push a lunger

off the edge, slipping into a dragon chase,

or maybe it’s a nightmare, but waking

in a box is a bad omen, I’ve heard.

 

Large in charge of the floor, big shot

all of a sudden, struggling still up against

a whiteboard colored in bullshit,

first buy the bonds, afterwards pay the piper

for the tolls that number sixteen

more than before, on the same street

all of a sudden, knowing there’s not a place

we could afford uptown, anyway

hunting a point out, precisely placed

because you might have just one chance.

 

Voltaire and Camus came together

to work on “All Quiet,” or whatever

it will be called, and directed by Dickens

with Gandhi producing, De Sade scripting

the tale of a lonely stable-boy in love

with a maiden of the conquered people,

but alas he is gutshot, and dies alone

in the dark, no dry eyes, best picture

contender at least, that’s for sure.

 

I feel like Django, dragging a coffin behind me

filled with my trespasses, and the yelping

victim wails that fell on deaf ears echo

in the night, haunting things I’ve done

rest in the unknown enemy’s moving tomb,

they would’ve done me as I did them,

but still they glare with hole eyes, sucking portals

sucking to a world of shit, so forever good night.

 

I wrote a book called “Push the Chips”

detailing my fall and rise, it was a whitewash

snow job poorly detailed emotional history,

just as devotees rise and shout praises

out of tune, paper away the detritus

pushing to next, and gearing up is the key

with a spiked helmet and chains,

you gotta mash the allies, tell no one

what you’ve done, it is a horror.

 

The movie’s have changed, and none remain

better then ever, though history clones are

all the rage bubbling, they disappoint

with cookie-cutter mechanics and terra cotta

characters, so open the door and pull ideas

off of the chaff pile, we will shield them

with complacency, I have to write

my new novel, the one to lift them up

by the heart, which is all there is.

 

The first time I attempted suicide

I woke up in the hospital, zippered

into my bed, joining rage and regret

in a blender, pushing pulse over again,

smearing pain and scrawling hate

on the wall, they started marking milestones

after a time, now not even a walker

with me, the sad kids get some hope.

 

This is my resignation not from chiefs

of executive office, in them a poison

growing from their heart through their pores,

making them seem soupy, and red

of brick and beet and tomato, but we know

what it really is, representing an ending

for everyone, I move to my forest cabin,

shut off, my kids won’t talk to me at all

now, maybe they’ll never, but I’m finally free.

 

The court calls me Notnow Neverwas

and they laugh, when I enter or leave,

they say it through a cone, long and loud

“Ladies and Gentlemen!  Boys and girls!”

then they lower the boom, pointing to me

a smiling finger, no, they cackle grimly

without humor, but they don’t even know

no one’s laughing, either and I have a knife

behind my back, time for some justice.

Poem: In The Wartime

Poetry: Nightmare 1

The world is a nightmare, this is plain

but it doesn’t have to be

anymore, since we’ve realized

one of the many ways out is suicide,

reliable and final forever.  Some chickens claim

cowardice shivers sniffles evacuations

bowel and otherwise, all are a mask

to the flowing of time becoming

all-knowing everything, which is what happens

possibly at the end, though who’s to know

this day and age.

Poetry: Nightmare 1

Poem: The First Chapter

Gangrenous is our sense of society, everyone knows

what is wrong can’t be spoken

because all we have is a sense of it, the sinister

in every smile, watch out, young man, watch out you’ll crack

thumper him on the head, down to a standing eight

count at least, a wallet richer

inspecting the contents, shattered by emptiness

cracking a ribcage with no facial feeling

just because you had a bad day, the dark of it

which spread from the knowing it could happen

someday into the world was born, hoofbeats patter

through the window from the street.

 

Perhaps is his name and he broke

free in the market, spreading the stench of war

unspoken, my neighbors fear my skin

as well, causing shouting at town halls

message boards full of misspelled capitals

exclamation points and question marks, all meaning

nothing at all important, but the electric mania

is what I call it, as well as the beginning of the end

possibly should things continue the way they are.

Poem: The First Chapter

Poem: Fear

New year’s day of atonement, preceding many months

horrible hysterical history, presided over a shameful nocturne

disguised a blistering buffer zone, truth is high-pitched

whining decibels aplenty, neigh time is mine for sure, spitting seeds

into the earth, warm watered, expansion whispering “no”

directionless teeth shatter and rake, sparking a fire

down below the vision line, the nation’s tummy

churning singe scar flesh, we will eat each other

becoming demented sickness, what have we done?

 

But the stars shine through the air

we can breathe, hope is not beyond salvaging

until all hearts are cold, passionless pivot points

we fight to the dawn, bloody knuckles afire

free for all, pillage the past, wring of it passion droplets

burning through the doorway, making steel like ice

melting under heat guns, smell the smoke

coughing freedom, remember today tomorrow

is yesterday again, and maybe we will dance.

Poem: Fear

Poem: Polaroid Future

I can see the future, a field and a forest

where horror howling hangs from trees

by fibers, like numbers, haunting masks

red-hued and craggy, jagged scars

everywhere on the street, in the street

they breathe a rhythm with the fading heartbeat

of the city, we see the future set

to grow as the world shrinks, exploding

through the picture frame, finding out what is

true human will, seeing the universe

as a coliseum, rather than flags we plant

knives in the backs of brothers

and sisters, I am so scared.

 

The sin curve will break, no doubt

hard as could ever be, I will breathe

blood and sweat, until I’m old and dead

8 times out of ten, I won’t get to see it

when the world is heaven, unbound and borderless

house to a dying breed, knives out of our teeth

at last, so that we can finally grow

truly together, but I’ll be having fun

in the carnage, because I am an artist

of the downfall, flowing over humps and rapids

taking pictures of the trip, I’m pretty sure

hopefully, because there’s always the chance though

I don’t like to think about it, that war is coming..

Poem: Polaroid Future

Poem: Cloudcover

What if we couldn’t see the sky?

Ever, through the constant sheet

white water vapor, the sky is nothing

but blankness pervading, we couldn’t navigate

our way through the stories

of the night sky, no future above

or any hope below, in the capsule

world all existence is a shame, for the gods

all faceless, mirror nightmares

overtake us, we’d all be dead

probably, suffocating en masse.

 

Imagine a dreamless world, we might

be better off without the space above

making us believe, could the dreams be

simply different, stretching below

into our own dark souls, ocean colonies

would be tomorrow, probably

whales would be god

until we killed them, conquering the spirit

world shows us the end, without ever knowing

each other soulless, but we can assume

seeing nothing in the water.

 

Imagining this world, I can say

that love comes from the sky

in catastrophe, and that solar

is more than hope, energy from the sky

spelling the center soul

of the universe, the sun is the future

of god up above, never showing

its face, but hearing its heartbeat

makes us hope, for tomorrow to be raised

higher than has been ever

seen in the day, I anticipate

hotly the future burning above.

Poem: Cloudcover

Poem: Childhood

In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood