the sieve and the sand

poetry began because of lost love
or something like it

writing continued because the writer
needs a plight

for reasons unknown to him
he sabatoges his relationships
fails miserably

and finds a plight

writing stuck around because
life was hard
people were mean
hope was lost and
difficult to find

then one day i looked and saw
writing stopped because of
wedding

wedding
stopped my writing

life was not hard
days were not lonely
jobs were not boring
hope was easily found
love was next to perfect

and is

writing started again
because life isn’t sad
its funny

and
writing went on
because writing is where
i can do anything
take a look
its in this poem

an emo without a plight
a punk with perfect hope
and music so sad i want to cry

makes me laugh. and then one day i looked and saw

language is just as beautiful describing
the loss of
a four legged ass
as a two

little bugs
i cannot see
and they are NOT
nice to me

I experienced epiphany
at the age of nine
upon discovering
over a plate of spaghetti
at a friend’s house
that not all American families
eat Rice

with every meal.

just north of guilt
i bought a summer home
with hopes of a place
to run when you’re filled
with
angry

but you send me there
more than i could have
fathomed

it’s just that i
have a short
attention spa

is NOT the space between two points/
distance/is a tearing sensation/
rending hearts and continents apart/
leaving us to say goodbye/like we mean it/
far too frequently

it
is
a
dropping
sensation.
the
falling
feeling

when something old&expensive hits the floor/
when your foot forgets the ground/and is surprised/
by the next step

passive passion is set to see
built from nails red from blood or rust
from the deft and bright sinks helplessly
but watched by those who care in disgust

gift from god a ticket away
handed by those aside the tracks
shovel, conduct, promise to repay
alone with people made out of wax

flapping and jumping all day long
read and remember how it’s done
even sing with arms someone’s proud song
to realize is what makes it fun

dreams from skill and effort end in thud:
if you water dirt you’ll just grow mud

i am an imposter
imparting knowledge

when i have nothing
not even a beard.

she said she said
one more pass through the valley of the moon
one more and all clean

my friend, he does it just thrice
thrice!
thats all and he thinks he’s fine

but i find that shrubbery
a tid bit rubbery

and as hard to keep clean as
booger home with weeds of hair

keep it up till you’re good and done
good and done
i said i said

We stood in the grey halls of
the arena my hand in
yours. the muted shouts of
the crowd, vicious and
bloodthirsty, threatened to
return me to the reality of
the cockfight we had just
left because as a boy of
eight, the blood was much
more red than i had
expected. and in the
shadows we passed an
old man, skin the color of
cocoa, holding a bird in his
lap. with his calloused
hands he carefully placed the
bluish grey intestines back
into its slashed abdomen—with the
casual air of the weary—and
then began to stitch. the
bird—probably the product of
generations of selective
breeding—stared silently barely
breathing. gone, now, all the rage
of the moment before the fight.

gone
now
all.

lesson 8
with some well placed adjustments
has become
possom 8
and the lecture for possom 8
is much more bearable…

on to possom 9

things like evening are
inebriate-ors
that is
they cause relaxation and – on occasion
lowered inhibitions

but night time
much less than wine
brings joy to my

well…
you know

soft and green, footfalls

sweeter than i remember

kicking up the dust

my life leaves
much to be
desired since i
am without an
outer space battle
to fight

thus
i watch sci-fi
on many nights
tour the galaxy
defeat the forces
of evil

so call me
a nerd; i’ll reply
“this thing of darkness,
i acknowledge mine”
from my place in
the pre-sale line

because don’t you know:
escapism makes life
bearable

i just found out
the hebrews used
neither rhyme nor meter

this cheers my heart
and raises my hopes

my poetry doesn’t either!

beneath covers we
kiss and
touch and
speak memories

and upon reentering the
world remember that
time—unlike our hearts—
does not stop on each occasion that
my hand
slides
past
your
hips.

dr. jay ellis says you should
have kept your job as an edit-

or and never have moved into
the world of writing but he

was one of eight self proclai-
med cormac mcarthy-ists and we

all know how much that validat-
es his opinion but i wish that

i could invite you back from
the grave to come and stop by

my local barnes and noble and
do a simple reading of your fine-

est work and share with us just
how brilliant each of your well

picked words was and laugh at
those who’ve survived you like

one mccarthy-loving-poetry-hate-
ing-extremely-sad-and-confused-dr.

the neighbor’s dog
is shitting on my lawn
again.

i want to write a poem
and then speak it like a spell
causing all those who hear it
to go home and compose their own

like glass
shattering
with each
shard then expanding

only to
break again:
infinitely expanding and infinitely shattering

until our world is a stained glass window
reflecting the sun’s light through
our careful words.

you see
hack and slash
murder and slice
sound better with a beat

i have to offer an
uhpalluhgee

you see
my words sound much better
with a sweet. slow. melody.

and i uh
pall er
jize

because today the music is staying
in my head
today the music is staying
in my head

in my head
but the chorus is sweet.
and you’re missing the slow
melody
and my words sound much better
with the melody

or with flatulence.

either one.

and there goes the beat.

   the bike of my youth was

brilliant

green

          regardless of where it was taken

   with pedals stout for legs

eager

stop

          to jump left from right around again

   now it is sleek and made

moving

fast

          granting newly tempted with fervor:

   it may pedal back though

cruelly

so

          as it hurls forward and further