carry on
by Roger Mugs
we watch in horror and disgust
as vultures gather on our pristine white cement streets
and clean for us the things we find
untouchable
and then we carrion
OUR lives as though
we’re much better
we watch in horror and disgust
as vultures gather on our pristine white cement streets
and clean for us the things we find
untouchable
and then we carrion
OUR lives as though
we’re much better
was not flushed by the roommate
and when tried by another, became clogged.
so the question that emerges is
should she settle this matter on her own
should she leave it to later be discovered by the latter
or should she simply say,
“excuse me, you forgot to flush your poop
and now it’s stuck.”
(i would go with number two.)
simmering he looks up to his father’s crooked teeth
bounce as the world is explained
“two wrongs don’t make a right”
fixing his tie, the boy pays enough attention for the both
“you’re too mature to intimidate [your] obedience”
gathering the newspaper for the trash, startles the pet out the room
“and wise enough to empathize why you’ve been wronged”
brushing aside final drafts proudly makes room for robes of black
or was it cloth of white?
standing up and seeming cheap the boy finds his way through his clumsy eyes
and away from home.
he knew that feelings were all that were important–
they are all that can be honest
always right
and forgetting hypocrisy and humility a cheek rises in effort to know that ignorance is all that can be accused
that stopping there is all that can be wrong
The thunder woke me up this morning,
rolling, shaking, stirring,
the kind of thunder that reverberates
through the body, through the soul.
Not Garth Brooks’ thunder either!
No, this was T.S. Eliot’s thunder,
thunder that speaks the words of God,
that speaks of salvation.
The thunder is passed now,
and the feeling grown faint;
the sun is out, birds are singing,
the world seems joyful;
the world except for I,
who hopes to hear the thunder
again, to hear God again.
books of joy
books of mystery and fear
books which make your heart leap
there are books for crying
and books for murdering
and even books for bombs
some books can answer all the questions of life
and some books are just plain stupid
people get published with bland
plain
painful
sorry
terrible
writing
(and some publish themselves)
but i think, one book.
maybe 90 pages
on the merit of jello
in the workplace
would be worth
1000 words.
Outside the bar club, the violent youth wait
for sneakers and boots to find their target
between a kid’s ribcage.
Someone should have told the kid
getting smashed to pieces
not to live like a mollusk with the skeleton on the outside.
This is not a place for the weak,
the muscle is holly, the muscle is king,
and the fragile, the hero die young.
Mostly taking sun
In some huge, heaping gulps
In between cave-time.
lack of sleep hit the fan
things that fade
then re-awake
and keep you from that glorious state
of
who am i
where am i
why on earth did you decide to wake me?
and the Truth is sometimes like
your First kiss
or your Last
the Truth is sometimes a
Knife in hand
or in the back
either way speaking the
Truth is like spitting out a mouthful of rocks
you’ve been holding for 27 years
the Hope is that your Truth crushes
whoever it is that needs to be crushed
for there are those who’d rather you
have a mouth full of boulders
than a community full of hearts
the hope is that your Truth lifts
whoever it is that needs to be lifted
for there are those buried under
hate/ignorance/intolerance/miseducation/dishonesty/depression/selfishness/violence/
loss/youcantdoit/youllnevermakeit/noonecares/youcantchangethis
who need to breathe life
(so poets:
release your words so they may become
the hearts
on
your
sleeves
&
the stars
in
the
sky)
Wind flinging water
Sideways and arm-like branches
Wave goodbye to Spring.
I cleaned out my office today,
Putting all my paraphernalia away;
Taking everything off my wall,
Including the poster in the hall.
And as I regarded my state property stapler,
All I wanted was to steal it;
But I resisted the urge as shit,
Choosing to keep my soul in-tact.
While I do love my family,
After a long weekend of togetherness,
I love it more when they go away,
Even if it is on Mother’s Day.
Before I die I hope to write words,
brilliant words, simple words
that move, elate, contort , extort heart,body and soul.
Cerebral, skin deep words, magical words,
ship-like carrying on into this metropolis, country, galaxy
like a new breath binding the soul to the crisp page.
blue effervescent words eliciting a bit of mirth and reverie.
trenchant, hip words, biting, slick words for the world to bleed or lick.
Then only then will I be able to justify my long existence
while he, she, sublime creature lived one minute and passed away the next.
i chase same sun
to work
to home
i gaze certain stars
at peace
at leisure
i absorb pain, i imagine pride
overlook worthwhile fits
the donut fulfills
every hidden desire
of le roger mugs
the circle represents the relationship
will last forever
one continuous piece of dough
the purity of which
shares
the couple’s pure love
respect
care
for one another
do you roger
take this donut
to fulfill your every desire?
and do you donut
take this roger
in sickness and in health?
in the morning and in the evening?
after cereal and after fajitas?
what chocolate could
never begin to compare
old fashioned plain glazed
poetry and prose drunkenly read
in dim light held by hands that
moments before had hidden our drinks
makes me feel as though words
are our salvation—and that this
is not absurd.
conformity is what i do
to people who annoy me
always will be shunned at the expense
of a few extra hundred dollars
would buy exactly what i need
is a new attitude to slap people
dancing sporadically through
the few small years of my youth
passion was baseball which now
i can hardly begin to comprehend
rocket science you must read books
whew.
outta hold you over.
sharing my mom’s car
with
lugged voices
(too many)
and
simple plans
(waist-high)
i’d gaze through the fences:
backyards throw crumbs between each post
no matter how much you love your family
in-laws will always remain
in-laws
and beer will always soften
the blow
i’m on the line–
crouched waiting for
that pistol to
fire i’m living in
those breaths before
the explosion of
gunpowder and
tendons–
i feel the
nauseous anticipation
hating now this space–
waiting now for life–
holding now our worlds–
until the suture heals
and we are one–
not even a scar to
show we were once
otherwise–
modernized men may haul their lives
to escape self-importedly
his mediated conversations
the unconnected one over there that is his cog
the things that perfume for him
the sublime vantage of states of the arts
(but records his popular shows)
talking in words,
looking in words,
thinking in words.
alone, eventually they’ll shut up:
one’s self feels
…and does
Today,
done with the finals!
In a year time
bye bye the bum
farewell freeloading habits
One more upstanding citizen will grace the world
and do as the world wants
pay taxes, recycle, watch TV, buy stuff,
embrace the existence/ inexistence of a god,
sit on piles of credit cards,
listen to the radio and die a slow death
with thoughts of youth wasted in ampheatres
for a paper degree that not even fruff the dog cares about
even though nursed and fed by the paper.
spring shivers aren’t because of blossoms
it breezes year round
now clever lusting the all novel innocently
that’s not sheepishly
lying and not busy later it itches less in the hustle
numbed until you’ve waned
unless you forget
On the restroom floor
lay a female student’s paper,
marked in red ink
by a female professor,
which leads me to two questions:
1) Why was the professor grading in the bathroom?
2) Why was it in the men’s bathroom?
This is that paper’s story.
On a particle-board desk,
the paper lay, reposing
and basking in the brilliance
with which it had been imbued
by the creator, Andrea.
Exhilarating was the sensation
of being full of perfection,
full of this feeling; suddenly
pain shot through the paper,
pain in the form of red ink,
red ink marking, crossing out,
writing, as Ms. Brophy lived
out her sick power complex.
As soon as it had began, it
was over; the marking had
stopped and Ms. Brophy had left,
having marked only the first page.
Knowing it must protect the rest
of its leaves, the paper quickly
formulated a plan, determining the
ultimate act of defiance, fleeing
to the one place that neither Ms.
Brophy nor Andrea would find it.
With a shaken faith in the creator
that had turned it over to the
demented Ms. Brophy, the paper
slowly made its way to the men’s
restroom, secreting itself on the
floor of one of the stalls, in that
nasty place, behind the commode.
The nasty factor was extreme, but
the paper endured, determined to
not be marked on any more; first
began the germs, gnawing away and
infiltrating the paper’s structure;
next came the fumes of urine, bringing
up dry-heaves from the paper’s non-
existent bowels, and yet the paper
stayed firm. Finally, the paper was
assaulted by the worst, most foul
enemy of all: the smell of poo. The
assault was intense, but the paper
determined never to return to Ms. Brophy,
and on that bathroom floor, the paper died,
breathing in refuse but living free.
So many people make such a big deal
out of finally seeing themselves in print
and then they’re printed
and they think
the man
he likes me
but the truth is
you can spend your whole life
waiting for the man
or you can say
screw you the man
and get out there and make a difference
in this world
a difference that no one
will want to buy
or read
or care about
but even if the man saw you as his beloved
it wouldn’t change a thing
the sieve and the sand the awesomeness the book
screw you the man
Dr. Lanyon likes to call goose bumps incipient rigor,
I wonder what he means…
In—innumerable integers are indignant in
cip—principal because the reciprocal, participant,
ient—sentient goose bumps are resilient, lenient
Rig—and rigidly, rigorously rigged
or—according to an ordinary, ordinal ordinance.
