standing all day from 8 to 5 because i’m too young for my body to hurt this bad
by Roger Mugs
snap crackle pop
neck back knees
snap crackle pop
neck back knees
no one knows the things
i stole from the garden
how i used to ride the
sunrise every morning
until the plants grew right
into my mouth…
…so i ran out
leaving a clear man-sized
hole in the foliage
where the lumberjacks
would soon follow
a gust of
wind sets the
leaves above
rustling while below
the syncopated
scrape of
concrete.
thorns pressing up, out
from beneath the skin
death the new
birth to the old
gnashing teeth of stinging bees
raging war on the poor
the hated
the wounded
the raped and
cards tossed from hand to roof
cigarettes marijuana speed heroin crack
to wash it all away
that open wound
puss and then
one more limb to fall off
ripping open like a bag of lays
and there is absolutely nothing i can do
better than you
The webs we wove to ward off wondering wanderers wanting what was withheld by one wondrous machine now wore off, waning with the wind, wasting with the weeks, weakened by the wrestlessness of a wretched mind. Yet I perservere, through the tireless and ceaseless ticks of the clock, every clock, bent on my destruction and the eventual fizzling out of my fire. Lit with the intent of burning you all.
i shopped but found not
the things i failed to remember
my wife wanted bought
i took new roads back to that
old motel and i took a fresh
look at all the dead dead things
and stood there, not touching a
thing
not touching any of their bodies
i just stood with the flies around
my face and i think i may have even
smiled at the evil of it
nobody lives by the river anymore
and she waits there as the travelers
pass her by
offering that nutrition that man
has indefinitely replaced
and she’s bottled
and sold in the stores but nobody
goes to visit her
not anymore
so when i saw their skin piled upon
muscle upon bone i thought why not
and, years later when i revisit
the old motel that no one much goes
in anymore (either) i try to remember
the smell of the rot of them all
so as to remember when i smell it again.
Who are my people
Who are G-D’s people
I am one of G-D’s people
and All people are my people
so All people are G-D’s people
I am no king
but A mere peasant
A follower of G-D
No one rules but G-D
My people are my equals
My people are my superiors
and I shall NEVER claim
That ANY person is my inferior
To live for G-D, to love for G-D
To associate with G-D, to communicate with G-D
To find settlement where dwells G-D
To live for our fellows as we do for G-D
To share each of our triumphs, and to share each others’ defeats
To lift their burdens, as G-D removes ours
To count our blessings-earthly and divine-
and To give and not to count the cost
To understand the sublime nirvana
but To not only strive on account of this goal
but To simply follow the will of G-D
digging through these stuffy
drawers for
an oil or canvas
of innuendo
streets painted with
blue lights glowing up through
mortar cracks through brick
holes next to old houses
mansions perhaps once filled
with concubines or slaves
but we stop for a nice
dinner at a ‘french’
restaurant just like life was then
red lanterns and all
now gone again
we passed through
the sodden door
falling off its hinges
in the dead of night
to discover reels of
film the images
indecipherable.
the panic will be universal
outrage out in outer suburbs
utter disillusion
frustration
(was panic mentioned?)
twinkies maggots cockroaches
remain because they can
but only if they please
the problem being
no one to eat the twinkies
to provide homes for the roaches
to provide feces for the maggots
life will go on
i hear
fairies and
pink unicorns
and bricks
(leaning towers)
they use
the first
two to
muddy our
peripherals, and
the latter
to hit
us over
the head
with.
times like these are sad
and past
because we long
for hopes we do not understand
and smells on which
we can look back
to remember music which makes us glad
and then nostalgia causing
distress
i’d like a perfect ass
on which to sit
others would stare as i’d
saunter by
i’d seldom clean it
and let it defecate wherever it
should please
it’d look so good no one would mind
but stare as i pass by
wishing they had an ass
like mine
instead of gas guzzling
tin asses
mine would produce natural gas
my ass
and i’d call him Juan
fragrance blaring
blasting, blowing, passing
people standing in far too perfect of lines
music wafting
shaking the blades of grass
i see locked behind green picket
knee-high fences
you remember
the things you do while
alone that you think
no one can see
and you stomach the days
knowing the ways
that you throw all you say
to the sea
when your alone
and your back
is turned
to the world
and what you really love
and what you really hate
and what you really think
and what you really do
and how you cope
and how i hope
you choke on all the
blood you drew
when your alone
and you think
i’m not
watching
calm radiates
from these cliffs standing like
gods
holding in a crescent the
rhythmic whispers of
the south china sea
and the combination
of clouds tinged the color
of lips kissing the horizon
and your form supine sleeping
and slipping into this setting
leaves me
as silent as the land
we cannot see.
in the wind,
in the air,
whipping,
swirling,
blowing leaves
in my eyes
in my hair
in my face,
bringing the cool
air of death
and the promise
of future life
each motion intentionally synced
to induce thoughts of another individual
in a state of near meditation
but more active prayer
hand after hand foot after foot
precision
perfection
years of practice
illumined
a tree of buttery
leaves
and something in it
reminded me
of our first
week.
being rich would be nice
because then I could spend
all day everyday
watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
swimming in the pool
while wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
sexing my wife
swimming in the pool
while wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
and doing naught else
it’s bad when it’s my fault
but perhaps it’s worse when
it’s not because then I still
have to take the blame without
getting to enjoy any of the
fun of living only for myself
silence causing snow falling on
cobble stone empty roads
lined with trees we duck to pass
under the leaves as we walk this
peaceful night
the first time you knew snow
‘i want a flake to land on my eyelash’
you beam as we skip then walk
hoping we wont get where we’re going
passing by a statue of an italian chef
daily specials written in words we cant comprehend
we go inside to watch the air battle the
white bombardment
the ground begging to lose the fight
slowly being buried under blankets of white
walking home its quieter now
only one light on the street as our feet seek
to glide to the crevasses between worn brick
hoping for surer footing
and i know this night is salvation
when you light with joy and begin to cry
‘look look! a flake on my eyelash’
