All respect to the man who
calls a quarter tank of gas
a twenty dollar bill
a travel-sized tool box
a length of rope
and an acoustic guitar
‘Being Prepared for Anything’
Month: March 2009
if i had a dollar for everytime i wished for more sunshine i could buy myself a fake source of full spectrum light and that alone would probably dispel my seasonal affective disorder
poetrylike a child in his new tree house
the sun refuses to come out
returning home only to wash its
hands before returning to whence
it came
leaving all those who enjoy its
presence
longing for better days
Lungs
poetryAs I sit in my car seat
screaming
at the top of my saxophone’s
lungs and I
hope that I
catch the ear of
someone
wandering by,
nobody cares enough
to even call
the cops, at 10pm
on a school night.
So I sit in my car seat
and scream
at the top of my saxophone’s lungs
haiku
poetryamid overgrown grass,
and windblown trash:
yellow blossoms.
am i going to disappear?
poetrymy little friend and i
we don’t get along
these days
and if it doesn’t work
we’ll go back to our
throne
and i see the world
and it is shrinking
every day
but still too far
across for me to
roam
Hard Fall
poetrySteady with that light!
we have to check that he’s receptive
can he hear us?
can you hear us?
can you see us?
are you there?
Pulse is normal, steady breathing
but I don’t think that he’s seeing
any of us, and if
this weather holds –
these heavy snows –
then I suppose
that this could be a problem.
And they’ll call it post-generation X-ical, angst driven psycho-analytical studies
poetrylooking back, fifty years out
inept professors will make
their names off our angst.
Inequality
poetryI don’t want
to be poor;
I don’t want
to be rich;
I don’t want
to be bored;
I don’t want
to be boring;
I don’t want
to be listless;
I don’t want
to be committed;
I don’t want
to be responsible;
I don’t want
to be useless;
I don’t want
to be my father;
I don’t want
to be alone;
But all of this exact knowledge
as to what I do not want
is in no sense equal
to having the faintest idea
as to what I do want
or who I want to be.
Uncertainly, ambiguous desires
poetryI want to be cool
I want to be fun
I want to be respected
I want to be a good son
I want to have a reason
I want to have a plan
I want to be liked
I want to be your man
I want to be envied
I want to have a heart
I want to be cultured
I want to be smart
I want to be chained
I want to be free
I want to be rich
I want life to be easy.
But all of these small wants
only show a mosaic
of my impenetrable, true desire,
be that God, purpose, faith
truth, sex, money, power
friends, family, love,
or what?
that’s how i know
poetrythat
you you you you ‘re
my hero.
haiku
poetrylast night’s mist
gives way to morning’s
green grass.
pre-september ‘ought one
poetrygiven the lack of feelings
you have for your leggings and
aging cats i try to pet but instead
move my fingers vertebrae by vertebrae
bump after bump knowing cats
weren’t made to live 19 people years
but you’ll bat them around
Thoughts
poetryHe thinks to himself
“Am I dying?
A most curious feeling is this.”
but deep in his soul
he yet fights for control
of the cognizance, rightfully his
He’s certainly
fed up with vying
for the presence of mind that he seeks
but his thoughts are delayed,
he knows that he has strayed,
and now only leans to remiss
While he thinks to himself
with his picture of health,
“Even Death would be better than this.”
non-start
poetrythese walls are made
of gray matter
this roof of magical
dust
it’s built on rhythms
and patterns
its materials produced
to combust
not often, but once in a
while
this whole damn place
burns down
but i am forced to
just smile
as a man who lives off
the ground
deja vu
poetrywhat to do
what to do
what will i
ever, ever do
but sit here
and watch
and play
and dodge away
the entire day.
The Real Poetry.
poetryMy legs they
ache,
with longing.
To hit the open country road
and ride until the sun comes up
and everything on Earth is
slowly stirring
To find a small clearing
near a pond, but not too
near a pond, where I
can take a bath and
tuck myself inside my
sleeping bag amidst a
plethora of painful
rocks to rest on
It’s poetry, I promise.
As long as you don’t
think about the
hunger and the
biting flies
and the long ride
back
home
on my birthday
poetryi want beer and yellow cake with
sprinkled frosting and then another
beer i want sunshine and wind
in my hair (or across my baldness)
i want donuts and beer and donuts
then more donuts and people
to tell me i’m special by giving
me beer and donuts and most of
all i don’t want people to leave
me notes on my facebook
Pan-Handler.
poetryWhat do you want?
What do you really want?
How does it add up
to all the things you
think that you’ve
accomplished?
What do you think you want?
Do you even know?
Have you even considered
the possibility that
you’ve got everything you
ever really wanted?
Because odds are,
you probably do.
Or odds are,
you don’t.
Either way,
I don’t know anyway
so stop asking me for handouts
round caked bliss
poetrybaked and glazed and fried
perhaps
stuffed and frosted
strawberry
blast
long and round and twisted
-even holes
four pounds per week
i can eat six in a row
pipe weed
poetryi want to smoke
i want to swear
i want to escape,
the hum-drum,
ordinary,
day to day;
to find more
to do more
to be more,
but for now
i’d settle
for just a good smoke.
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