the sieve and the sand

I refuse on all counts
to bill myself as
anything but
lighthearted.

I have not a grudging
bone in my whole
body.
Now come here, so I can
kick your a- er,
Show you.

And the end wasn’t
so much of a bang
as it was a whimper,
having already been
over long before
the end actually came,
wimpily whimpering out;
no one was sad
to have it done.

…Who has never been the
low man on the totem
who has never even deigned to see
these parts of space beholden
Who has whistled somewhat wearily
in work, in study, in play
who has tried to fulfill, jokingly,
his stature, come what may.

Who, perhaps, will finally put an end
to reckless, tired thought
who, perhaps, will end this existence
and build one that he wants
Who perhaps, and most importantly
will take back what he’s bought
and replace his standard typefaces
with much more awesome fonts

Early in morning
I can’t wait to sit in a plastic chair
Sweating under the hot sun
While people give me nickels

I swear that all my stories
are
good traveling stories
or
stories where I traveled
and
got too far for my own good.

I’m sorry I tell stories
where
the focal point is simply
that
we’re almost out gas this time
and
there’s still ten miles back
to
the nearest filling station.

But I think we’ll make it.

Brave, Hopeful, or Retarded,
I think we’ll make it.

i’ll never fully understand
but perhaps i see more clearly
than yesterday,last week,
last month, last year;
the anger is gone (mostly),
departing with the worry,
departing with the gloom,
departing with the doom,
and while i’m not calm
at least i see a glimmer
of understanding,
at least today.

say what you will
what you’re thinking is

boobs

p.s. take that noranoir

I hereby expressly assume all risks
Upon my participation in this event
Including personal injury
And inevitable death.
I have read, understand,
And agree to the terms of this Agreement.

i’m gonna go
where the sun can’t find me
i’m gonna cut
the strings that bind me
i’m gonna get
to see the world finally
nothing below
or behind me
i’m gonna go
where the sun can’t blind me

Someone save me
I’ve lost my mind
or that’s the story
anyway.

Mud on my shoes
‘where have you been?’
mud on my shoes
‘Don’t track that shit through
here!’

the stains are grass stains,
the bruises only temporary.
The stains are grass stains
but they may not quite come
out.

But please,
hit me again.

Nervous fidgeting
Changing channels
Passing peripheral glances
Mannerisms that unnerve
The tension that festers
Settles in, wraps its tail
Around and binds
Staring at the ceiling
Hoping to find respite
But only seeing darkness
Out the window
Dingy street lights
Faded by purple sky
Filled with thoughts
That bounce and bobble
Feeling no better
Falling asleep on the couch

Some allergies’ bane

Takes me back to the ballpark-

Whiff the fresh cut grass

what to say, what to say
what to ever say…

so i’ll keep
eating
Stuffing
GORGING,

until i feel like
throwing up
Retching
SPEWING,

which at the time was
easier
Better
SAFER,

than coming up with
talk
Chit-Chat
CONVERSATION.

its awkward when you look
over my shoulder at what
i write and i feel so emasculated
as my words leak from my watched
hands
like a pot… watched…. i dont boil?

If we could bottle Dragon’s Breath
for wholesale, we could make a fortune.

And it wouldn’t matter what it does. Engine
Degreaser, furniture polish,
rat poison or napalm. It
would sell.

It would cure diseases, according
to the label. Swine flu, Bird
flu, Shingles, The Shakes, and
everything else we’ve got to
fear from the great wide world.

It would nourish and sate even
the mightiest of hungers or
the fastest of metabolisms. It would
keep us clean and anything but
Visceral. And By God, I’m sure

it’d do whatever is the opposite
of killing us all.

Now, the only trick
is bottling something
that doesn’t quite exist.

Disguise your face or reach a similar end
Wandering brings no certainty
But the certainty of separation
The North Star still shines over the oceans
But the damage has arrived
The sea and sky become one
And nature wears out
Even the wittiest poet
No extravagant praise
Nor the felt tips of a thousand pens
Can restore her against herself
She talks while there is sleep
And bids permission to do so
Foolish are attempts, and so I am guilty
Of exchanging worthless for invaluable
It is the futility in trying to control
The pitch of thunder

A lecherous, slippery ambition
And too often with disparaging anger
No pacification will be brought about
But by chance in absolute destruction
Such inclinations will be dismissed

So scheme schemes to destroy
In Machiavellian fashion
Abandon your kitchens and bedrooms
Call to action the militaries
Toxic watered down dreams
To drink to the bottom
Of a big-belled glutton that we are
Rooted with precise balance
The figure head, a clock
To undo in the darkness
The argument of disorder
Feeding on hesitation
To live, to not be devoured by incapacity
Is to act as if nothing is known
But what use is a life
That has not sought to control the squall
Though it remains false thunder

Drinking drop by drop

Future beds take a big gulp…

Seattle, PA.

i don’t want to read
i don’t want to fight
i don’t want to breed
i don’t want to be right

i don’t want to hurt
i don’t want to jerk
i don’t want to girt
i don’t want to work

and i’m on my way

at the thought
of your touch,
slowly moving
from navel to nipple,
from knee to neck,
from the boundaries of me
into the borders of you.

and in those deep, dark advancements of time
we all tend to scream out that none
of us has done anything wrong.

The car won’t start. Nobody did anything
to it, but the car won’t start. Nevermind
the sand in the gas tank. The car wont’ start.
And nobody did anything to it.

It’s raining
so I pitched my tent
but all my stuff is
soaking wet.

well I suppose that’s
what I get
for doing too little
too late.

the question remains
do i get paid more
for leaving behind skid
marks as i pinch and squeeze
and struggle my way home
knowing i left my house
in far too loose a condition
to be running around with
these lubed up bowels

and making it home
on time?
*sort of?

I thought of something
witty that I’d try
to scratch down with
my pen but that
device is now
devoid of all the
stuff it used to give
so willingly.

All I needed was
but a few small
drops.

All I got was a
curly-cue in the corner
and a broken pen
cartridge on my
carpeted floor.

The ink, of course,
went everywhere

The new carpet is multicolored
Splashed and sprawled out fabric
Stringy hues overlapping each other
Rainbows knitted together
Weaving and winding
Held captive by the walls
Crawling and climbing
Like a bag of gummy worms
Slithering beneath my feet

oh life’s a
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide
walkin’ around town
with you all day
drink till i’m drunk
or i’m sober again
pull of my skin
let it blow in the wind
oh life’s like a
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiide (ha
ha) ah
you speak in a language
so beautiful
i wish i could read it
my fragmented brain
my softspoken penis
whispers in my ear
“lets feel alive”
so i do, oh i do
how contrived
strapped in to this
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide