Day: March 13, 2010

Orange bag

poetry

I left an orange in my bag, oops
The mess was horrific
Over lining, zips, and flaps

For days and weeks,
Everything I owned smelt like fruit
Everywhere i went was fruit

Libraries became orchards
And bedrooms became an
Endless garden of Eden

My mood began to ripen
As i forgot about
Fruitless, damaging things.

Alchemy

poetry

Hovering somewhere above nowhere
I’ve begun to grow,
To see,
To create—or maybe not?
And I’m only in the likeness, the likeness of a creator.
But I did what I did and on my own.
I’ve created too—it was my strength,
My effort,
My abilities—or was it?
And I can’t tell:
Should I be Victor or not? Should I hate me, who I am?
What I’ve created—what’s created me?
Not average, no, not at all.
Larger than life—and yet? Still in it. A part of it.
I’m incorrectly labeled,
Who?
Which?
What—am I?
And most of all why?
Why am I the monster—or am I?
But don’t ask me.
I don’t know.
And even what I do I’ll never tell.
There’s no jade skin, there’s no bolt through my skull,
But there’s a horror story.
My brain (is it mine?) tears at itself
Searching/not searching finding/not finding
Still wondering/convinced (and unconvinced)
Idontknowmaybepossiblyperhapscouldbe
STOP! JUST STOP!
But I doubt it just the same.
Wishing I could shake it
Hidden away in a babushka doll
Layers Layers Layers
Layers Layers Layers Layers
Layers Layers Layers Layers
Building a barricade you can’t break down.
Open it up, you can’t—can you?
I’ve got padlocks on each with no combos.
Crack me open, there’s only more shell underneath.
You can’t.
I don’t.
I might—do I want to?
Does the creator hate what he’s created?
Is it fear? Fear of truth? Fearing that I really am hated?
Or fear, fear that I’m wrong.
All wrong.
Is it fear that that I’m not hated?
Not all on me?
Not a monster?
Not alone?
Not at all.
Fear of what I really am?
Fear that maybe—I’m loved?

when i was a kid my dad used to try to gross people out by saying bread was really just yeast fart. cheese was something similar. just farts. thats what those holes are in swiss. believe it or not thats what it basically boils down to. unless my mother was right about fart being a medical term standing for flatal anal rectal transmission in which case it would be a lie. after all how can yeast rectally transmit if it lacks both anus and rectum? how? this is the thought i leave you with before i drop some rhymes up in her.

poetry

i’ll serve you on bread
or better yet a cracker
insufficient you be
all alone
in want of a snacker
but with my love for you
comes love for yeast farts too
i’ll cut you up in pieces
my illustrious cheeses

favorite bland

poetry

dumping ashtrays in parking lots
on brochures about the effective-
ness of time as a decomposition
agent,
lighting fire to the pedestrians
in the nova,
saturday before the big let-down
sure was fun,
was wild,
like your eyes.

stranded and strung out chasing
strippers,
sex
and
success
’round the street from
old men in book stores closing
down gotta love kalamazoo,
michigan,
the homeless.

oh why i gotta love the break
down like i loved the build-
up aint so easy to understand
staring at this whole thing,
this whole big thing,
running away again.