i like the way your shell
blows in the wind as you
wind your way down the path
though the park

the slime you leave behind
is different than the others
and pulls me in, if only
i could catch up

i like the way demonstrate
your skill at wall climbing
and hiding in the bushes
venturing out in the rain

and one day while lying in bed
and reading a clive staples commentary
on third or fifth-rate poetry,
it occurs to me that i’ve never written
a love poem. as in a poem about genuine
love and not the mushy gushy feeling
of pursuit and excitement. of the chase
so fleeting, wonderful yes, but no more love than avacado is ice cream though it shares a consistency.

and now married 8 years to the horribly imperfect, i think myself prepared
for a love poem. about dishes, fights, diapers, and choices again and again to be better than i think she deserves because i know undoubtably she’s being better than she thinks i deserve.
for though she sometimes thinks knows me to be an ass
she delights in my imperfection and offers patience with my foolishness.
finding that, in a way, we live thrive together somehow stronger with the constant struggle of maintaining one another;
stronger than we would be void of one another.
the choice so easy when weighed with the alternative.
so often left unweighed.
because to love is the choice.
the choice is to love.

there is a mind numbing misery
inherent in the midst of the joy.
numbness as a part as of rearing
teaching joy in the mundane an
everyday affair.

here’s to hoping not.

June 11, 2013

there will be times soon
filled with fear i suppose
and i’ll attempt to combat
those times with poetry
but it wont work because
the poetry will lack poetic
nature much too much to
exhume what is bottled up
in anxiety.

whumph

June 9, 2013

for these times we
need to argue
the facts when the
truth is blurred
with rhetoric
like blue mixes
with green to make
a blue-ish green.
you know, it doesn’t
really mix. the two
colors seem always
altogether distinct
but indistinguishable
in a strange it’s
obvious but not
entirely kind of
way which apparently
poetry is unable
to express.

at least mine.

life lessons by spuds

June 1, 2013

there are potatoes in a sack in the back of your dust-infested room growing mold next to your bong which has lately only been used to smoke legal substances which due to law changes really isn’t a change at all, but the more potent blends have done nothing to sharpen your mind to the dangers of crystallized fungus or whatever happens when things mold (i never took even basic chemistry after all).

and i just can’t help but continue to wonder at the state of disarray that is your outward appearance and the calm which defines your inner being, and the way it contrasts with my own life.

and i will rest in the house of my
lord, forever in thanks over what i
imagine is some pretty fantastic
tobacco, beer, burritos, and did
i mention the company? pretty sure
that ain’t gonna be too shabby either.
forever giving thanks
giving thanks forever
over a life well done.

woot?

May 16, 2013

a twinge of relief
followed by a sudden
sense that this win
will be long lived
but only enjoyed
shortly as the sore
ness in back and neck
give way to fever and
then throat pain
in a way Tylenol just
cant relieve

but a win is still a
win in casablanca

bacon soda

May 11, 2013

i don’t care what the recipe
called for my dear.

i heard you just fine
and i am thrilled with what
we’ve added to the cookies

where terror turns to terroir
and wind and waves to
calm, peaceful, fishing with a beer
and a good virginia tobacco
in your pipe.

there. right after the change,
i’m flying high as the smoke thereof

as space opens in the recesses of my mind
my back decides it’s time to give my ass
a rest. releases the muscles. relaxes.
i can bend and flex in new and interesting
ways.
thinking of things i haven’t pondered in years.
possibilites re-emerge.

holy ethiopian palm sunday.
it’s…. finally…. over.

praise the Lord.

Blessed be the LORD,
for he has wondrously shown his
steadfast love to me

The difference between agony and suffering is the subject of the pain.
Suffering is when you’re the one in pain.
Agony is when the one you love is suffering before your eyes

and you’re helpless to intervene.

April 11, 2013

it keeps me up at night.
the anger
mixed with excitement
and joy coupled
with agony

my health is going
in the waiting.

and now one brother
has been released and
the other remains under
devils thumb. and we wait
some more for an endless
coming, for our God who
doesn’t experience time
in the same way we do
(or so we’re told), for our
God who experiences agony
in much the same way we do
and we beat against the air
in a (hopefully) winning-but-
not-even-one-satisfying-blow
battle.

as i wait helplessly by for my
sons. to embrace and finally
not have to let go.

pipe

April 5, 2013

say what you will
but i aint letting
go of this thing
which i’m slightly
abusing in the
name of freedom.

you think all
tobaccos are
created equal
because you
were taught
of the evils
of paper-wrapped
crap.

it is evil.

but briar wrapped
heaven is a gift
straight from
above.

it’s sad really
but that’s how he ended
up on the warm side
of luke,
(not to be confused with the dark side)

like a four year old getting their first brain freeze and thinking the ice cream has turned on them, you just don’t understand.

just a reminder:
i blame you for the splatter
of blood on my wall above
the dresser i cannot wash
off for the life of me.
the blood is mine, but the cause
was yours. and this limp
i’ll carry as a constant
reminder with me in addition
to the bottle of cleaner
i keep on said dresser
and the plaster of paris
creepy model of your head
you made for me in the drawer.
you told me to take it out
and hit it with a bat. a bat
to bring my anger out on a model
of your head.

how did we end up together in the
first place when your insanity
is bleeding through your teeth?

when i eat deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
the chickens to eat the grass to soak
in this sauce, the sauce made of the
the grain fermented by the yeast of
heaven for beer to be boiled and
then chicken to be thrown in. i cannot
help but worship the One who made
the ground nutritious wherein the red pepper
can grow slowly more spicy to be chopped
and added to beer sauce for chicken to
soak in.

when i smoke deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
this Indian weed, and the ground where
the leaf can grow tall, strong, and be cut
down. the One who made the sun dry the leaves
and the One who made the ground perfect
for this tree to be cut down, for it’s wood to be
porous and cool, and light, to be perfectly clenched
between my teeth so i may worship while
my prayers are slowly carried to heaven
in clouds of smoke. something i know is unnecessary
but i like to imagine happening nonetheless.

when i smoke, and when i eat, and when i drink,
i cannot help but praise the Creator.

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