just look around you
and find inspiration i think
but then find it must come
from within me
(rather than without)
for it to be of much worth

awhackinstein
is a beautiful thought from within
but where to go from there…..

Herein lies the remains of my
latest bout of uninspiration,
muscles sore and mind on fire
learning things about things I
never new I had to learn before
and it is glorious. Or rather, not
so glorious, as immensely, immensely
satisfying.
Herein lies the crusted bits
from around the outside
of a fully-beating heart

to write a poem
about leaves falling
fluttering fragments
of the sky

but instead
i’m thinking about
what to write
on your parents’ sympathy card
choosing words to
express how blessed i feel to have met
you
and how badly i feel this world’s been fucking
robbed.
and i’m
trying not
to offend their grief,
oceanic and black as india ink,
by claiming to possess even
an ounce.

i suppose it’s time

but instead
i’m keeping my eyes open
until i fall asleep
because i know
in darkness i’ll think of you
and then cry
again.

(i’d like to understand this world
as temporary, a lightning strike–
but it’s so fucking hard to see eternity
with these weak eyes.)

a thief broke through
my truck window
when the door was unlocked
and that hole where the lock
would have been

(came out on a first date
i walked up to the door and
put my key to open it for you
proud of my chivalry i shuddered
when the lock came out of the door
stuck to my key)

could have been opened just
by sticking your finger
through the hole and pushing
down

but you shattered my window
ripped off my dashboard and stole
the stereo you sold to me (probably already
stolen)
you told me it was one brand and gave me
another a week later.

you liar. signed the waver “p. diddy”

so here i stand in a junk yard
pulling apart pre-’85 chevy trucks
and removing windows then doors
then dashboards and discussing the price
of a car which runs but is worth very little
more than the $125 you get for turning
it into a box of scrapped metal

and i feel at home in your junk yard
across the street from where they’ll
open the wal-mart next week if everything
goes to plan and

the world (and your shack of a house) slowly moves
out of focus as i realize

your hot pants dont make me feel awkward
in the least

My
Fingers
Ache
wanting nothing more than
dancing over valves
along a saxophone.
But if I were at home alone,
The ache would
blow away,
Most likely in the
key of Bb Minor.

i will never, ever
revise a poem after i
have dropped my pen
(or saved the document)

a poem is a moment in time
even

if

you spell
or punctuate it improperly

even if you fuck up on
some simile or metaphor
and none of it sounds
the way you’d intended,
because

chief

that’s the poem!
that’s life!
you do not have a time
machine so do not pretend
you do and rewrite what
has already been done
the best you can do
is make amends with
what just happened and
try and correct it at
the moment it goes wrong
but don’t you dare touch
my reality after it’s
been done unless you’re
willing to show me

notarized

documented

undeniable

proof

that you are,
in fact,
in possession
of a time machine.

on hedges where the green
grows so short it’s truly a green

and while

we dont play golf but we pursue
peruse the grounds smoking cigars
wearing jackets and beards we look
back on in our later lives
and think

“i have a mancrush on me in former
days. damn i looked good”

and we smoke ourselves into the floor
because thats what we do
we pursue excess as we peruseOURworld

The universe has rules.
None of which are written down in stone,
or anything like it.
Nor are they written in sand,
or something similar.
They exist to
reward
destroy
avenge
annoy
or generally set things on a
path that will (theoretically) create
Karmic (?) balance.

We have not seen this happen.
We have not the science to prove
that these things exist
(reward)
(destruction)
(vengeance)
(annoyance)
in a Karmic (?) sense, but our
eyes and ears and other imprecise
methods of measurement and record-keeping
show that at least one action,
Karmically (?),
is universally true:

Whatever it is you’re looking for,
you will find when you aren’t looking for it.

The Darkness had spared no expense on its arrival.
From the depths unseen by any man, animal, or angel, it arose and spread.
The fissure had widened and from this abyss, the Darkness had escaped.
From this, the Darkness had conquered.
From this, the Darkness had suffocated air; stole the breath from lungs and lips.
Stole vapors from clouds and waves and atmosphere.
Dry and desolate and destitute; the empty ocean cracked.
The brittle forests burned.
Towers toppled, structures disintegrated;
churned to a dust that blew by force of a noiseless wind;
the only interloper, like Charon ferrying dead over the River Styx.
Silent volcanoes did not rage forth with unmatched fury and magnificence;
imploding, they tumbled into themselves, and into more blackness.
Lightning did not shred the night skies with power and vehemence.
There was nothing left.
There was no beauty.
Only the Darkness remained.

cartoons folk sneeze when
they shuldn’t (when all shuld be cwaiet)

i lack control of an altogether
different orifice
but volume a pitch
i alone control
behind my enemy’s lines

bombs aren’t meant to be dropped
in mere scouting

i’m not meant to be on
mere scouting

There’s a dog in the back yard
a barncat in the front, and
the only thing to get between is
rusted, broken chain-link fence
that runs along the property
line, circling the little bit we
keep all to ourselves, so that
our dog can stay in back
and all the barncats can run
unmolested just beyond the
rusted fences, hackles high
and baring teeth at all the
other dogs out on the street.

i would smoke cigarettes with you in that field knowing the next day all the glory and gold and shine and sun and beauty would be gone, draining, depleating, disappearing, diluted, dead.
you know?
whatever?
the poetry only comes as the inspiration and lately the inspiration has been coming engulfed by shadows. these shadows contain inspiration’s cryptonite: reality.
and you and your friends,
out in an orchard of apples,
i want to pick them up like the build and crescendo of a distorted guitar solo, angels around us, ascending into some ethereal place where i can pull out my innermost lust and let it free like an atomic bomb.
some gloomy, michigan day.
autumn, the earth’s massive morning-after-summer-hangover. a time when
everyone
wants to
leave
or be someone else
or whatever.

Day by day, I’ll grow new leaves
I’ll change into a
a sturdy existence for someone else to lean on
As I sit on my bed, I am barely dreaming
my blood mounts, but my face has changed
I was unhappy as a child
I was unhappy as a teenager
as an adult, all I have left is potential
for unhappiness, I have grown up
joy hits me with the 3rd bottle of wine

the way i remember it
we sure as hell were not thankful
that first november

ah but the gravy
you got that part right