Author: Roger Mugs

my system sucks.

poetry

i’ve a system for filing my brilliance.

as a phrase, paragraph, poem, or book idea passes by my brain
i think “brillaint”
and then forget it.
filed away into my mental box labelled “invisible”.

this way it’s accessable any time i open my “invisible” box.
which is to say — never.
it’s a very difficult box to find.

but once my brilliant idea concerns finding invisible boxes (or boxes merely labelled invisible), and I’m wise enough to not file it away into the same….
well, i’m certain like a salinger people will pour out their guts to see every last word i’ve written.

earrings

poetry

today i’ll celebrate like a six year old girl on her way to an ear-piercing, princess-dress-up, Justin Bieber birthday party
because hey
i never was a six year old girl
and there are some things
you just cant afford to miss

for the record

poetry

the new degree came.
in laud.
and brought with it a void where i anticipated a feeling of pride
you always look at these other folks as something different. made from something different. and now i’m one of these folks. and i feel of the same substance.

transubstantiation would have made me feel a little better.
but i — master roger — cant live my whole life
acting as though i’m not better than you.
(nor have i).

even if my actions never reflect it, my poetry will be brutally self-serving. my prose overwhelmingly prideful. i will be that unabashed ass. because i can.

literally impossible

poetry

your overwhelming enunciation does nothing to
numb the pain of the words you’re speaking.

a call to inconceivable action is nothing but that —
inconceivable. and you must know resistance to
the painful truth yields unquenchable discontent.

near death by cannonball ≠ near death by dirty looks for dirty rides

poetry

i envy these men who dodged cannon balls
and bullets for their faith living every day
on the edge in the places they weren’t
allowed to go speaking to people who feared
them for the color of their skin, and while
i was born for this time here and now and have
come to the same place, these people are
no savages, and they respect me for the color
of my skin. and i can’t help but think my
choice in a very old and ugly vehicle for
transportation is not at all equal to a cannon
ball flying inches away from my head.

it does not require or yield the same kind of
faith. i labor every day wondering if i’m doing
what’s right rather than wondering how i’ll live
through tomorrow, and with my family this seems
wiser, but that part of me deep inside – that part
all of us men cannot seem to shake – that part
of me just wishes for a little more excitement
sometimes. all the while wishing my wishes don’t
come true.

the intensity of the lack of the crowd

poetry

for a few minutes He brings torrential freezing rain and
as if just for me
He clears the city out.
so i book it through these streets alone
listening to a loud silence of the kind i haven’t heard
in months.

the masses flee inside as if afraid of the lack of people and
as if just for me
this city is empty, and for once, no one is cheering me on.

poetic illusions

poetry

thought i’d filled this space before.
seems like just yesterday i found it empty and did what any self-declared writer would do.

stared blankly. then ran when someone came into the room and considered looking over my shoulder.

seems like i’d filled this space just an hour or so ago with something i was quite proud of.
but then i came back and looked, and it was still empty.
is it possible my mind is more poetic than my fingers? when all the evidence has proved my mind is incapable of poetry without my fingers.
until (that is)
poetry is written without ever being written at all, settling instead to be scribbled on the black board that is my mind. where no one can read it. where my memory allows me to forget it.

and as certain as i was i’d filled this space before, it keeps coming up blank. about every time my glass hits empty.

an ode, for what was done well, but could have been (in retrospect) done better. after all, a whole lawn of grey is eclipsed by the lawn with my ROGER spelled across it in all grey-dead caps. but that’s why there is always tomorrow.

poetry

for tomorrow’s grass is greener
in my own yard than in my neighbor’s.
not for reasons philosophical, but rather,
i, unwilling to stand and watch this
‘scotts lawn’ continue, took matters into my
own hands in scoop after scoop of
industrial salt.

(something much too cheap for the world
out there like me, of evil scientists, who are
unwilling to let jobs that need to be done
right be done by someone else).

18 dudes, 4 days, mountains. what’s missing? probably won’t be enough beer.

poetry

i’ll don strange shoes and put my hair (what sad little bit is left of it)
up into something my wife would never allow me to be seen with in public

trudge mountains and valleys
and cross a stream or two.

take in the sky. grunt. fart. make penis jokes.
i’m fairly certain our creator knew it was hilarious looking when he made it.
and generally enjoy yourself
this is man time.

given the chance.

poetry

i could do this,
i could be your inspiration for the night.
should i execute it correctly you’d invite me
back for more sessions wherein i do something
inspiring.
of course as a writer i’d desire that inspiring
deed to be writing. i’d throw words out on the fridge
like magnets from a pre-made set.
but each and every word, as it landed on the magnetic
surface would shock you with it’s brilliance.
i’d be precise in a way you’re not used to.
i’d speak truth through verbs you’ve over-used.
and trite would be the furthest thing from
your imagination as i serve you inspiration for the
day.

i could do this.
even without the rhythm to back me up, and the years
spent on this one verse for each song. i could be your
inspiration for tonight.