for these times we
need to argue
the facts when the
truth is blurred
like blue mixes
with green to make
a blue-ish green.
you know, it doesn’t
really mix. the two
colors seem always
in a strange it’s
obvious but not
entirely kind of
way which apparently
poetry is unable
at least mine.
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.
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
but a win is still a
win in casablanca
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
thinking of things i haven’t pondered in years.
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.
it keeps me up at night.
mixed with excitement
and joy coupled
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-
as i wait helplessly by for my
sons. to embrace and finally
not have to let go.
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
of the evils
it is evil.
but briar wrapped
heaven is a gift
it’s sad really
but that’s how he ended
up on the warm side
(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
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.
when handled with care
and filled just so
she brings me calm for
some time in a way so
few others can.
face and dunk it in
chemicals you’ve “man-made”
water-board the amnesia
out of me and remind
me of life and what it was
i’d say this made me
a better person but we would all know it was a lie.
it does nothing to add or take
away (for that matter)
from my personhood-awesomeness
rather it makes me a more approachable
it makes me seem down to earth
(as i’m stuck down in it)
and open’s people’s minds to hear
what i might say
they don’t look at me and my aesthetic
and open up naturally.
my beard ruined that possibility
(though they do giggle sometimes).
this of all things,
brings a personal note they love
opens doors otherwise closed
and lets the air in to filter
out the smoke.
no these words will not do you justice
just as they entirely failed me.
leaving me to grope around in the dark
chasing after a poet teachers said i
wrote like, and then later—forgetting—
they told me said
poet should have stuck to editing
and i just stared in response.
because that’s what words do, they fail.
or maybe it’s me who fails them and you’ll suffer an entirely different fate.