Author: Roger Mugs

lost again?

poetry

choosing between two
perfectly acceptable alternatives
leaning to the right but never
knowing which way right
will lead because i feel the need
to be committal without knowing
how to commit

and the ground, like my thoughts
slips slowly out from under my feet
as though i’m not walking down this
sidewalk but its moving under me

its vacation as

poetry

i forgo my normal hobbies of writing incessantly
living the life i imagine will probably make me
more humble than my prayers had intended
then i pound my feet into pedals basked in
glorious sunshine i forgot existed anywhere in this
barren polluted populated overrun populous
where i find my home, my love, my passion, my people
and when the sun hits the back of my neck this time
its as if to say ‘you belong here’ and the thoughts
of not going home creep into the back of my head
nagging at the horror of the 3 year program in which
i’ve just enrolled in the city of eternal gloom
finally realizing my retreat to writing and basking
in internet lame fame is due to a lack of the glorious
heavenly host as though through iV dripping me
vitamin D throughout my day hoping life isn’t
quite as meaningless as this city i love and these
people i love and this language i cant get enough of
but knowing where sunshine is, i might just as easily
fall in love with these tanned and leatherly [sic] people

today i wont gasp for air; for everything within me
knows its only a matter of time before these mountains are
not my vacation
but home

smack

poetry

the fragrance of rose buds in bloom
the fragrance of my kid’s poo poo
the way you smell after a plane
the way you often stink of shame
the fragrance that you smell when all
your friends quit smoking and you
pressed on to be “consistent”
missing all but your contentment
knowing smells bring back that shame
knowing music does the same

missing the smells of your first high school
the one before people knew the real you
knowing you can never go back but
never forgetting that fragrant smack

for things like this – an apology to historians

poetry

my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me

i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing

and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it

cancel the parade

poetry

the sun has greyed
out the clouds
so the children
count the star
at night
and get bored
saying
one
one
one
one
as my mind wanders
trying not to watch
the children play
and call out to their fathers
over their joy in seeing for
the first time in months
that celestial being
in singular

why i get paid less than you to live a much better life

poetry

in the loft i sit a-strumming my piano
looking down on you as you eat your
business lunch and i sing my soprano
the mic sits a bit low and you’ll find
it destracting but worry not lunch will
be over soon then its back to the grind
where i’d be obnoxious and remind
you i fit in not one bit, but am happier
here doing this skit of a song while
i sing and i play and my piano i drum
the sky is still blue today out where
you have no air conditioning or meeting
rooms and today i’ll sit and i’ll hum
because thats what i’m paid to do while
your tie is too tight and your life just aint right
and you know all the things you’re missing
out on.

so from this loft i sit and a-strum
my piano and look dumb, like you cant hear
the songs i’m singing from my too high
soprano. but worry not lunch is done
and my set is complete, my day’s work has
finished but worry not you’ve still hours
to perfect your typing skills and look
better in bluetooth for ms. sours

the mansion (at least i hope it’s not an apartment)

poetry

i enter each room in this house
and over the course of perhaps a month
i spend what it takes to claw at the barren
walls and i claw scratch until my fingers
ache, my nails scrape free and i burn
art into these walls often so ugly
it falls short of poetic but the artistry
is still there

feeling sick of hope i move across the
hall and claw at pride only to find
my fingers can take no more and the
walls are nearly crimson instead of white

the art has passed from room to room
for these five months and i’m beginning to wonder
if there are any empty spaces on walls
in rooms i’ve already visited or

if there are any rooms i’ve yet to step into
perhaps another den, another kitchen,
i’d kill for living room to bleed on for a while

i’m afraid most of the restrooms are now free
of dry wall and standing mere skeletons of
wood and electrical wire

buttloads of poetry

poetry

1000 monkeys in a room
or rather 7 monkeys on a blog and
given long enough we were unable
to write, or even copy shakespeare
but dare i say we made great inroads

words are spilled these pages
you’ll have doubtful ever seen
in a finer journal

rhymes were composed and thoughts
spit out so few of us will ever share
with our mothers

and so it seemed fit as much as there was
and given from whence it came

the sieve and the sand
buttloads of poetry

(p.s. we published our third book – buttloads of poetry for less than $6.00. take home the brilliance)

slowing poetry

poetry

because our imaginations seem
to slow as the crowds take vacation
heading home to see mom and dad

hopefully the man in red and determine
to be resolute rather than allow our fingers
to slide somehow romatically over these
keys and lull our blog into blissful
beauty of heartfelt words

but then
blog is such an ugly word
its perhaps best we just act like
you’re reading this in a quality
glue bound journal