Author: Roger Mugs

foo

poetry

there are folks here visiting
from france and their accents
sound fake but are decidedly
real despite what you might think.

their opinion of cheese is that
it belongs not on a cracker but
inside a pancake and that’s a real
thing.

i wrote and wrote

poetry

until slowly the words i used to express my thoughts lost their poetry
and the things that replaced them weren’t words at all but mere ideas
composted in my head and rotting away in some miserably non-poetic way
and that was just life for a while.

i’m still disappointed the rot wasn’t beautiful.

when i meet a “doubter”, to be honest i’m always a bit taken aback. it’s so blatant that everything else is just shit comparatively, how could anyone possibly consider going back? what’s wrong with these people? don’t they smell they shit on the their shoes? don’t they remember how they could never rest, because to lay down meant to drown in feces? it’s genuinely bewildering. but for those of you who have missed out. here’s my brief testimony. (best if sung in b-flat to the tune of that one theme song — you know the one. don’t even act like you don’t know the one.)

poetry

when conclusions were reached
(of the life-changing variety)
we held our noses and trudged
on through the shit piled around
our feet, ankles, and up to our
knees.

and we sprinted for the door
to escape the disease, smell,
and flammability.

immediately upon making the decision
we wondered how we were previously
so unaware of the smell. and
why no one else was leaving.

empty threat

poetry

if i had a paintbrush
i make splotches on your
face and claim i used
a sponge but it wouldn’t
have been a sponge. instead
it would have just been
a paintbrush because thats
how i feel about you.
i feel like defacing you,
defaming you, and then lying
about it.

ray flect see own

poetry

the best inquirers always begin
with a disclaimer:
personal question.
this will be awkward but.
have you ever not.
clearly you don’t mean.

and folk who talk this way
make terribly interesting
friends. the kind you want
to box up and ship somewhere
else just to get them out
of your life and in to some
service where they’re stamped
with a number and their
movements are tracked for
all to see (including yourself)
but then when you do get
rid of them, you find you
terribly miss sharing your
tobacco over a pipe and some
beer.

the man i aspire to be.

poetry

can’t live like
the guy passing
me here on my
left as i give
my all climbing
this mountain at
full speed with
the fanciest gear
and the new app
which tells me my
speed down to the
second because
it may be true
he ain’t dressed
right and he looks
a bit funny
but i cant live
like this guy
who gives his
friggin all
every moment
of every day.

certain ideas make more sense when stated in a fantastically unclear manner. a manner which reinforces ideas through overstating and restating. something like this.

poetry

sometimes folks say things
they don’t mean and they can
be hurtful things that those
folks say. sometimes.

but then there are times
people say things they really
do mean and those things can
be hurtful too when people
say things like that and really
mean it.

and lets not forget those
friends who say the things we
know we need to hear but weren’t
able to convince ourselves of
because of our own foolishness
and lack of courage to face what
would have been edifying truth
because those are the kinds of friends
that really edify us when speaking
truth in the midst of our lack
of courage to cut through our foolishness
and convince us of what weren’t
able to convince ourselves. it’s
precisely those friends are
not to be forgotten.

my favorite nightmare. the one i cherish. though it’s filled with fear and trembling, i secretly hope for it every night before sleep. that one.

poetry

there’s a sad song playing on the
radio in my head, and it unfortunately
does not fit the mood.

in fact it’s ruining my experience
here at the pub entirely. the sports
on the television would be great if this
dumb violin would stop being so effing
brilliant. and the beer in my hand
would taste much better if that trumpet
could just shut up for a while, why
must he jam so long, so righteously?

why must the music that never shuts
up play so clearly? so beautifully? so
wonderfully in all the right ways, but at
all the wrong times?

done.

poetry

blanket pulled
up over my shoulders and wrapped behind
my neck as i climb in to the perfect
position and hold myself
steady trying desperately
to think of anything other
than the itch on my nose.
anything.
until sleep comes.

There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who have willingly attempted crazy things because they knew it was worth their energy to be able to say they have done so and those who never show up on time to simple family events. Also there wookies.

poetry

If you can’t think of the last time it’s happened there are two feasible reasons. The first is that you’re losing your mind and therein your ability to remember simple things. The second is that it’s been so long perhaps it’s time to try again. The third is that you’re doing it right now and on some seriously mind-altering drugs that are confusing the hell out of you. Given that none of the above are particularly likely, perhaps it’s time for a brief review.

sold.

poetry

her hair wasn’t right
and her pants didn’t fit.

the glasses she wore slightly
too low on her nose and it was clear
her eyebrows had not been plucked
in months.

he shoes made her feet look
enormous like aircraft carriers
supporting the Old Colossus.

shoulder pads were definitely
present in her dress, something a few
decades behind at the least.

and everything was wrong except…

she wore stripes. glorious stripes.