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.

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.

the worst part of living in
an apartment complex is that
when the man downstairs yells
you can hear him but scarcely
what it’s all really about
and, you can hear the man
upstairs at all times but
the more you listen his
words seem to mush around
into nothingness
(maybe his thoughts are
getting absorbed by the
carpet)
but the man in the middle
(this is me)
we all know what’s going
on with him as you can
hear his words thumping
through the apartment
complex like some sort of
heartbeat or something.
this is the conclusivity
of morally disapposed
positions lying on top
one another in direct
proportion to the sun
or the neuro-pathways in
the brain that they call
“timber creek”

doesn’t the earth swing back
and forth like a pendulum?
…well,
doesn’t it?
doesn’t it just say one
thing and another thing
and another?
and you tell it to shut up,
one hand on her thigh
thinking
am i spilling my fucking
guts?
if i sit on this couch long
enough will god damn me
for leaving the indention
of my ass alone
for
however
long or,
whatever?

today is the day of
unnerving
inescapable
and totally necessary sadness
and today is the day
where the rain comes
and goes
and the sadness slides down
your throat like wet cement
and you wait for a long time
for it to harden in your
stomach
you are
off to see some place you sold
all of your belongings to go
without a hint as to
what your getting into
today is the day that you
wait at the train station,
whistles blowing,
none of them yours,
trains plowing through,
none of them yours,
sitting on a bench waiting
for the cement to harden
in your stomach,
whistles blow,
is that your train?
today is the day where you
don’t know if your train will
come
tomorrow is the day that you
realize you weren’t ready
to get on.

this night is creeping upon me
or, the sun is dropping below
it’s horizon
and the lack-of-light is
enveloping me
and i like it, to be honest
i really like it alot

my veins are now burnt
out black snake fireworks
the blood
crawls through them apathetically
the black tubes falling
where they may based upon the
original flame that birthed them,
no intent on anything

this night is creeping upon me
and the heat is leaving the
air and
in turn
drying out my skin
and i am lying on the pavement
as the children walk back
inside
and i like it, really,
to be honest.

breaking marijuana into an aluminum
coca-cola can feels much better with
Cherubini in the background
today is Helter Skelter day
somewhere south it is gloomy
right here it is mediocre
fat girls getting out of their
first day of school
people walking their domesticated
animals on the cracked
pavement behind my
apartment
complex
men in the background
from centuries past
playing ballads of
beauty and sex
all lost to us now
and the men walking their
fury dogs
and the fat girls on their
bikes
they get get to the bottom
then stop
turn
then they go for a ride
till they get to the bottom…
just like Mozart
but we don’t speak that language anymore
man
and we don’t hear those stories anymmore
man
Helter Skelter

oh marilyn,
i have returned a
man from the woods
and am arranged to
marry you,
you,
you,
and
you
but these hormones
go to waste,
this indifference
is killing me
oh marilyn,
you look so good on
screen.

i didn’t crash the car
last night with the 3 dollar
bottle of wine
and the worst part about that
is that i don’t want to
anymore
i didn’t walk past the
line we drew in the sand
last night
and the worst part about that
is just how bad i
wanted to
i didn’t kill anything
ever, not even a cloud
last night
and the worst part about
that is that i don’t
want to anymore
i said the worst part
about that is just how
bad i wanted to.

i move mountains in my head
with giant engines running lean
when i am on bottom i am surely
truly on top,
and that stands backwards, too.
i see the white brick walls
growing around this apartment
complex as we speak,
and when it comes to take you
if you let it,
it will,
and there you will be.

there are men waiting just outside
of this door who want me to
slave under them,
put myself in front of bullets,
why i might do it to stave the
advancement of these white brick
walls still growing around
this apartment complex as i
write this.
it is proven that i am to plug in
sign up
log on
and put these engines towards
social and human progress,
nevermind the definition of progress.

phd,
ba,
manager,
associate,
how high can you jump?
how quickly can you do it
when commanded?
when i am on bottom, i am surely
on top,
and that works backwards too,
i think.

SIT AND SIT
UNTIL YOUR NERVES
FREEZE OFF
COLD?
NOT ANYMORE
HOT?
NOT ANYMORE
PULL THE CEDAR CHIPS
AROUND YOUR PROSTRATE
BODY,
HAMSTER.

the highways are empty
tonight
there is a blanket
of apathy over the
clouds
did someone soundproof
this room?
no,
did,
someone mute this room?
why,
i can hear the
bells in the distance.

i sit at a luncheon with mr. pig,
there are mannequins across the street
whose silence is very, very loud
they all ask me:
“what are you doing for employment”
“no no, i am dreaming”
“what do you do for fun?”
“well it comes at forty bucks,
and then it’s gone”
just at this very moment
at that very second
a shot of red danced around
from the left of my left eye
to the right of my right eye
and i said “who was that?”
and they said
“why do you ask so many questions?”

how i see the world as a playground
when i challenge to jump the highest
from the swing sets,
big kids size
and, though i never land it
my grace and style gives me 10’s
all around the sandbox
children holding up
their scorecards and oh
if i could change my middle name to
danger
without relying on the mystical
friends that live in my mind when
i can find or afford them.
this,
see,
this is what i’m always working on.

first i must brave the electric
field filling the space between
us in your living room,
then i must make very sure i am
absolutely correct
when i stare at your thighs and
envision how the rest of the night
should go
then i must speak,
and my words must tip-toe around your face,
tickle,
…convince…
am i ugly?
am i a casanova?
if i
if i moved myself
closer to you
would the buildings fall down in
just
the
right
order?
but we must always know
we must surely know
i will go home
because chances are for the living.

on the sober days i lose my mind
the hippie girl says something like
i am “weak for taking the edge off”
i say: if you think you are a rocket
why don’t you take off!?
i say, i say
WHY I MAY BE A LION IN A ZOO
BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A LION IN A ZOO
PRETENDING
TO BE AN ASTRONAUT,
YOU FUCK!!
but of course, i don’t say any of this
because
i am a lion in a zoo…
…so
who am i to talk?

sometimes i feel like i am sleeping in a coffin
what’s it all about?
(sometimes i feel very sad)
oh,
the beach boys said it best
(i guess i just wasn’t made
for these times)
sometimes i feel like
i am
sleeping
all day long
like the days turn to dreams
what’s this all about
this existence
shouldn’t i be
chasing
the horizon?
IF i CouLD JuST gEt
sO
mEw
HeRe

i am organreorganizing my existence
as a hole as we speak
i am chopping off all of the excess parts
i am feeling really nothing at all
i am not typing because i don’t
have the internet
and i’ve been busy
burying my head in
not being busy
/the sand
quietly calculating prioritizing
shipping recieving planning and
counting my ideas on a white
sheet labeled
1,
2,
3,
my love is drying up like oil
after it drips from my mechanical
mind,
chemicals not meaning much
to me
it’s all about cogs and machines
it’s all about chopping down trees
and building something with the wood
like a human being
so i again,
will try and take up
drinking.

i’ve not got the gut of a drunk
or the throat,
taste,
will,
but i got the need

and
come to think of it…
i’ve not got much at all
but i got a little of
alot
so i s’pose that counts
as alot (and yes,
i’m one of those who
believes that alot should
be a word)
but in today’s world,
you need alot of alot
and alot of luck
but you don’t really
need to be good,
or be good at any of it
you just need to have
done it and have alot
of it,
or alot of rich friends
hell…
i s’pose
that’s only if you want
money, though
and
again,
though
you’d all like to argue
and everyone would like to argue
that life is not about money
and act like i can’t see them
standing on the corner
next to a pimp named “society”
doing whatever,
for cash

and i s’pose if i’m a failure at art
and a failure at cash
and a failure at love
‘cuz i can’t make it last
and a failure at words
‘cuz i can’t get them across
and a failure to myself
‘cuz i don’t act my thoughts
then the best i can do is smile
🙂