poetry

Harping

poetry

these cough drops hardly ease the pain
you put me through you put me through
I’ll never understand again
or talk to you or talk to you
I hear excuses day and night
it never seems quite worth the fight
I really only want to be
just a bit less confused
but really I just feel I need
to talk to you, to talk to you

fiery bones

poetry

you have no clue at the fire
that exists within these bones
as your eyes systematically
pan over the room, unfocused,
and you see me in the booth
by the window setting silver-
ware down for more ungrateful
customers to fill themselves
with, no.
you don’t have an incling.
i could, and would, run
a triathalon ten times the
speed of your rugged 6 foot
lumbering male counter-
part, the one who attracts
you so with his mind and his
faith;
if only, for a brief while,
i could heat the air
around your skin with
the truth smoldering within
my firey bones.

A Letter to a Teacher in Response to a “Creative Writing” Assignment

poetry

Ashamed you ought be! Asking any self respecting

Bard to fulfill an assignment such as this merits no other response! How may

Creativity be truly depicted when forced, shoved if you will, into a set of rules?

Do you lack the respect deserved of the authors of great arrangements of words into towering

Edifices of genius into the un-

Fathomable minds of dreaming mortal men living eternally through ageless legacy? Of

Grievances there are many for you, not your ten fingers, nor your toes may count them.

Heave your penitence on your bib, like a child, and ask to be cleaned of it!

If only you could see the true beauty of each jewel of anti-prose. No

Jello composition of assortments of letters can be

Known as creativity. If you want ingenuity, you need words of meaning, depth.

Laughter is my rage for such an insult, and how I laugh and scream and hoot and howl!

May creativity be inspired in your swirling pool of molded thoughts and birds fly from

Newly made nests of these twigs to create a fine idea, a diamond

Out of coal. I ask you this – Do you feel some

Pleasure in this deviously crafted injustice you bring upon me?

Quite some nerve you possess to inquire of belittling the powerful spirit I do possess.

Reveal a truly astonishing request for each student to compose a piece and

Suspect may be a position you could relieve yourself from, saving that no ambushes be

Tactfully planned by you in expectation of these “requests”.

Undulating waves of imagination may be conceived if you provide them with

Vitality to nurse them like suckled infants, and the aromas of the sweat on your brow

Will be sweet in the satisfaction that your toils are over. But for now you have studying to do!

Xylography is an art in which the blade must be honed, and poetry requires equal aptitude and un

Yielding attention if truly understood. The ultimate culmination of these truth is a

Zenith of absolution. May the zephyrs of inspiration fill your meddling mind…

thoughts.

poetry

words are more inspiring
when composed of seemingly
random pictures
rather than strokes of
alphabets.

letters aren’t beautiful unless
strung together and altogether
forgotten in the meaning
they create

our eyes graze by them
seeing words
not fugly letters

hoping meaning wont dissapoint

Picturesqueish

poetry

Existence has been ripped
to shreds
all decadence, been torn
asunder
all the worriers put
to bed
coroners sliding back
their covers
clockwork clicking near
to dead
comfort pillows now to
smother
remember what the wise
men said
we’ve lost ourselves but
found eachother

when the tin man tries to love

poetry

when the tin man tries to love,
his lover working endlessly
to purchase more oil for his
useless joints,
the battery acid may suffice
for months;
however, as we all know,
and in the back of his lover’s
mind at all times,
there are gears under his
tin chest. and on lazy sundays
when the sun floats through
the slits in the shades,
and they lie awake, she should
know that when the battery
acid wears off, he will no longer
feel the warmth of her touch.
and worse yet
when the oil gets thick
and
his going
gets tough
and the
battery acid
isn’t doing it
any-
more
the gears in his chest will
drive him to the door.
(or maybe the cpu, or
his legs, or his feet,
or his hamstrings,
irregardless)
one day the tin man will shut
the door behind him and
freeze up a half-mile down
the street, with no oil saved
up to keep him spry.

One day we shall be grass and eat beggars

poetry

The curve of your eyelashes undresses the god in me and folds me into sinewy layers of desire and then … You grin at my discomfort. Damn you. 
The sea, my faithful lover, undulates my genuine fear and resentment towards shellfish and sharks.

Madness contours your supple lips stifled only by the last unsorted uneased thought-duties to humaness and civility – mother forgive me I am a mere beast behind a faltering rampart.       
Yet, how your thoughts echo mine in the dark gets to me, like a cluster of cosmic woes crowding and questionning  my purity…

While my gaunt silhouette waltz with your light in a bottomless silence, I believe I can see the summer end and myself with exactitude.

Send Me a Postcard

poetry

When you finally arrive, please let me know.
Let me know that you made it.
(At least when you think you’ve made it.)
When you’ve found success and meaning—
Wholeness.
I’d love to know when reach that place
But there’s this uncanny intuition
That’s telling me you never will.
But if you ever do make it on your own,
Without the help of someone much greater
Than yourself – you let me know.
I’ll be waiting (forever.)

awake is sand

poetry

everywhere i go i hear people talkin’ bout themselves
so very short of content but they got alot to sell
they say “every day’s a torment i am in a living hell”

and the rooms they fill with dust
at the mall the body-paint stores are packed

they got the lacquer for the skin of the stars
they got the happenin’ boats and the cars
got easy ways to talk about yourself when its hard

sometimes i see my friends there
they all make me want to go back to sleep

on swimming against the current

poetry

the sun shone bright 10 days
after i blackmailed you into
a dance

you were way out of my league
that was the fun

i didn’t really like you, people just
said you were unattainable so i pursued
and blackmail does attain
(even the unattainable).

so there we were friends
(or something like it…)
walking from lunch car parked
to classes soon to resume
the ground warming us beneath
our feet as blacktop can even in winter

“you do whatever the hell you want”
said you
and i responded more truthful than i knew
at the time
20 feet from the door
on cement at the time.
i remember it clear
under a tall cotton-less cottonwood (a shame to nature) ‘s shadow

“in a way thats exactly what everyone wants”

but in retrospect
my burns, yellow shaded glasses, sad excuse
for dreadlocks and invincible red chops

i was one sexy bastard
and i was

way out of your league

Distinguished Gentleman, You Have The Floor

poetry

God and
Greed and
Johnny Dubya
and the Devil
and crying over
SPILT MILK
and crying over
Dead Friends
and everyone
)I mean everyone(
can sit so
high and migh
ty and it’s
sickening
but noone’s
sick enough and
then there’s that
one person gone
and all but for
gotten (forgiv
en) sitting somewhere
too far north to
even think about
but shit, it’s all
a waste of breath
and Mr. Hugo
was right. It’s
time for me
and everyone
)I mean everyone(
to just stop bitching
for just a little
while.