poetry

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.

AT LAST WINTER’S PASSED

poetry

at last winter’s passed, the sleepers awake
at last squirrels, birds, green emerge
blossoms on branches, rivers run fast and high
movement in the bones, music in the eyes

at last there is skin, bare arms bare legs bare feet
at last black blonde brown hair falls free, words spit quick unseen
people step off the sidewalk, swim in the warm grass
the city has emptied, its concrete gravity gone

I smell life, how I long to live
I smell sky, it screams of coasts
I smell sun, we fill our lungs with light
ready to exhale and create new continents

darkness lost as last year’s dream
all is open, outstretched and inviting
like a frisbee, carried by a strong breeze,
we disappear over the horizon.

ethnicities i’m glad i’m not

poetry

but where you were born
determines your ability to play
in some three letter acronym at the national
scale
be it nhl, nfl, nba, or whoever

but say you’re born in samoa?
you’re probably great at just one

maybe your grandparents are from africa?
you’ll fit in any at all.

but before you say i’m racist
let me tell that you i aint white
i’m as minority as the day is long
in the country full of yella’s

Flashback

poetry

It was at a
restaurant
some other friends
were with me
when you called
and I remember every
little thing you said
and shit, it’s tough
when I look back
and wonder just
how much you really
spewed your bullshit.

I have not found
the bottom of that barrel,
and I’m confident
I never really will.

a cross stick

poetry

coming to earth in
human awkward form
running, walking, eating, sleeping
incarnate holiness
still you chose
to die painful death for me

stuck there, hung there nailed there,
till three days later
undeservedly, the breath fades from your lungs
carrying my sin with it
k

i’m gonna call this “free form poetry”

poetry

i sit staring at rearranged
pixels in a grid made by
god watching plays played
by ghosts
i make love to the marionettes
in my dreams and sometimes
in the wires
of the grid

(on simulated sunny days
in graveyards and in minivans)

remember all the times
you sat staring at mannequins
screaming “WHEN WILL YOU
TALK BACK?”???
so does half of
jcpenny
and the
crossroads mall
security
yet
i
digress.

You Always Seem To Miss The Point On These Things

poetry

Nobody really knows, but I’ll tell you
‘way to be’
when you slide one past the radar
and the folks all know just who you are
and every little
piece of your
(fragmented)
personalities are scattered
like plastic cups after a party
and they see you
yeah, they see you
and they know you
(they don’t know you)
but I’ll tell you
every time you think you snuck one right past me
yeah, I’ll tell you
every god damned time
I’ll tell you
‘way to be’

crazy sonofabitch behind a wall

poetry

these birds from hateville
they know you
before they see you
but they are beautiful,
enough,
i guess,
and i’m at my wits end
filling this birdfeeder,
now that i think about it!
and why, may i ask,
am i so tongue tied?
you should’ve seen me,
all quiet in the forest
while the bees ate me alive.
ah, you should’ve seen me,
watching those stupid birds
while the bees ate me alive,
and i didn’t even scream.
those birds from
hateville,
the only birds around.