poetry

Won’t hate the player

poetry

There are fifteen different systems
that I hate I hate I hate and
I could count them if you ask me
but I think I’d rather not so
let me stew in my annoyances
and hate and hate and hate
until the feeling’s passed, and
I’m back to ignoring all these
systems that I
hate hate hate hate

runnin’ the block

poetry

the oil gets thick in the motor
when it’s not turnin at 23 degrees
Fahrenheit after you been runnin’
the block on foot thinking “why man
i oughta get outta this place”
with your head all up in the sky
oh man, your so high. oh the lead
in your head that they put in the
drain they say if you don’t drink
it it makes you insane but you
gotta nervous tick like your
life’s down the drain so your
thinking you might stick your
head in the rain when your
thirsty ‘cuz you know that
shits
mind
control
aint it?
when it all comes down you
gotta pick up the dollars
and put them back down
or all the school children might
call you a clown so you pick
up your back and you walk
down the road towards oblivion
thinking “at least i’ll go there
alone” and man,
you are so damn high.

tall as a kite i just might…

poetry

never lost this twinge of mine
preceding an evening i know’ll
include cloves or a hookah
stale couches and a twoehyim
call to some delivery joint for
what inevitably isn’t muchies
but something like it
not quite high

we called it being ‘tall’

never lost that feeling i got
before i joined my friends for
a walk across the top of the
world owning every minute
spraying candles with squirt
guns and making stale couches

Running The Block

poetry

I warned you,
I swear to God
(if there is a God)
I did.
Didn’t you hear me?

I was screaming,
through the double-pane
protecting me and mine
from all the ice-cold wind
and beggars
and midnight peddlers
and cops
(the cops mostly)

You never should have gone
that way.
I see you’re going
the other way
and that’s just not where
you were trying to be.

But those cops,
they’re just out to protect
us.
They just want to
stop us, for our own well-being
and their own peace
(piece?) of mind
to make sure that my pockets
are empty,
free of the burden of illegal
substances, weapons, and
(coincidentally), money,
if I’m found not to be lacking
in any of the other things.

This living we tend to do,
it’s an expensive habit. God
(if there is a God) forbid
that all those cops, who
are only looking out for our
well-being, find it in their hearts
to, just maybe, help
keep costs down,
instead of us.

But they won’t.
They got you,
in the cruiser.
They caught you,
running the block.
They’ve got you on
nothing, and they know it,
but they got you.
And I warned you.
Didn’t you hear me?

Concerning Freshly Waxed Boots

poetry

I wax poetic usually
I’ll wax my boots instead today
and while I’m scrubbing leather
with the toothbrush that I’ll
prob’ly use on teeth again, I’ll
understand the value
of water-proofing boots
before my feet get wet

Well, we’ve only just a bit
of snow this season, unlike
other places, and even though
it’s frozen, at least the sun still shines.
But if you find yourself in Iceland –
four hours of twilight’s all you get –
just call and ask for sunshine
you can probably borrow some of mine.

all things considered, I
do most of my waxing night-times
anyway

Bleeding Brakelines

poetry

Why’d it have to snow?
Of course I’ve never heard that voice before
but then, I’m almost certain
what it means

Alcoholics in the breezeway
and the fuzz just wan’dring here and there
Of course I’ll hold your sister
and try to keep her from screaming

There’s never any blame, they say
though don’t let him get put away
it’s tragic,
but of course they’ll sleep it off

with sheer iced roads
and she, a wreck, there’s absolutely
every chance that things could get much worse.
A shame it’s not a dream

wally’s world

poetry

on the way to the
vee eff double yew
i saw dereks in the
cornfields
and i can see why you’d
not want to be here.
i hear they sent you
in to cash-for-gold
and got a settlement
from a white house,
overnight,
postdated for two years,
and i see what the govern
meant. side-note:
my baby she is a cow in
the pasture,
all four of her stomachs
filtering the asbestos-grass
(have you seen the commercial
for the new tree ants?
delicious, i hear).
my friend denny, see, he lives
on every corner,
he puts syrup on his bread
and sells you awful puns for
10 a piece.
and, i suppose, i’m glad as hell
you finally walked out of wally’s
world, we’re all still unsure
as to why any of us bought
tickets. ’till then it’s midnight
in the living section.

Until It’s Too Late

poetry

Moist soil tears up with one stab of the shovel.
Grass and roots and everything beneath.
All the while whistling reassurance to myself
That in time, everything will be understood.
I’m digging myself deeper
But I swear I have the best intentions.
And right now, about waist high,
I can climb out if I need to.
Want to?
Have to?
It’s just that one of these days
With no way to escape,
She’s going to peer over the precipice I’ve created,
Saying that “it’s time.”
And I won’t be able to stop her.
With walls too steep to climb,
The weight of the earth will come tumbling in,
Suffocating us both under my negligence.

Memory’s The Sweeter When Left Unsampled.

poetry

Going back some places
you remember why you never
planned on coming to some places
anymore, but now you’re there,
and all the people you remember
being people once upon a time
aren’t really those people any more
and haven’t been that way in ages.
Though time has always had a funny
way of making ages seem like
just a T.V. Special on a late night
in another town, when all the lights
had been turned down, and even
all your friends that had been
partying and throwing down are
piled in another room, and
sleeping.

i love you despite your horrifying recent past

poetry

its time to clean out our trash
baggage we love for
others carry the weight

its time for renewal of some
spiritually refined sort
water to wash and renew

these pews are getting dusty
(a generous description of the
one remaining in the pulpit)

destroyed by fire. tried by starvation
parents eating their own children
hoping hunched backs of malnourishment
somehow beat death

its time to clean out our trash
wearing your old shoes isn’t bringing
back the glory days you never had

you never had

Businesses

poetry

There’s a street way on the East side
with a blue house on the corner
where all the people ‘in the know’
direct their closest friends to go
for things the normal place in town
does not often carry

The man that sits all day just in
the den, with a small TV on
takes visitors at gunpoint
(though they don’t know they’re
at gunpoint) while he hears
just what they need, and
with the furthest thing from speed
I’m sure he calls the guy that
takes care of most everying

No one much complains about
the rather large nominal fee, as
when service is rendered, there’s
no customer left unhappy:
the dirtiest of work is done
the laundry taken out, it seems
and no one needs to know a thing,
so shut the door tight
on your way out.