having lost their leaves
these trees stand bare
and bronchial
inverted lungs invisibly inhaling
radio waves and other
slow moving atmospheric
molecules.
poetry
Akin to an Ant
poetryAt the thought of a day without Sieve
I found myself at a loss
As a “terms of service violation” page
Blocked my path
In the same way a solitary leaf
Would derail the ever persistent trek
Of a diligently harvesting ant
I too, could not bring myself to grasps
With such a dreadful concept.
last day of summer and/or fall sucks
poetryi can write LOVE on my arm
all day long but i cannot
stop the fall from falling
all over me like a whale.
sanity leaving with the
leaves i am a helpless
child to the rhymeless
wastes and abandoned humanity
that is MOUNT PLEASANT,
MI 48858 (Apt #A253).
all the debts must be
wrung in,
all of the snide comments
must be said,
all of the comfort must
get sucked with the humidity
and brought down south
to comfort the old souls
in florida being fed
by tubes and so-on.
do you remember the last
day of summer? when
we traded a pack of
cigarettes for a beautiful
sun, clouds, temperature,
scenery and situation?
that day was the last
drop of water in our
trip through the sahara.
Cans
poetrythere’s no good reason you
can’t keep your whole life
in an aluminum can.
Mostly, things you can can
are really not worth canning,
while all the things you can’t can
need to be kept fresh in dry-
storage anyway.
But there’s still a few things that
need canning.
Make a bigger life,
get a bigger can.
afternoon revelation
poetrythe wind in my hair
sunburn on my neck
reminded me
i need more time with you
to be more like you
to finally know what
truly matters
Life Without Pluto
poetryMy
Very
Excellent
Mother
Just
Served
Us
Narcotics
Life After Music
poetrySome evenings after
songs are finished
ringing in my ears,
I tend to wander
towards the cafe
where the young hip
kids all sit and
smoke their
cigarettes, while always
asking questions that
mean nothing, though they
like to keep pretending
that they’re learning more
about themselves and every
other thing around them,
painting up a better picture,
just so they can finally
sleep at night, But
I know better. With
the songs not finished
ringing in my ears,
the whole damn world is
crystal-clear.
pie
poetrythe barometric pressure
(whatever that means)
causes not acne
as much as heartache
as it brings in rains
or lack thereof
and fails to wash away
your sins
indecision, perfection, treadmills
poetryi just can’t make it
twiddling my thumbs all the day long
like a dopamine fiend
picking up boulders and putting them
back down like a modern day
sisyphus, or something.
thinking
re-thinking
doing and then
un-doing
stopping
starting
stopping again,
to start, one
last final time
(this time
i’ll make it
right)
and i am going to rip these
cement feet right off if
i can’t go see the sunset
tonight.
you are the only in the world
poetryhow alone, we poets would
be. if we were ever, truly,
the only in the world.
without a room-full to
shout things to.
Supply Chain
poetryno good reason to
sit this one out, it seems
all of the time spent
on spending our money
has caused us to greatly
underestimate many
values determined by
supply
and
demand,
though all of the spending
leaves everyone feeling quite
spent.
God,
Damn it, why is life
so sweet at 3.a.m, yet
so sour at seven?
An Impassioned –
poetryI’ve been spending a lot of time with someone
spending a lot of time with someone, late while
all the rest of us have run on off to sleep,
and while histories and jokes abound, I
can not help but fight the thought of feelings
moving upward, though they linger just beneath.
And in some respects I feel a baby sitter,
and in others, I must be the third wheel,
though there’s always four of us, all things considered
And anyway, what the fuck do we just
sit around for?
on trying not to write about leaves in november
poetrydamn you, fall,
your atrophying arboreal appendages
colonize my mind
every time i try to write
words like
crisp
scent
apples
amber
cool
dusk
breeze
rustle
harvest
haystack
chill
rake
march onto the page
and plant their autumnal flag
(which, much like that of our
northerly neighbor’s, depicts a
self-satisfied leaf).
number two came
poetryyou’re beautiful
you’re wonderful
and everything i hoped for
small complications
with long drawn out
solutions
oh and
i forgot how crappin
little sleep i get
There Are Words I just don’t use in public, and despair is one of them.
poetryAlas, I feel beset,
both with the swelling urge to
write, and the swelling
urge to never write again.
The latter, it does not take
hold so well. The former, it
often stays not long enough
for anything to come of it.
So, as all such evenings end,
we (I, specifically) are left
with another ill-crafted, rambling piece
that was meant, at first, to
prove that things can still happen,
and yet it only serves to highlight
all the bits that havn’t happened yet.
Original Thought?
poetryI doubt it.
A Poem About A Beautiful Fall Day
poetryA ripe Saturday afternoon,
perfect in it’s postcard beauty,
dead leaves shining in the warm-enough-to-wear-a-sweater sunlight.
The wind blows just enough to prove
that wind can still blow on a day like this,
wile the coats and hats we left
on the back seat of the car are forgotten, a passing thought lost
to the momentary respite of a fall
that can’t make up it’s mind.
Under these conditions, all things
are love and life and beauty. Under
these conditions, Everything is a miracle
if you squint your eyes, just right.
you’re here
poetrythere is no way for you to love
except to lay and need me
welcome to my arms little one
don’t ever ever leave me
Fates
poetryThere are worse
Fates
than doomed and damned
to live a life of apathy.
Those fates include,
Eternity in Hell, lethal
injection, drowning, cancer,
and having to go every day
knowing that you’ll never
amount to anything.
…Oh, wait.
the civil war that depleted all the soil of the soul
poetrythe worst part is
i’ve got nothing to say to myself
let alone at all
the colors of fall
they blind me with apathy
coat me with meloncholy
stifle me with uno
rigi
nali
ty
clog my veins into a syrupy
oil so thick it’s
not to be used by
farm tractors
…
let alone human beings
i touch the brink of a
thought with the tongue
of my mind and then it
withers away in the
laziest way
the craziest way
how can an artist ever
get payed this way?
i mean,
how long until i chop
off my ear?
or
will i even ever chop
it off?
that failure, too,
is the worst part.
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