poetry

The Sieve and The Sand

poetry

You can sift your sand
through the finest sieve
and not find a single thing
of interest

Or, every speck and
specimen is interesting
beneath the lens of the
seasoned inspector’s
microsope

Take interest in each
grain, or
cast it all away.

You’ll either
learn something about yourself,
or save yourself a
DAMN lot of
Trouble.

some poor metaphor about swingsets or something

poetry

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.

Thoughts and Farewells

poetry

It’s life that’s bleeding,
bleeding from our being
while we spend 4 hours
together, wasting time. But we’re
together, wasting time.

There wasn’t any money made
but money spent regardless.
Though we’re trying not to spend,
so much,
we’ll spend it anyway because,
God Damn it,
It’s a special occasion.

And she always said “I’ll See you”,
and I always said “You Won’t”.
But I might not just be
fucking around this time.

But all, in all, absolutes
are rarely a reality.
So,
Keeping that in mind,
I can ask one,
very,
important,
question:

Am I just faking music?
or am I playing Air Guitar?

Balloons Eye View (a tale told in reverse)

poetry

And up.
And up.
And up.
And up.
Up.
Until at last I was nothing left
Ascending higher than the heavens
Against the marshmallow clouds
Only colored pricks of contrast
And up.
And up.
And up.
Up.
Elevating effortlessly into the cyan sky
And they watched me unconstrained
But gravity still had its grasp on them.
They leapt up to recapture me.
And up.
And up.
Up.
Long awaited freedom finally came.
Bobbing patiently in the breeze.
I untwirled from around an idle wrist
After the lacey fetters came undone
And up.
Up.
They’ll swear
I was there before I disappeared.

jump!

poetry

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.

it’s been five years,

poetry

since we last talked
(if yelling is talking),
and i got mad,
and you got mad;
we all got mad,
and in the end
i gave you up
and the ensuing silence said
“you aren’t my father,
and you never were,
and you never will be,
and i never want to see you again.”

and there’s nothing like death
to draw me back,
to bring me back to say
“you gave me some of the best times
of my life, and I don’t know
who I would be without you,
and i love you, despite your fuck-ups;”
the very things that i can’t say,
that i never will say,
as you lie dead
in a morgue
in pueblo,
colorado.

Stethoscopes – Or, an Obscure Reference to Pink Floyd

poetry

I’ve stepped in to a strange
contorted world of your own
machinations
(unless it’s just the glass(es)
that I’m looking through
changing the view)

and all the while we dream
of doing something with our
own creations
(but we both know the lies
we tell our selves won’t
turn out true)

should we step outside?
breathe deep the fresh air?
consider possibilities
that all the things we’re aiming for
are not what we’ll turn out to be?

or do we SHUT THE FUCK UP
like we said we would before?
let’s just do the thing already
let’s not dwaddle anymore

let’s turn off your machinations
and pick up our old creations
let’s, in other words,
take our stethoscopes and
walk

on rabbits and hats

poetry

i always
viewed myself
as
a
borderline ascetic
needing nothing
but books
scoffing at those
with
two houses
two cars
two pairs of pants
smug in my
anti-materialistic
superiority.

but then i started packing in preparation
for a move and shit appeared out of thin air filling boxes and bags
crowding the corners of every room like surly cubic dwarfs taunting and daunting
us with their immutability increasing in number until i feared a coup de box so finally i called
and upgraded to a larger moving truck all the time wondering how it was i’ve acquired so much shit
and how the hell can i get rid of all of it?

Honey.

poetry

Honey, give me just a piece
to write
tonight.

Honey, it doesn’t have to
rhyme,
(but if it does,
that’s fine).

and oh! Honey,
define for me
the term
‘petulance’ using
nothing but a sweet,
loving smile

I’m certain that
the irony,
subliminal though
it may be,
would kill me.

lust after objects which really aren’t expensive but are still much more costly than they should be given that they were stamped out of a factory in a matter of seconds and the guy who came up with the design probably hasn’t recieved a penny in years because you’ve so overdone it. but lust like this should not be hidden, rather it should be embraced slowly, caressed, and then indulged through the removal of small paper money from your wallet to be placed in the hand of the man who owns the place and you box it up, take it home, and use it in the most dirty way possible (which admittedly is hardly dirty at all given that you’ll likely keep it perfectly clean and never put any more than one kind of tea in it for it’s entire life)

poetry

i fell for you today
not for your beauty
(though you are cute)
but merely for your
utility
and to say
i have you.

five hours earlier
i new not of my need
to caress your smooth
sides with my hands

and pour life from
your stout spout

The fact that it rhymes with ‘pickle’ only goes to further prove the point

poetry

they terrify the fickle
with most every breath they take
and while the plebeians avoid their eyes
the very air around them quakes
displaying the distressing of
their uncomfortable
situation

For the fickle have no wherewithal
nor any sense of truth,
the important parts of course being
beauty, sex and truth,
even though the slightest slight
might scare the whole damn bunch away:

So unfortunate that the fickle
are not worth the price we pay

lion in a zoo

poetry

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?

Tune in Next Time

poetry

Thoughtlessly he
handles all his
funds until one day,
he finds a distinct
Lack
of funding.

He sits at a
well-lit all-night
Diner’s table,
(first booth on the
right),
and scratches at his
tiching notepad
-furiously-.

Could this be
THE END
for our hero?

He hopes not.

ngtvlvsng

poetry

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