poetry

Dragon’s Breath.

poetry

If we could bottle Dragon’s Breath
for wholesale, we could make a fortune.

And it wouldn’t matter what it does. Engine
Degreaser, furniture polish,
rat poison or napalm. It
would sell.

It would cure diseases, according
to the label. Swine flu, Bird
flu, Shingles, The Shakes, and
everything else we’ve got to
fear from the great wide world.

It would nourish and sate even
the mightiest of hungers or
the fastest of metabolisms. It would
keep us clean and anything but
Visceral. And By God, I’m sure

it’d do whatever is the opposite
of killing us all.

Now, the only trick
is bottling something
that doesn’t quite exist.

Act Two

poetry

Disguise your face or reach a similar end
Wandering brings no certainty
But the certainty of separation
The North Star still shines over the oceans
But the damage has arrived
The sea and sky become one
And nature wears out
Even the wittiest poet
No extravagant praise
Nor the felt tips of a thousand pens
Can restore her against herself
She talks while there is sleep
And bids permission to do so
Foolish are attempts, and so I am guilty
Of exchanging worthless for invaluable
It is the futility in trying to control
The pitch of thunder

A lecherous, slippery ambition
And too often with disparaging anger
No pacification will be brought about
But by chance in absolute destruction
Such inclinations will be dismissed

So scheme schemes to destroy
In Machiavellian fashion
Abandon your kitchens and bedrooms
Call to action the militaries
Toxic watered down dreams
To drink to the bottom
Of a big-belled glutton that we are
Rooted with precise balance
The figure head, a clock
To undo in the darkness
The argument of disorder
Feeding on hesitation
To live, to not be devoured by incapacity
Is to act as if nothing is known
But what use is a life
That has not sought to control the squall
Though it remains false thunder

teeth

poetry

an anger
and a defensiveness lurks
in these kids which keeps them
striking lashing clashing
leaving white
middle class teachers
asking,

why are they so violent?

why is everything such a big deal?

why can’t they just act like kids?

but these grand inquisitors
can’t/don’t want to see the answer is
pregnant
with disaster bearing a full
set of teeth
sharpened on
history
waiting for one
more hateful
word
to
pull
the
trigger.

Blameless

poetry

and in those deep, dark advancements of time
we all tend to scream out that none
of us has done anything wrong.

The car won’t start. Nobody did anything
to it, but the car won’t start. Nevermind
the sand in the gas tank. The car wont’ start.
And nobody did anything to it.

skid marks

poetry

the question remains
do i get paid more
for leaving behind skid
marks as i pinch and squeeze
and struggle my way home
knowing i left my house
in far too loose a condition
to be running around with
these lubed up bowels

and making it home
on time?
*sort of?

Of Ink

poetry

I thought of something
witty that I’d try
to scratch down with
my pen but that
device is now
devoid of all the
stuff it used to give
so willingly.

All I needed was
but a few small
drops.

All I got was a
curly-cue in the corner
and a broken pen
cartridge on my
carpeted floor.

The ink, of course,
went everywhere

Alive

poetry

The new carpet is multicolored
Splashed and sprawled out fabric
Stringy hues overlapping each other
Rainbows knitted together
Weaving and winding
Held captive by the walls
Crawling and climbing
Like a bag of gummy worms
Slithering beneath my feet

sunflowers

poetry

oh life’s a
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide
walkin’ around town
with you all day
drink till i’m drunk
or i’m sober again
pull of my skin
let it blow in the wind
oh life’s like a
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiide (ha
ha) ah
you speak in a language
so beautiful
i wish i could read it
my fragmented brain
my softspoken penis
whispers in my ear
“lets feel alive”
so i do, oh i do
how contrived
strapped in to this
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide