poetry

its vacation as

poetry

i forgo my normal hobbies of writing incessantly
living the life i imagine will probably make me
more humble than my prayers had intended
then i pound my feet into pedals basked in
glorious sunshine i forgot existed anywhere in this
barren polluted populated overrun populous
where i find my home, my love, my passion, my people
and when the sun hits the back of my neck this time
its as if to say ‘you belong here’ and the thoughts
of not going home creep into the back of my head
nagging at the horror of the 3 year program in which
i’ve just enrolled in the city of eternal gloom
finally realizing my retreat to writing and basking
in internet lame fame is due to a lack of the glorious
heavenly host as though through iV dripping me
vitamin D throughout my day hoping life isn’t
quite as meaningless as this city i love and these
people i love and this language i cant get enough of
but knowing where sunshine is, i might just as easily
fall in love with these tanned and leatherly [sic] people

today i wont gasp for air; for everything within me
knows its only a matter of time before these mountains are
not my vacation
but home

Open Mic Nite

poetry

Spent countless hours
of countless nights
polishing the words he’s
written down in
a battered pair of notebooks

Stepped sheepishly
to the stage and
took up, with great
caution, a
microphone

Then carefully,
whispered the words he’d
coveted so long
so that anyone in the room
could hear him

Too bad no one was listening

mtp

poetry

in this barren wasteland,
wherein we selfishly
keep each other for ourselves
and the only constant
is the uneasy juxtaposition
of the worst of society,
i dig my feet into the
ground and keep my head
into the clouds.
the natives now perform
the hunt of the white
man, trailing dollar
bills like bait through
the streets. tiny bits
of data containing complaints
from the scholastic elite
on instructors, classes,
how they are totally lost
and confused swimming through
the mediocre course lessons
that hold two car garages
and mini vans above their
heads, and plans to consume
alcohol to throw their bodies
around with,
fly from metal tower to metal tower.
i am unlearned in the artistry of
the vapid.
similarly, the frozen tundra sits
in the distance
teaming up with the
sun’s hard unforgiving rays
to suck whatever life you
had in you into the dead
grass and plants where
young tribal humans used to
live and die. now a backdrop
for the disgusting play of the
American day.

let bygones be bygones

poetry

There is a beautiful land

small and poor

being alive there was such a miracle

staying alive pure magic.

Sorrow and hope were for free

A little blue bird grew up, flew away

Only in dreams does it wander back

to the broken hills.

Clouds of familiar faces comes a rollin’

soundlessly, endlessly in a black and white scenes

Don’t let them shake the bird of that tree

Even if the glory of dawn comes and goes

the fruit, unripe and sour, longs for more light

Hit it.

poetry

We’ve got a lot of work to do
so grab yourself a shovel
and we’ll dig
dig
dig
dig
and when we hit rock bottom

we’ll start carving out a staircase
and we’ll climb and climb and climb
until we’re right back where we Started

I hope we make it out in time

111 ways to compose your english

poetry

oh i know that you don’t know
wanna fuck my past and don’t it show
found your name on the back of your pants
i’d use it if i had the chance
mrs. princess pants
wanna break the rules wanna break the walls
i got the will but i aint got the cause
i probably could but you know i can’t
gonna bury my head in the sand
mrs. princess pants
you’re hindsight walkin’ down the halls
streaks in your hair and push-up bras
i know you’ve no mind to break in half
but all i wanna do is break your back
mrs. princess pants

She said

poetry

She speaks truth with every breath
and cuts through each discrepency
He fears he may be talked to death
but takes in stride each plead and plea

She whispers of their glory past
and says she’ll see them rise again
He whispers good things never last
he turns away to hide a grin

The fire’s burning lower now
the hearthstone cooling more and more
She stokes the last log, wondeirng how
She hadn’t noticed this before

The Lust of the Eyes

poetry

i’ve never been one
who’s got to have it
now, Now, NOw, NOW,
but temptation is strong
and giving in is easy
and even sweet, bitter-sweet
(like good dark chocolate),
passing through me
like an aphrodesiac,
sweeping me away
in a whelming flow,
washing away my conscious,
along with the dust
of a fractured soul.

smack

poetry

the fragrance of rose buds in bloom
the fragrance of my kid’s poo poo
the way you smell after a plane
the way you often stink of shame
the fragrance that you smell when all
your friends quit smoking and you
pressed on to be “consistent”
missing all but your contentment
knowing smells bring back that shame
knowing music does the same

missing the smells of your first high school
the one before people knew the real you
knowing you can never go back but
never forgetting that fragrant smack