poetry

the teeth in the smile of the corporation

poetry

when you need them they make sure
that you fit into the square
whether your a circle or a triangle
and that you never have stolen
or curse
or lied
and that you love to listen to people
talk about themselves
and you’ve never lost your temper
and you think about others before yourself
they make sure that you are
a perfect
square
with
all
your
sides
the
same
length
so when the customer walks in
your smile is as shiny and warm
and deft and dead as
the red colored vest you wear

the zoo

poetry

all those mirrors
i’ve left them for dead
my eyesight’s improving
despite what they said
and the fireworks were just
flares we shot before we drowned
that july fourth that
i can’t remember much of now
all the smoke i inhaled
we followed the trail
it lead back to home
or somewhere close i suppose
all our idols strum guitars
and we headbang again and again
running from
the places we’ve been

i had a good day. you?

poetry

lips tumbling poorly pronouncing
enunciated misunderstandings
cold buttons on warm clothes
earmuffs, attached stocking caps
misguided misdirected hopes dreams
fears leaving exploring hills in acid rain
lost going east thinking north losing road after wet road
no meetings thinking meetings
braggart strengthened hands
rubbing constricted bent bone bound muscle
loosening tension built alcohol released words
sputtered onto digital page
poured through finger pushed buttons
dumped, vomited whilst awe filled world
holds wordless breaths back
again our lips failing falling slipping slurping

seeking clarity

one time RC was in russia and took a picture of “Wine in ass.” – this inspired me.

poetry

animal fat congealing
forming solid mass on the surface of the
pepper red soup fondue
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat
and curdled blood served as a delicacy
sometimes you just need
liver diced into meat flowers
a little chicken foot
pig snout
or dog meat in your soup
to brighten your day
or keep you warm in the winter
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat

until you do
and find what smells like gym socks
tastes like candy

Thus, I became the Dust in the Poor Man’s Home

poetry

If living is living in the moment
Lord, it is so hard to make a second count,
it is hard to breathe in and [not] let go

There is this pain I can’t suppress or talk about
(you’ve got to mourn quietly after a while),
I’ve let it linger too long.
Maybe it would be better to go the bottom,
slide and disappear.
Gently, without noise
like the dreams that should have remained silent and
hidden in the teeth of the night.