poetry

my beerlema

poetry

i really want a beer now
but i dont want a beer now
because i also want a beer later
and i cant have both a beer now
and a beer later
two beers in one day isn’t a problem
except that i want two beers everyday
and two beers every day isn’t a problem
except that then i have three beers every day
and when i have three beers
some days i want four beers
and five beers is really too many
so i have to refrain from a beer now
for feer of beer too beerquently

if a man with multiple personality disorder kills themselves is it suicide or murder?

poetry

they sat in this room and thought up
the worst things that could happen,
and he followed him everywhere
like some stray cat with no tail
but with lots of tales
and question marks
so many it could block out the sun
some days
and he would distract him so much
it was hard to finish his sentences
there were just so many questions
and so many things that could happen
and of all the things that could happen
one of them would surely not be
his disappearance.

i want to wake up and break up this lake of hell

poetry

i keep talking
and reorganizing my words
waiting for an echo to sound
just the way i dreamed it would,
waiting for the words to come
back and for the crowd to
applause, to clamor, waiting
for the worms to hit the
streets after my words bounce
off the earth like rain.

he is the next poe, they would say
he is the next bukowski
hemingway
and i would be claimed philosopher king
the only philosopher king to run
through wal-mart like a downhill slalom,
laughing at capitalism,
dodging in and out of clothing racks.

this desk is lying to me (you are not you, you are a she)

poetry

i think my desk is secretly on fire
and it doesn’t want to tell me because
it knows i don’t want to know
whether or not it burns when she slips
into my mind

maybe my desk is secretly on fire because
i secretly am setting it on fire
with the heat of my fists on it’s
fake woodgrain exterior

or it’s on fire because i just
lit it on fire and am blocking out
the memories because i’m losing
my mind, and
it’s keeping that secret from me too

either way, this desk is lying to me.

back when we slept on rocks were they called Rock Bugs? (this is for you Ned)

poetry

there was a man – once who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with fireworks (one exploded on his foot)

now i’m awed by a man who had
bad sperience after bad sperience
with bugs which choose to grow in beds

but i admit as a child i was haunted by the
thought
asked my father “from whence doest they come?”
to which he replied “he who doth not wash his sheets”

so every friday like clockwork
i laid in bed and feared what might happen
should i choose not to get up
and swap out those threads on which i lay

Confession of a habitual offender

poetry

haven’t I done this
many of times before
and yet I never learn,
never improve, instead
choosing to go down
the same old road,
over and over and over again
making a statement
in my selfishness and
watching the pain wash
over her contorting face
struggling to conquer the tears
and remain strong so as
not to be hurt anymore,
never again;
and so I harden a heart
by withholding my own.

god bless

poetry

you grow your legs, and it’s sink or swim
you throw your eggs at the presidents chin
you eat your grass if your one of the cattle
and bicker and babble over who won the battle
but their building a fence, blocking the sun
and the biggest of the bulls wouldn’t dare run
and the box in the room that keeps talking to you
grows bigger and bigger the more of you it consumes
every single day it’s Obama Mccain
every single day it’s Osama Hussein
every single day it continues to rain
every single day threatens to drive me insane
and back in high school when you gave up your brain
and you put on a mask so you could all look the same
now you spend your days grazing with black and white spots
regurgitating what you eat to see your cholesterol drop.

(Disclaimer: In no way am I comparing Osama Bin Laden to Barack Obama.)