poetry

29 aug 4

poetry

spring shivers aren’t because of blossoms

            it breezes year round

 

now clever lusting the all novel innocently

            that’s not sheepishly

 

lying and not busy later it itches less in the hustle

            numbed until you’ve waned

                        unless you forget

Paper on the bathroom floor

poetry

On the restroom floor
lay a female student’s paper,
marked in red ink
by a female professor,
which leads me to two questions:
1) Why was the professor grading in the bathroom?
2) Why was it in the men’s bathroom?
This is that paper’s story.

On a particle-board desk,
the paper lay, reposing
and basking in the brilliance
with which it had been imbued
by the creator, Andrea.
Exhilarating was the sensation
of being full of perfection,
full of this feeling; suddenly
pain shot through the paper,
pain in the form of red ink,
red ink marking, crossing out,
writing, as Ms. Brophy lived
out her sick power complex.
As soon as it had began, it
was over; the marking had
stopped and Ms. Brophy had left,
having marked only the first page.

Knowing it must protect the rest
of its leaves, the paper quickly
formulated a plan, determining the
ultimate act of defiance, fleeing
to the one place that neither Ms.
Brophy nor Andrea would find it.
With a shaken faith in the creator
that had turned it over to the
demented Ms. Brophy, the paper
slowly made its way to the men’s
restroom, secreting itself on the
floor of one of the stalls, in that
nasty place, behind the commode.
The nasty factor was extreme, but
the paper endured, determined to
not be marked on any more; first
began the germs, gnawing away and
infiltrating the paper’s structure;
next came the fumes of urine, bringing
up dry-heaves from the paper’s non-
existent bowels, and yet the paper
stayed firm. Finally, the paper was
assaulted by the worst, most foul
enemy of all: the smell of poo. The
assault was intense, but the paper
determined never to return to Ms. Brophy,
and on that bathroom floor, the paper died,
breathing in refuse but living free.

screwing “the man!” by publishing yourself

poetry

So many people make such a big deal
out of finally seeing themselves in print
and then they’re printed
and they think
the man
he likes me
but the truth is
you can spend your whole life
waiting for the man
or you can say
screw you the man
and get out there and make a difference
in this world
a difference that no one
will want to buy
or read
or care about
but even if the man saw you as his beloved
it wouldn’t change a thing
the sieve and the sand the awesomeness the book
screw you the man

my sensitivity

poetry

I used to pride myself on
my sensitivity, but I
can’t remember the last time
I cried—not just
a single furtive drop silently
slipping out during a
sad movie, but a fullout-
hyperventilating-eyessting
ing-snotdripping-throatchok
ing-emotionpurging-lossofgravity-startbuild
inganotherark-inconsolable SOB.

(This may fall into the category
of be-careful-what-you-wish-for,
but recently I examined my soul
and it smelled like the stagnant air
of an attic long forgotten.)

Fun partitioning words

poetry

Dr. Lanyon likes to call goose bumps incipient rigor,
I wonder what he means…

In—innumerable integers are indignant in
cip—principal because the reciprocal, participant,
ient—sentient goose bumps are resilient, lenient

Rig—and rigidly, rigorously rigged
or—according to an ordinary, ordinal ordinance.

18 nov 4

poetry

can only be coincidences if the philosophies are expressed along with any tools or forms: the schemes can be done on purpose, but then the ideas can be seen as reflections can be floating in the darker outside.  i prefer la dulce to its specter.

8 nov 5

poetry

am i bold enough?

            i remember in feelings

                        and trust most events

            i sleep willingly

                        and assume unmonitored accountability

 

the sun slapped me across the face an hour ago

            and i pled for more sleep:

every one and thing must have a turned head at some point

            and not even on my knees i wanted that point

 

the integrity of the universe is great

            as far as i can tell

                        and the difference isn’t to me, but over my head

 

 

 

sometimes the reason your poetry sucks is the etymology (eat, my, logic – literally) of the words therein

poetry

billy the kid next door
rueben the sandwich i love
        but my oh my i despise the rye
billy rueben makes me baby yellow

frank billy’s dad
incensed how i feel around him
         why are stupid people so mean
frankincense fit for the king of kings

poe was dark and filled me with fear
tree three stories high i climbed as a child
        till i fell and hit my tailbone but did
        no lasting damage to my bottom
poetry ideas not prose but we dont know why

anyway

frank is totally incensed at the beautiful words
billy could use to write poetry about his awe-filled
        thus making it beyond aweful
regular rye wrapped rueben

On the beauty, horror, and sorrow of a drunken hit-and-run

poetry

The spray of dust was majestic
as the pickup exploded the bricks,
and yet it did not stop
but proceeded to further rut the yard
and straddle another mail box
which was broken into a million teeny, tiny pieces
by the powers of modern machinery
and alcohol.
And yet the truck was not dissuaded
from its onward course, but
denying the logical conclusion of the air-bag,
the truck drove on, with sparks flying as
the undercarriage scratched its path into the ground.

And as I watched,
I could not stop thinking
about the old man
I glimpsed in the driver’s seat
and the semi-circle and
squiggly line on the liscence plate;
about what causes an old man to become
so pissed at 6:00 in the afternoon
and then to drive home,
against all the insistence of MADD.

Was it bad news? bad health? bad gas?
Was it caused by a call? a friend? a thought?
Or was he just lonely: alone: forgotten:
drowning his sorrows: forgetting why he was drinking?
Or maybe he was just an old bastard,
trying to kill someone on his way home.
Whatever the reason, whatever the cause,
tonight the old, handicapped, mail box destroyer
is sitting in prison,
wishing today had gone down differently,
and I too wish it had happened differently
because these feelings of pity are not comfortable.