poetry

Little White Rocks

poetry

all the
little white rocks under
my feet
sting as they stab
in to the skin with their
sharp edges and corners
and I walk funny
trying to pretend that I
don’t feel it

But you can still see me
walking funny
with the slight lean
and the slow roll
heel-to-toe
stepping so
gingerly,
carefully,

The only aim
to get off of these
little white rocks
as soon as possible
not because it hurts
but so you won’t
see me
walk funny

The way you sleep

poetry

As still as a broken toy
But wired like a landmine
Waiting for something
I just haven’t quite
Figured out yet.
Every night across the
Silk-screen canvas of your brain;
A dazzling watercolour
Of ferocious intensity.
Ten long years of painting
Where all the colours
Smile and wink,
Dance to Moby,
And kiss each other
Hard on the mouth
Like Mulholland Drive paramedics.

About the Time…

poetry

At which things started breaking
Was about the time when fists started flying
Which was shortly after the apoplexy set in
Which was preceded by shrill screaming
That had elevated from guttural yelling
As a result of voices trumping one another
Heightening in octave with every rebuttal
As body language and seething glares
No longer conceived the harm inflicted
Which was about the time or soon after
One diminutive and seemingly inconsequential
Sardonic comment had been uttered
In the delicate form a of solitary word

Paroxysm

poetry

Sally squanders bits of youth on the dance floor
like a tit in a trance, boogying towards death without resistance,
her body quivers and twitches in a lovely meaningless despair,
she is digging for truth. Intangible and eternal.
Her beauty is in the moment; a transient luminiscent energy firing up her atoms in an electric storm. 
    

Hopes Up

poetry

I don’t know what I’m expecting
I hardly know what to expect
when I
shift my body ever so slightly
to the right
and get just enough of a view
to see that point of interest
(At least a point of my interest)
off in the distance

Back and forth and back
and forth my gaze wanders
body twisting
left and right and back to where
I can see
but what? I do not know.
It is unexpected.

Double Negative

poetry

I’ll be a millionaire, I tell you!
Filthy freakin’ rich, it’s true.

I can’t believe it,
But here’s the secret
And don’t tell a soul!

I owed Johnny $10 bucks
And Derek $10 more

So using what I learned
In school about math

I just multiplied the
Negative $10 bucks
I hadn’t paid that
Schmuck Johnny

By the $10 bucks
I had owed my
Old buddy Derek

And check this out:
I have a $100 bucks!

I’ll be swimming in cash soon.
Gosh I love math!

arrow

poetry

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dead senses.

Grease

poetry

grease-blackened hands denote
either
recent hardship
or
rent paid
by the fingers that work
furiously
on those grease-blackened hands
to
the bolts and springs and
nuts
and parts that click and shake
when
everything is working properly.
but
goodness, it’s so hard
sometimes
to either wallow in despair, or
to
bring yourself to bear
against
the parts that always
cause
that mess in the bathroom.
Grease
permeates the situation.
That’s
that, sometimes. Now
get
to work.

i’ve thrown my inspiration the way of the broncos’ super bowl dreams

poetry

oh i write brilliantly when the sun has been hiding behind the clouds for months at a time and i’m frozen. my down jackets and extra layers of all-humanity-is-suffering-alongside-of-me socks bring out the best in my desire for clouds and trees and something which will bring me joy. the hope on the horizon of the summer they claim will come.

but then i up and moved to where the sun will never fail to shine and i cannot pass the hour without both a hat and sunglasses (an accessory i’ve never used in my whole life and thus had to purchase the kind that fades in and out but embarrasses my wife when indoors and still slightly faded – but i love it because at the core of me i love when i’m judged a fool). now the mountains scream beauty to me every day and the last of our issues are being worked out in a city that actually serves donuts.

yes i’m afraid i’ve shot myself in the foot. or as a writer should perhaps better say – in the hand. i fear these bones will continue to type or write into oblivion or at least eternity and be wrought with not even the slightest of inspiration thus bringing you fear, trembling, joy, love, beauty, and everything you ever longed for

sans poetry.

I Don’t Get It.

poetry

The vastness of humanitiy’s opinions is staggering
and quite difficult to conceive, just as it is
similarly difficult to conceive an opinion
on the vastness of humanity

Are we what we say we are?
and who is we? Is it Science?
I didn’t vote for Science.

Was it God? Can he/she/it/we
give us another stab at
the definition? Oh goodness.

I hope we aren’t graded on spelling,
metaphorically speaking,
or I fear we might have failed this test.

Pessimist

poetry

Don’t think of it as half empty,
Think of the glass at half full.
If it was full to begin with,
And if there’s less now then obviously—it’s half empty.
Plus you need to factor in condensation,
And not to mention there’s a fracture at the bottom.
And you’re feeling down
Down
And out.
And some days
I just feel like poop spelled backwards.