poetry

my courage

poetry

damn it.
I think I left it
in my other pants…yep.

in the right front
pocket with my credit card
and just a little
bit of lint.

well, can’t go
back and get it
now. I guess
I’ll just make
the best of of it

hope I don’t get
tested. hope I’m
strong and good
on my own…you know,
capable.

I mean, it’s a big
busy world out there
and it swallows us all
up without even
thinking.

I wonder if anyone’ll
even notice. People
must forget theirs
all the time…

i think cow pies is a quite reasonable term for something so disgusting. i like the idea of a cow pie, although not at all in their present form, and meat pie has no particular good ring to at all. on second though maybe we should just call the whole thing crap and give up any intention of ever eating the stuff.

poetry

you waste your words as breath as though
you’ve an infinite supply waiting on your
every subconscious as though you could write
in your sleep (unless you have a cold of course
in which case you’d need vicks vapo rub or
something to aid the writing so you don’t get
clogged up) unintentionally coughing up
masterpieces but you’re full of it i tell you
you’re absolutely full of it

Going through old trinkets and nic-nacs and the like, you always stumble on interesting peices of history from someone’s past. Maybe not yours. Maybe exactly yours. Either way, maybe think twice before you throw it in a box and send it on down to the Goodwill.

poetry

There is something wrong
with this picture. It hangs
at a slant, the glass is
broken, with chips out of the
frame here and there, not
to mention the split across
the bottom from the
last time it slipped from its
hook and hit the floor
because the nail was never
set quite right;
the holes in the wall can
tell you all about that.

Oh, but the sun in the
clear blue sky, and the
old blue truck with the
topper on, those look
alright I guess.

And me and you out
front just smiling.
That part looks just fine.

Perhaps we’ll keep this
hanging after all.

Dancing

poetry

There’s a girl in the corner
in the back
she’s the only one that’s dancing
but she’ll dance all by herself
and all night,
I would wager,
(Well, I’d probably lose that
bet on a technicality, but still)
and I’d put a lot of money down.

and it’s a funny thing, that
she’s the only one who’s really
moving,
‘cuz she’s the only one I’d
like to dance with anyway.

There’s a certain sort of freedom
being the only one in a
crowded show and
dancing.

I won’t dance with her.
I wouldn’t want to ruin it.

Actor

poetry

As the world rotates he mutters incantations:
Poised (while nearby, people splutter
And mumble) he observes their demonstrations
And flicks a cigarette to the gutter.

Collar stiff, stubbled, alert, he muses
Of lonely nights in brothel-lit bars
Where brave thoughts came to bruises
And sodden heads watched passing cars.

The fire inside him has no destination
Or place to go where fuel is cheaper.
The days are a spoon-fed lamentation
That blur and flex toward their reaper

But life is his game with its daily grind
He paints its tones with his body and mind.

signed: ungratefully yours, freakyNEwchild

poetry

You spread out my bones on the church’ s floor, and cry I did not do. You heard the future whisper, and left me alone in the shadows; you stole my sparks, and burn I do not do.
Yet there you are … knees knelt, teareyed and candles lit, looking back at me when all I want is to forget you. 
You have pulled me in by the last thread, I shall no longer watch you ebb at the break of the day. Or wonder in sadness as you turn me into a dagger for your heart to stab. 
Across the frontier of you and I, beyond memories and darkness, I shall light up into a thousand of fires and plane over your sins and virtues.

A Year (for me, at least)

poetry

Three hundred and sixty-five days later
And still here.
Still going strong.
Better than ever.
With probably a thousand pieces
Of improbable prose behind us.
(Holy crap, that’s a lot!)
A troupe of awesome men
(and one women)
Putting the pedal to the metal
Or more like, pen to paper,
Or actually, fingers to keyboards
Churning out poem after poem
After poem after poem:
The good (a buttload)
The great (a few)
The bad (no one asked you anyway)
The ugly (that’s the way we like ‘em)
And as it’s been said before:
“Hemorrhaging brilliance daily.”
So though it’s needless to say,
But I’ll say it anyway:
It’s been an honor to share this
Pixilated plane of poetic interweb
Known on the streets as “the Sieve”
With you
Twisted,
Hilarious,
Ridiculous,
And ingenious,
Gents.
You guys (and gal) rock!

pining for the 424

poetry

swimming in a man-made lake
on my plastic factory break
“oh god!” i say feeling like a snake
after i intake the toxic rape
of the buildings cutting in
to the sky’s real estate

oh the m t p streets covered
in feces and empty seeds
all signs hiding an awful
deceit, promising weight
behind the word compete
feeding an off-tempo beat
to the hungry and weak

but the whistle blows and
i suppose i should put on
my clothes and be composed
for my home groans for the
oil and bones and keeping it
fed is part of a human being’s
growth (or a human being a ghost).

bent

poetry

your life at two feet six inches
all for a curable disease at 1
your legs fold now like jello
in half across a board you use
in a wheelchair-unfriendly home
raising your child
(you were lucky enough to bear)
in hopes he walks straight
through every day

Your table

poetry

Boy, do you realize how crooked your table is?
When I entered the kitchen, it was the first thing I noticed.
Not the Everest of smoking hot classics
Or the expensive gin, although it did look tempting.

We sat at that landslide-waiting-to-happen for forty minutes
While the cat watched nearby, its glassy eyes diverted
One eye on us and one fixed on the wobbly leg,
Waiting for a downpour of cutlery, tail set and ready to run.

A year later, I bet that poor table is still holding on.
Under salt and pepper, books, red wine and elbows.
Wondering, with all its splinters and tomato sauce stains
How someone so shrewd, could be so damn neglectful.

the end is nigh

poetry

and i will not repent
my enjoyment found in
the sight of your leaving,
relishing the view
of your backside
metaphorically walking away
out of my life for good,
never to be met again
on this side of eternity
or on the other,
allowing heaven
to be heaven still,
secure in the knowledge
that you won’t be there.

Stay Dry

poetry

I saw three men standing
in the shadows by a swimming pool
in rags and coats from the
previous season, breathing
heavy fingers fighting open
pop-top beer cans whiskers
shaking under the wind’s slight
duress and I stopped.

there they stood by the pool
forlorn considerations of
jumping right in, cans and coats
be damned. Of course they
chose to stand and eye instead.
Only a fool leaps and leaves it
all behind, they said. Yet there they
were, with nothing but coats and
cans and rags and whiskers and
the opulent gall to say anything.

They did not jump. They only drank
and stood and eyed and sighed.

But I will enjoy this swimming pool,
for I left my coats and rags
in someone else’s town

French Press

poetry

When I said,
“God this is yours, I’m giving it all to you,”
You turned my world upside down.
Starting in my toes they tingled
To sensations ambling in my ankles
That tightened in my shins—
Taut Charlie Horse’s without pain
Pushing past my tensioned thighs
Swirling to the tip of my spine
Splashing into my tottering stomach
Surging around my quivering lungs
Ascending beyond my pulsating heart
Catching in my straining esophagus
Lifting my buoyant arms skyward
Pressure coursing to my startled eyes
And finally, though it only took a moment
Through my head you compressed
The last remnant of my resistance
And poured all of me out.