Gone to Gypsying

poetry

My brother’s gone to gypsying I
think, but do not fear, as
all is well when he his gypsying,
I’m told, and I can hear it
twixt the twanging strings and
memories made
all around a fire, oh
my brother’s gone to gypsying
and I can only sit and be
inspired

retirement planning at 25

poetry

I expect that you will earn your keep –
that you will bring home the bacon
but not eat it – cause it’s bad for you,
you know?

I expect that you will broaden
your horizons and will make your mistakes and learn from them and learn from
everyone else’s – but still have some fun, because boys
will be boys.

And I expect it’s time for you to be a man – expect you to take on responsibility and
pay your dues – I certainly paid mine.

But I expect you to travel and
jump off cliffs and start saving for your future and try new things and work long hours and get a graduate degree and learn a new language and know your priorities and
live for adventure and keep your blackberry on and spend time with your love…

But definitely, certainly, absolutely, and without an ounce of doubt –
I expect that now is the time to contribute
to your IRA.

for one night only

poetry

we’ll sit around
making joyful sounds,
focusing on our enjoyment,
not the inevitable postponement.
of when we’ll meet again
once again as a friend
and when we’ll once again share
our lives to show that we care,
despite the month that’s gone by
since that time that I dropped by,
and we played video games all night
and just had a small fight,
as a way of saying i love you;
as a way of saying i miss you.

What Then?

poetry

Where will you go?
This darkened wine pours city streets
Splashing to gossip down pocked alleys
Over highways
Under bridges
Between us all
The thirst is quenched, the search continues
Glinting resplendence
Stored to maturity
Encapsulated to revive dustiest of dreams
Inscription worn to decay
Inscrutable, but perceptibly outlined
Pronouncing with revered remembrance—
Where will you go if you depart now?
Forgotten on a cellared rack
What will you have then?

50% opacity

poetry

losing myself
daily
now
brains eyes ears
dulling
every day now
all these things looking
sounding
differently
either that or i’m remembering it
wrong
again. is it the light…
or the sleep
wearing
me
down?
these thieves in every air
particle
even now stealing my
breath.
too tired to get me
back.

Perhaps A Tribute

poetry

Our minds wander
to the land of cymbals and cigarettes
oh, this land of plenty has got
everything but that, it seems

The sweet smell of the sea breeze
and the thoughts of old Byzantium so
eerily close at hand.

As we drift ever farther,
black sea starts us sinking,
the aridity compromised only
by tall bottles of sweet red wine

Yeats would be ecstatic

old and new. this is a memoir (a french word which should clearly be pronounced memoo-ear) of times like last week where i wrote nothing of value but took note of several important events in my mind so i could abuse them as inspiration later. i wrote these down on hard, worthless, aging, paper. it had letterhead. so you know its good.

poetry

today i wrote my masterpiece
on letterhead from that place
we know
encrusted it in overlaid gold
submitted it for review not by
peers but the higher ups. you know
the people who really decide
if you’re someone or not

today i wrote my masterpiece
i blogged it on the interwebs
i crossed my fingers and hoped
for wealth. but i knew i was willing
to settle for comments

the ensuing exhaustion is intentional to help make the point. i.e. one big (sic)

poetry

oh my obsessions my obsessions my obsessions
my obsessions have got me down
dreaming for better times without obsessions
obsession free sessions
where life is simpler with no distractions
a place where i can obsess over my lack
of obsessions
oh my obsessions my obsessions my obsessions
my obsessions have got me down
and here i’m dreaming of
obsession free sessions

If our love opened a restaurant

poetry

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

The décor would be a nightmare.
Clashing tones and tints competing
With lampshades something ill

Sitting patiently for a waiter to
Take your order would be like
Waiting for the next apocalypse

The chairs would grate against your
Soul like Monday morning, with its
Hard reality and lack of support

The music, (if they have any at all)
I imagine would be like Grandma’s
Lounge-room jazz- but more dreary

Don’t expect a warm smile with
Your service. The waiters are busy
And don’t have time to amuse.

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

But did I mention the food?
Oh! The food is positively divine.

Let’s Get One Thing Perfectly Straight, just like the neck of my favorite guitar. You know, with a little bit of curve near the 12th fret.

poetry

Oh darling
I can see you,
with your firey eyes and
your samurai smile
just like in the movies
and you’re looking this way
because you can see me
seeing you, bare teeth and
cut hair and all, squirming
in the warmer spots of sunlight
with this collared shirt unbuttoned
at the top and
All we understand is
old jazz records.

I want to eat wings,

poetry

and i want to be alone,
and i want to get drunk,
sopping, stupid, pissed drunk;
so that i’ll see double
the wings on my plate;
and i’ll not mind
the burning, outside my mouth;
and i’ll even sadistically enjoy
the fire soon to come;
and i’ll not notice
that i’m alone,
instead focusing only
on the close companionship
of greasy, spicy, wing flavored alcohol,
cause I don’t want to feel alone tonight.

A River

poetry

Pour out, sweet mercy like a stream
Your ways bring waves
No longer in my own power to stand
But for yours, and only yours

Pour, steadily pour, through all land
Your stream becomes a sea
No longer without footsteps to follow
But for yours, and only yours

Pour onto parched tree and forest
Your water brings reprieve
No other grace can touch me
But for yours, and only yours

Pour a thousand days in me
Your endless cup spills out
No heart can find peace but your arms
But for yours, and only yours