Seize the day, they say; why is it the day seized me?

poetry

What time collects may be a trivial dissection of my erratic life- but there is no coincidence to the second or to the leaching misery it disburses- stingy and slow- that I may not even scream a havoc or claim outlandish horror. 
Sum up the hours and bear the loathsome sight- the big picture is a crash scene. Count and check if we can assess and gather our lives under a same disheartening label; a human experience ?
Heaven or hell who cares? The worm is a coming, yet all I can do is eat my boots and the laces too. I should have just latched onto the void of inexistence, but nobody said it was going to be this way…
 

loveless (or call the dogs off, jesus)

poetry

nothing can be more appealing
to me than the beauty of a woman;
i see in her figure, and in her form,
(or what she shows me of it)
the chesapeake, the rockies,
the sky.

however, much unlike a good book,
or an album,
the insides of a human are
much less appealing than the
outside. i venture to say:
this anomaly is not found
outside of our personal
shared condition.
the slow and painful stuttering
dive of disinterest that forms
once cracking open the spine
of one of these most
appealing vixens.

i hear the retorts of a million
dead poets in my ears, the
sheepish cry of billions
of single-celled
omnivorous,
monogamous,
thoughtless populi screaming:
but for love!
oh, i hear you all,
all of you shape-shifting spineless
oafs,
willing to subject yourself to
untold ignorances under the
name of some vague emotional
and societal ploy.

i say,
we have multiplied
many times over,
jesus,
now call the dogs off.
i am loveless.

Upon realizing the lies will continue

poetry

The thought hit me like a
Fist to the neck
So I rolled over, gently
And let the sheet fall
From off one shoulder
A small wave, lapping at my side

Your lips met my back like
Little sea babies, drenched
And salty, pressing their
Bodies into the sand
To dry off
To cover something up

There are only so many words
Available to us now
And I’ve used them all up
They’re washed up on the
Twilight shore
Rotting away like whales.

memory

poetry

it might have happened
or it might not have,
it’s so hard to be sure
of anything these days.
and if it did,
and i’m not sure it did,
what was it like?
i just can’t seem to see it anymore,

because one minute it’s tall
and the next it’s so small,
one minute i’m afraid
and then i’m filled with rage,
and the truth is so hard to decipher,
when i’m purposefully fooling myself
each and every day,
going entirely off of a memory,
held together only in an imperfect mind,
not holding the truth,
but only interpretations
that may or may not be
factually and empirically true.

Snap Crackle Pop

poetry

There was a shift:
The transmission, that is.
Reverse.
Despite warm weather
The windows were still up
Blaring that infernal hip-hop beat.
Frantic banging on the glass commenced.
Followed by screams.
Followed by writhing.
At the wrong place at the wrong time:
My bare foot.
With toes that now look like Rice Krispies.
And this little piggy squealed
All the way to the ER.

Sun

poetry

I can see the sun pressing through
the branches of the trees, coming
down from somewhere too high to
reach with a ladder, or a long pole,
or a shotgun.

Well out of the way of foolish and
meddling hands, where things, un
maintained, just work the way
they’re supposed to.

And that’s where the boys are,
and that’s where they’ll stay,
and I know if I could see them
next to that untouched sun,
I’d see that they were smiling.

Overnight loan only

poetry

If i got locked in the library
overnight
i don’t think I’d try to get
as much reading in as possible.

I wouldn’t attempt to erase the
fines I’ve accumulated and i
certainly wouldn’t exploit the
opportunity to do some photocopying.

I’d find that one elusive book
the one that is always on loan
and hide it safely away under a
big, lofty oil painting on the fifth floor.

i’ve got these friends,

poetry

good, good friends;
who i know everything about;
who know nothing about me;
and with these friends,
i’m always happy to be,
just sitting back
watching their every move,
listening to their every word,
slightly detached,
as if they’re far away,
separated by a pane of glass,
the windows that i watch them through.

and sometimes i talk;
or at times i shout;
i’ve even whispered,
but they never seem to hear,
never seem to change;
just keep going their own way,
doing their own thing,
doing what they do,
oblivious of me,
oblivious of my presence,
oblivious of my love.
but still i watch;
but still i will watch,
until they learn to love me.

circus

poetry

i buy tickets to the circus sometimes
with spare
hidden
paychecks.
and i am enamored, i suppose,
by the beauty and the tact of the
horses with the long black mains
(although i am not sure of
what breed).
i think for a moment about
another life
where i am a horse trainer
and i bask in their majesty.
for these moments
rapt in contradiction
never last.

i am sure if i trained horses
i would hate them too.

so i get up before the lights
have raised
(with the idea of anonymity)
walk out to the parking lot
and commute back to my
home
which will never be just right

as long as it’s mine.

Shake

poetry

and baby I’d shake you
just as hard as I could
yeah baby, i’d shake
just as long as it took
oh baby, I’d bring you
on back, way back home
and we’d be here forever
and we’d be here together
oh, baby i’d shake you
if only I could

Promise

poetry

The music is
it is it is
and how it lives
it lives, oh
how it lives!

The bass it throbs
and all those frilly
fills flutter o’er
top of everything
and that’s the part
that sings, it sings
I swear we’ll make it sing

philosopoem? hmm… that sounds crappy. poetrosophy? fail. ah well…

poetry

the hopeless romantic has a problem.
if he’s truly a romantic it will end well
which will ruin the plight he’s learned
to love.
said plight, gone from life, makes the
romantic struggle. how can he be optimistic
about the future when the now is so
good?
we learn to enjoy our lives in hope
for hope is necessary to endure the now
and then the hope is realized. and we’re
at a loss no longer in need of hope
but of thankfulness.

and so i begin to ponder my favorite
bands/poets/writers/thinkers of old.
how can they feel the way they do

still?

it’s been 15 years. is that girl still just
out of reach? why haven’t they caught
her? fear of a lost muse?

Orange bag

poetry

I left an orange in my bag, oops
The mess was horrific
Over lining, zips, and flaps

For days and weeks,
Everything I owned smelt like fruit
Everywhere i went was fruit

Libraries became orchards
And bedrooms became an
Endless garden of Eden

My mood began to ripen
As i forgot about
Fruitless, damaging things.