it was not so very long ago,

poetry

in a town not so far away
and for the first time
in my not so long life,
I was not constrained;
and sitting on a not made bed
that was not quite yet mine
in a room with a phone
that I could not work,
I realized that I was free
to do,
to be,
to destroy
what i wanted,
and as i sat on the not made bed,
not sleeping,
i was not afraid;
i was terrified.

The Frozen Mud

poetry

I saw at my foot footprints, en-
cased in muted mud, mid-step mire set silently within
A topography of time, a grey ground frozen
The echoes of shoes–seemingly size ten–a lasting last impression
A patch work of paw prints, wildly weaves widely again and again
The bike tire’s vast, violent arc cuts with impatient determination
Across orphan patches of untouched earth. My eyes enliven
This sculpted ground–shadows casting imagination!

Marvelous movements of time and space, run, ride, reel, and hark!
See the life that lives on lunar land: when you think
the play’s performed, this spectral stage stirs the heart!

This makes me wonder: what traces of invisible ink
You left upon the blue-blank pages of that air afar;
And should I see could I read or would I–sink?

passive-aggressive

poetry

sitting in your little
room,
shaking,
pressing playPRESSINGSTOP,
you grin.

you continue shaking.

you breathe a sigh of
relief,
“at least no one knows”
you think to yourself,
sating your nerves with
positivity.

your eyes see a bathroom
on your computer screen,
brought to you by apple
inc. and your girlfriend
is sleeping in the other room
and noticing this you get up
and walk what seems miles
to hear her loudly snoring and
you thinkSHITILEFTITON
and you hurry back and
you realize that you’re shaking
again and this sigh stutters
out of your mouth and falls
to the pit of your stomach

again you press play

you skip past the part
where you set up the
camera,
past the part where you
leave,
past the part where she
uses the bathroom

again you press play

the shakes come on
hard,
real hard,
you smile
grin
you smile and grin
i see you smiling
and grinning
cheesing
pressing play
i see your white teeth
through your smile
i see and i know i smelled
it on you,
i smelled it on your breath
trailing every word that
you said,
i wont forget that smell
and i wont let you live
with that.

not with that smile.

Speak to me, Ms. Universe

poetry

Your contours are just
right
but when your plastic pieces
break
how will your body bring
your fetid mind to bear
against the daunting task
of teaching it

I suppose you’ll learn
the hard way
what the choice of
beautiful vapidity
can do to a girl.

Or,
more likely,
you just won’t
learn at all.

do not associate the focus of this poem with any type of pre-existing ideal or concept that exists within your brain unless, of course, you’re right

poetry

you have shown me how
to get things done
you have shown me what
emotions can do
i have seen how you let
random entities bounce
chaotically off of each-other
for eternity

you have shown me how
i can be fooled
i have witnessed the steadfast
nature of your creations and
i have listened to old men
talk,
old men who really had it;
i listened and understood

i have seen men beating
their heads against walls
until they bled out into the
streets,
i have seen how little
communication exists between
people,
i have heard how much
you have to say–
i have listened when i could,
i am afraid i have not understood
much;
i am also afraid that there is not
much to understand

i cannot tell you how life is
across the universe
but i can hazard a guess that
will come very close

i can still not understand people,
i cannot believe;
which is why i cannot understand
you,
or much of what you say,
however loud you say it

i can never let the ink dry
before i throw away today’s
draft,
because i wake up with the sun
and see it erase the meaning
of all that i had imagined that
very day with it’s waning
over the horizon like white-out
over a dissertation written by
humanity,
who, collectively, is unsure
when exactly the paper is due.

Mr. Pierce

poetry

Mr. Pierce was a
Mechanic. In the
Second Big War, he
worked on tanks and
trucks and jeeps
and other things
that mechanics might
work on in war.

His hands were sort
of a dark gray,
from all the grease
and oil and years
and years, his
fingernails the only
clean spot on those
hard used, elder
hands. Oh, they’ll
never come clean.

He killed a man,
he said. Those
dirtied hands had
pulled the trigger
on a rifle, aimed
at some poor fool
with a different
patch on his
uniform.

He washes his hands
after every meal,
and he doesn’t
even change his own
oil these days,
but his hands
are still that gray
color, and oh,
they’ll never come
clean.

He says that blood
and oil run a
different sort
of color, but
it all stains the
hands the same.
He washes his hands
after every meal,
but oh, they’ll
never come clean.

To My Lovesick Cactus

poetry

I could travel from your heart to mine, engross myself in a decadent passion, even learn how to flatter and tickle your little heart already dressed up for a flirt stroll. Smother and disappoint you over and over.
Love comes over me like a disease, so run before I get to you. I bring with me a deluge. Spit and let go, i am already on the ground. Rabid souls scream to the wind their rage, but I lay my fury at your feet- leave before it buries you. 
Do not cry or laugh as you go, I am not so humble or stupid. I know I am not the only one. You can always run with the herd or join the pack. I envy the space they give to lies; i can’t mimic a moo or show you shinny fangs. I can only fall with raindrops.

    

i’d give you a reason to grieve but my mind, she keeps running loops around my words. i reel her in for not.

poetry

in modest times
we wore our faces
full of beards we could
not bear to bare in public
before audiences of
both men and the ladies
to whom we preached
the awkward lies
of global cooling
to soothe those of
weaker consciousness
the ones our mothers
told us we should include
on the playground
but despite our good
intentions we dared not
approach their leper
like social status

alpha

poetry

back in the
d
a
y
we used to ride the dead
leaves through the hellish
michigan winters
all shady hazed and listless

and my blue car was nervous
around college girls

we made it out like kings of
a shit-hill-made-of-gold,
crowns reflected in our
bloodshot eyes

and we forgot all the names
of the days and the places

now, between stints in county
lock-up and governmental fines
we breath in deep and waste
our time waiting;
because they always catch the
fire but they never catch the
fireworks.

Taxes

poetry

it likes you
and it’s breathing
it can smell you on his
breath and now
it hungers
yes, it wants to feed
on you
oh, god, it’s
breathing

and you’re running
but escape is not an
option when it likes you
like it does
and it can smell you
on his breath and
it is hungry

like every monster
always is

dang this consciousness

poetry

i dream someday
due to lack of recognition
(in my own lifetime)
my poems will be dug up
perhaps by some digital
archaeologist
finding pages ruffled
and singed from burning
stanzas lost through the years

perhaps like emily
they will find
my poetry worth only
a glance
to be moved on,
forgotten

and while i’ll never be
recognized for great words
for one small moment
perhaps

they’ll know i knew just
how poorly i wrote
and forever remember me
as awkwardly
painfully
self-aware

stick man

poetry

your the stick man and
they made a pencil outta you
woah your friends are all left
and your tryin’ to keep it right
they got a number for you
and you know it’s no. 2
you see the blue lines in the sky
nothin’ quite fits inside of them
you celebrate your loneliness with
nights by the sharpener
woah and you’ve got nothin’
nothin’ to write down.

disgusting things

poetry

pop up in the strangest places,
like on my key ring
in the form of a rewards card
with lamination receding
from every corner,
opening the way
for putrid, green filth
to work towards the center;
and it might be mold,
or it might be green ear wax;
it really looks like boogers,
and kind of like rancid baby poop,
and it’s just disgusting.

and all the while,
that has been in my oblivious pocket.

reflections in metre.

poetry

in hills like these
we wait for sun
to semi-peak through clouds

knowing now
these lost people
dwell in mud-built homes

we come and play
where they work
joy fills us in their fields

the sweat on their brow
the same as ours
though brought through toil not cheer

today i came
i saw i conquered
and left you here to farm

i hope someday
that i’ll be back
and bring you love you cant ignore

Halls of dirt

poetry

I stand inside your
halls of dirt and wonder
at the processes which
bring me here

All the cash is gone
three states away and
yet, here I stand, among
hollowed pockets in these
unhallowed halls of dirt

the stench is thick but
I cover my face with
a fresh, clean T-shirt
(poly-cotton blend)
as I stand in your lines
and I count the ways
that every fucking dime
I leave with you could
drop so easily in a Coinstar
machine, or slide quite
neatly in to my piggy bank

But no,
you’ll take care
of the banking
for me

Here in your halls of
dirt, I stand and wonder,
but I smile. After unfolding
bills and signing paper
I will go back to my shitty car
and drive it to a basement show
and then I’ll play some guitar
and you know, you can’t
charge me in guitars. The rest
is only money. Dig deep
the pit you put it in,
here in your halls of dirt

how to build the worst place in the world

poetry

1. hide the sun. put it under the bed, or in that vent in the back of your closest. just hide it. hide that sun better than you hide your porn. and keep it gone so long people forget its color forget its job forget that we orbit the fucking thing.

2. throw a big sheet of depressing gloom over the sky. should be the color of communist-era cement. the uniformity of the mind-numbing texture should be vast and soul-crushing.

3. let it rain. seriously. rain. go ahead and reroute the oceans to pour directly from the sky because that’s how much rain you need and how long you’ll need to let it fall. get those fuckers wet. make sure it soaks through their shoes socks skin so their fucking bones turn to yogurt. let it rain so much their weather stations start reporting the percent chance of sun and make them take their sopping umbrellas everywhere even the bus so when other fuckers sit down their asses get wet as well. standing puddles should be so deep passing cars kick up tidal waves.

4. turn down the temperature. turn it way down. go ahead and bring the atmospheric molecules to a near fucking standstill. it should be so cold skin dries cracks bleeds without provocation.

5. get the wind going. let street signs trees and people stand at seventy degree angles. make it so windy windows shake nearly shattering. do that annoying shit where you make their umbrellas snap inside out before sailing away.

6. call it boston.

Two for 5

poetry

And betwixt the produce aisle
Wherein I came thereupon
A luscious, even radiant fruit
Of tempting proportions
That Eve herself could not resist.
Though don’t devour in underworlds
As four seeds shall be fourever too many
Nor in the presence of serpents
But take your time, immerse instead
And slice by seven, just because?
Trash the rest, consuming only the seeds.
Not auriferous but still delicious!