‘Only one word
describes
chocolate this
creamy, this
rich, this
bliss’, and I
know this,
because the
TeeVee
Told me
the most depressing best you could do
poetryi’ve not got the gut of a drunk
or the throat,
taste,
will,
but i got the need
and
come to think of it…
i’ve not got much at all
but i got a little of
alot
so i s’pose that counts
as alot (and yes,
i’m one of those who
believes that alot should
be a word)
but in today’s world,
you need alot of alot
and alot of luck
but you don’t really
need to be good,
or be good at any of it
you just need to have
done it and have alot
of it,
or alot of rich friends
hell…
i s’pose
that’s only if you want
money, though
and
again,
though
you’d all like to argue
and everyone would like to argue
that life is not about money
and act like i can’t see them
standing on the corner
next to a pimp named “society”
doing whatever,
for cash
and i s’pose if i’m a failure at art
and a failure at cash
and a failure at love
‘cuz i can’t make it last
and a failure at words
‘cuz i can’t get them across
and a failure to myself
‘cuz i don’t act my thoughts
then the best i can do is smile
🙂
Mr. Sloan
poetryQuality time, hangin’ out with Mr. Sloan—
A bonding experience, to say the least.
He was fairly candid
About letting me dump all my problems on him—
Or was it in him?
Then again, it’s not as if I gave him
Much choice in the matter.
And despite telling him
Bean burritos were a terrible idea on my behalf
He took a gulp of water, swallowed
And said, “come back any time.”
obsessive
poetryi know i shouldn’t;
i shouldn’t.
I Shouldn’t!
I SHOULDN’t!!!
but it feels so good,
so perfect, so right,
to scratch, to dig,
to rip away the skin
until it bleeds
and scabs
and bleeds once more,
when i scratch once again;
and again.
Again.
AGAIN…
coffee=poo
poetrybut being at work
makes it hard to get away
for enough time to really,
really enjoy the pooerful sensation
of hard work paying off,
of finding reward in straining:
to do what’s right,
in the right way,
at the right time.
i sup prose you will again
poetrybecause if you wake me just one more time
to rub your legs to keep you from whining
know that you should not tell me what to do
or i’ll do it
and as my thumb grips your ankle and
my fingers your calf
though i’m seething inside
you’ll finally be quiet
and i’ll get that sleep we once knew
before you me knew me and i knew you
(and children were the natural awkward
physiological scientific result of
said knowing)
yea like back then
Love is Touch
poetryFermented summer
wafting through a bedroom
window, screaming for
action, garnering
disinterest as two
half-grown humans
make a bigger mess
of the already-dirty
sheets
August
poetryThe threshold of another
Month rolls out on the
Steamy carpet of summer
Hot and humid
Thought not unbearably hot
And the humidity’s tolerable
Or maybe I haven’t been
Paying attention as the stage
Is filled by more important
Matters than my day to day
Griping about how
Hot or humid it is
Or that summers already
Going by way too fast
But I’m too delighted to notice
Because suddenly
And I’m feeling more appreciative
Of the hot and humid
Cause I’ll remember
All my profuse sweating
When I want to complain
About how cold and dry
It is once December’s here
And the months will have
Went by before I even realized it
So I’m going to enjoy
The tomatoes growing
In my shoddy garden and
Pretend I’m basking in a sauna
When I gasp and clutch for air
In a car that’s been
Out in the sun all afternoon
So yeah the air might be
Both hot and humid
And about 120 degrees,
In that oven I call a vehicle
But whether or not I notice
It all at the moment, there are
Some great things in the works.
Can’t wait to see them happen
i’m sure your brain is just fine but i just wanted you for a few passionate minutes so that i could really feel alive for once but whatever
poetryoh you’ve got such a
pretty shell
and if you’ve got to go
for you,
they’ve got
a pretty hell
where they stuff you in boxes
…but not too tight
where they close you in for
eternity
but you’ve got a light
you can turn it on
and off
and on
and off
with your pretty friends
each with a pretty face
and all of their dumb ideas
in such a cramped space
because,
you see
there are millions of us here
there are billions of us here
and some of them look as pretty
as you,
so when i give you a note,
and you do not return it
and you turn up your nose
because you think i’m a hermit
just know that
your skin will fall off your
bones when you die just like
everyone else and i only
wanted you because you
make me really,
really,
really hard.
Disembodied
poetryI never needed to win
being on top of things was too uncomfortable
yet there was the possibility of life
at the back of my mind.
The person I wanted to be
standing across the street, waiting for the green light
was so real.
While engrossed in nervous greed to make his smile mine,
worry sucked the glow out of my soul
I lost sight of all things true
Something is happening without me,
with the friends left behind
the dreams I dreamt
the children starving in far away lands
The sunlight has me recoiling inside myself
looking for the perfect escape
but it is nothing important or new,
only little sharp pains
to enjoy rainy days,
coins lying down on the pavement,
and fruits a bit too ripe.
Break
poetryFor so long I’ve been staring at this pale ground.
But these cemented feet have stood still too long.
With every inhale, this casket crumbles
And the vestige of your binds dispels to ash.
If you thought your insults like razors
Would keep me raw and wounded
And your seductive words like siren’s songs
Would keep me snared, then you were wrong.
Because I won’t be here
For you to tear me down,
And moving on is
One.
Step.
Forward.
call me a communist
poetrybut i fucking hate money.
i swear i’m not racist, i just feel obliged as a good american to keep up old rivalries, i’ve been there, they really are the jerks we make them out to be, okay maybe a little racist
poetryi’d fry the french for real
if it meant i could squeeze
them between my teeth milking
every last second before their
last taste of oxygen and their slow
steep in my pools of acid
giving poems to strangers day
poetryi have never been more indecisive
in my life
i cannot even get 1 cylinder
on this damn thing to fire
i can be found always, somewhere
on cornfield avenue
thumbing for a ride
that i am always refused
(without paying cash
up front
of course)
as they know that i
will rob them
i am always sitting
next to cloudy headed
johnny law
he is a bright-eyed
son of society (or of-a-bitch)
i am as dry as the periodic
table of elements
Here, Take This
poetryThere’s a demon in my esophagus
I should audition for a monster
But I’m too preoccupied with
Blowing my congested nasal
Passages into oblivion.
Double-fisted if I can help it,
Slugging shots of
Nyquil.
Dayquil.
Afternoonquil.
And they’re multi-symptom.
Where’s the all-symptom?
Wrappers of a thousand
Menthol-eucalyptus lozenges
Make my mouth taste disgusting,
If I can taste at all.
Navigating over a spire of tissues
And a forest of childproof locks
Searching for respite.
I’m sick as a dog,
Whatever that means.
Decisions, Decisions
poetrySolar
indescribable yet
palpable in every
single nation
of the Earth
Lunar
Mass-Insanity
although there’s
never been an ounce
of proof in any
single nation
on the Earth
Strange to choose the
latter when the
former, it lasts
longer, and is
stronger, at lest
that’s how it seems to
be in every
city, every
country, every
nation, even,
on the Earth
anniversary
poetrythree years it has been,
twelve changing seasons,
and more seasoned years to come.
Haiku
poetryA crushed an ant hole
Scatter and scurry from sight
They run to safety
haiku
poetrymuted and muggy
the world is stay puft’s
armpit.
Safe Bet
poetryI never bet on
the sure thing.
They almost
never end up
quite right
anyway.
I’d much rather
bet on the
little guy all
the way in
the back.
See that guy?
He’s got spirit.
He probably won’t win,
but he’s got spirit.
a hundred bucks on that guy.
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