rose

poetry

oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
these things
well i can’t stop
these things
sitting in a crowded room i am high as a balloon i want to be with you sitting in a crowded room
oh my
shooting star
i sit
empty chested
hoping

Leaves Upon Leaves

poetry

Glancing along the bookshelf
Don Quixote stares back at me
And underneath him staggered sideways
There’s an infinite number
Watching back at me
Like hundreds of rectangular eyes
Hiding in the shadows of moons and suns
Finding respite in tollbooths and towers
Since the beginning
When red letters spilled onto delicate pages
Tenderly crafted so that even
The smallest rodent and elephants
Can drink from the same water
Until they finally come undone
The voyage ending
Returning to the roots
Alongside the stream
Perfection finds its place

The circle of life: garage sales (a metaphor)

poetry

lined up in a row just like ducks,
are so many happy, shiny products
that soon lost their shimmer,
lost their shine and glimmer,
and then what is to be done
when all usefulness is gone
but to trot them out on a weekend day
and try to sell them all away
to whomever is in need
or whomever is desiring
of something deemed to be junk
of something that’s been in a trunk,
locked away from the sun’s light
perhaps in an attic closed up tight,
and that will someday face the same fate
passing to the next who thinks it’s great,
only to be sold on again
and again and again and again.

not-quite-titled

poetry

when trouble falls like lemon-ny
drops high above the chim
mini chops thats where you;ll
fiiiiind sheeee
ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo oo oo o
bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu.

somewhere over this painful
feels good lies
and here i wait for therapy
i dont know why i dont die die die!

die die die
oooooo mmmmm ooo oo oo o o
bu bu bu bu bu po po po

Try To Speak To Eachother

poetry

when it feels like all communication
has broken down and every station
lost it’s transmitting power, we are
left to wait and wonder, staring at
a blank screen, listening to a
dead line, hoping for
a single word or whisper,
for a single note to sound,
for a single piece of proof that
we are not the only ones that
have been suffering from
mis-communication

but we always get so antsy
with the dials left where they should be
and no good thing to fix the thing but
time.

alas, at least
time isn’t cheap, but is,
in these such circumstances,
plentiful.

The lunatic

poetry

I am back, such as the unfaithful wife returns after deserting her home,
humble and small
I have gone to sea and come back with my head on my hand
Almost slain, almost loved
I can only confess half of my sins and wish I had sinned more
Both world and home move on and over my dislodged limbs,
expanding in words and invisible shapes.
I confess I resent you half as much as I love you
Having loved only two people in my life, all of you included,
I have certainly returned just as sane.

the scene

poetry

the children arrived first
on the scene, and seeing them
in impressive numbers sprinting across
the square we thought
they were playing a game
until we heard someone say, a grin playing
across her lips,

“kavon’s been shot!”

digust crushed me thinking
perhaps she savored this moment, anticipating
times she’d get to retell it.
others, smiling similarly, emerged in uneven sudden bursts
from their houses, like puss from popped pimples,
and rushed towards the anguished screams
of those i assume were his loved ones
(but i can’t be sure since i refused
to make a spectacle of sorrow)

but am i any fucking better?
my first thought:

this needs to be a poem.

The, the, the, the, the, the

poetry

Vonnegut said, English consists
Of idiosyncratic arrangements
In horizontal lines of about
Twenty-six phonetic symbols.
These letters forming words,
They mean less and less every time.
Pick one out and say it over
And over.
And over.
And over.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Sounds like a tutu.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Sounds like a semi-automatic rifle.
The words mutate until they’re meaningless
Only funny, awkward sounds
Squirting from my contorted mouth
Purple.
Purple.
Purple.
Pur-Pull.
Per-Pull.
Poor Bull.
Purble?
Purgle?
And nothing makes sense anymore.

dont act like you didn’t name yours

poetry

night ache from an unknown source
caused luigi more pain than he’s seen
since jr. high wrestling when a dinkus
named bob kneed him

morning came with neck pain to boot
thinking i’m too young for this i mounted
my bike and rode till everything went a
blissful noticeable numb

home and showering as luigi reminds
me he still hurts

Primates

poetry

“Woohooha, we’re monkey boys!”
We yelled.

Jumping up and
down
on the old tractor wagon.
Plucking banana shaped leaves
off the ancient tree out back.

The days were endless
in our magical ship
through the jungle.

Four years old and beaming
at our newly hoarded stash.

Then we became hungry,
racing inside for supper,
to escape the giant gorilla.