spring heat burning

poetry

it is spring and i want so many things
things that are gothic at the store
or your asian friend
things i must say in code,
things i must talk around,
things touring italy and france
the ones who wear the tank tops
and the short shorts
the things who wear the horizontal
stripes and the thick rimmed
glasses or the ones who play
drums,
or speak czech or russian
or german or…french
i want to take them and inject
them into my veins,
i want them to reciprocate
in the backseat of a honda
accord
oh! i want so many things
for it is spring;
my life is rejuvinating and i need
all of these things to fill
the increasing void in the
pit of my stomach,
while the thought
of what my life would be is
eating away at it.

Graduates

poetry

Though I’m really happy for them
and I’m constantly excited by
the thought of infinite potential
I can only hope that everything
goes wrong

It’ll be that much more
satisfying
when they finally
pull everything
together.

This older guy I know

poetry

Reminds me uncannily of Willy Loman.
Nothing too special.
Short, friendly, smells a little funny.
He’s a door to door
Car insurance salesman.
(I didn’t even know those existed.)
I keep waiting for him to tell me,
“That’s the American Dream kid.”
Or, that his son’s name is Biff.
I wonder if he ever tried to kill himself
By crashing his car.
Although unlike Willy,
He does have a mail order bride.

How Rude

poetry

Impetuously, the sun seems
to enjoy it’s early rising
with what appears, to me, to be
absolutely
no consideration

Impetuously, I return to
my ever-too-slight-of-a-slumber
with the hopes that
perhaps,
impetuously,
the sun may decide
to hide a while
before it rises again

waiting for candy

poetry

heaven is so far away
from earth
and why?
it takes so much
effort to get to
the sky
it ruins your
high
you want to go up
but they say
nigh
your persistence
run dry
your bed is
a sty
do we ever leave
earth?
is there something
to find?
some place in
your mind
where all words are
kind?
or is
any way out just
a lie.

Klee-shay

poetry

It’s the simple things
like
sipping cold milk from a
Collins
or
knowing what a Collins
even is.

Like an open stage format
at a local bar
with
a man and his
5-string
and a man
and his 6-string
and two (count ’em two)
saxophones.

It’s
one more
cliche
free-verse
po-em
written
at the
end of
a long
, long
, day.

but mostly,
it’s
the cold milk
in a Collins

sound

poetry

i want to ask you
if you’d like to light
a fire underneath
i am a match itching to
burn
i can promise you a blaze
this wildfire would
take its toll and
roll like a catalyst
through our arteries
and if your world is
too quiet just let me
know

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