He was clever by sheer repetition
with his violent wonderings hidden away
But he struggled with his own position
and fought with the choices he’d already made
Though soon enough his mind sublimated
and thoughts, fears and worries were put out of sight
Well, he couldn’t see what he’d created
for his cognizance failed him most every night
He could barely find his own position
but he was clever by sheer repetition
Often my poetry
deals with the obscene,
the dirty, filithity, of grossness,
but until I reach a gross of gross poems,
I will persevere.
Onward and Downward!
For singing loudly
the craproom reigns supreme,
amazing accoustics.
The snow flies
the plot thickens
the crow cries
my pulse quickens
I’ve got a thought
to stay inside
To wait this out
where it’s safe
But I’m not sure
the rest of me
can keep up
with that pace
Damn it
swing another saber
Damn it
swing it loud and low
Damn it
swing it that much greater
Damn it
Watch it go
The snow flies
the plot thickens
the crow cries
my pulse quickens
on writing this i found the
words much softer than the
chair in which i was sitting and
upon the realization decided to
sit upon said words and insert
said chair into this poem.
hence the lack of softness
poetry
when i step into the evening
it feels like snow–
absent a blanket of
white–strings of light
blink silent shouts.
We’ve got a good thing going here
so let’s keep it that way
you shut your mouth when we talk politics
Or just leave
And we’ll grin and bear your monologue
And let you tell your tales
but shut your mouth when we talk politics
or else it gets hard to breathe
dance when coupled with full tummies
always makes for awkward funsies
Eat your piecemeal porridge
and strap on your half-shined shoes
The whole damn sky is coming down
there’s not much left to lose
Your fingers cold, my fingers cold
we’ll wander hand in hand
stomachs filled with piecemeal porridge
and our footprints left in sand
But they’ll wash away eventually
we’ll wash away eventually
and leave us with a fallen sky
to sift through
temptation
unlike most of my day
i do not have to seek out in the least
but rather it is delivered to my door
daily between 3 and 5 pm
though i hear he visits different folks
at different times
i want to write,
to be a star,
to make riches,
to believe in me
but instead
the ideas refuse to cum,
to mate and create words,
leaving an impotence
of silence;
and so i make a snack,
raid some tombs,
read on the toilet,
fix a drink,
make my brain fuzzy
as an excuse for the
non-bursting,
un-gushing,
nay-exploding,
masterpiedic,
self-pleasuring words.
I tried to categorize
my political views today
and this is out what came:
pseudo liberalish,
at times,
I often like to think,
though probably not as much,
as I often like to think.
Up so close
and I can hardly
make you out
So I’ll just assume
that you’re not there
it’s easier that way.
Don’t answer your phone
I won’t be calling.
what is the worth of my time
when I sit quietly listening to you
I sacrifice my life now
for my life to come
but when I try to show my worth
y’all treat it as just my two cents
not much in this present world
filled with the self righteous
the selfish and quite clearly
as they are all the same-the conformists
two cents once a fortune
but now worn and valuable to whom I wonder…
what is the worth of my knowledge
attained through extensive study
when I am rejected and payed no mind
nor respect or tribute for input
that is of the utmost relevance
and has been built upon through
contemplation of mind
and heart and soul
to be applied to all paths of life
which I pray will one day emerge
in the dewy pastures where
you all will sit and say enlighten us
I will not be god nor am I now
but neither am I the lowly serpent
doomed to slither in constant fear
of being trod upon
when I will walk one road and no more
and always have God at side, on hand
and divinely inspiring speech
few constants exist in life,
but there will always be:
death and taxes
and the perpetual,
obsessive need
to save Christmas
those things so out of place they
strike you as beautiful because when
children wear hats only old folks should and
even the dogs take to driving gloves you know the
time may be right for renewal or something like it where
people take to the streets with pitchforks and
hoping they’ll kill something before something kills them they
give up on home brew kits and
moving slowly inside choose to
hide their children from the outside knowing
full well the crop circles could themselves
invade our grocery stores tomorrow and this
scares only just enough to tickle our
imagination to life again and forget how
things should be and turn once more to
just exactly how we made things to be in our heads
in books we read and stick figure drawings we made
TV ads from
the nineteen eighties
and we all wonder
where the good times went
Failure to figure
our personal budgets
we struggle to find
how our money was spent
But that god damned
theme is
stuck in my head
And it probably will be
all night
But that god damned
theme is
stuck in my head
…
Alright.
rain taps at the glass
in such a subtle staccato–
by the time we look
it’s snow.
Aimed for deconstruction
but fortunately nothing was
Broken.
A few corners scuffed
and a paper-cut.
The drapes don’t hang
quite right anymore.
The door squeaks
the window leaks
The smoke detector
fires up at odd hours
in the night.
It’s not quite right.
It’s just not quite right.
But at least nothing was
Broken.
sixty-degree days
in december are as
disquieting as
pooping in a
stall without a lock.
the sieve and the sand 
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