afternoon ponderings on my dream of sitting on a porch and smoking a pipe in my old age alongside a well behaved bloodhound asleep and listening to the blues which only one of us appreciates but niether is quite sure whom

poetry

and all of these things in a bucket
to wrap and pull and laugh so full
pouring out languished thoughts

on fairytales and old car lots with
never painted old white doors greyer
than the wooden floors we sell

to folks who need them not and then
sit and laugh and watch them rot as
worm and moth destroy the dreams

the children hope they will employ
to tender moments in times to come
and slender frames to roll into a couplet

i guess i’m still writing ‘cuz the wind is still blowing

poetry

so i got stoned to proposition a prose
about you, i suppose
for who you do and don’t have ’round
while removing your clothes
and why it matters to me well
as we know i’m merely composed
of jealousy and rage and
freezing and cold;
so you take pictures and smile
and oh all the while
all of the past goes out like a style
like when god is disproved
and i’m still in denial
taking the scientists and athiest
to trial,
forgive me a bit
if i stutter and shit
speak with my fist
get red as a brick
my throat full of bile.

gray

poetry

flower petal lost and found tub
filled with withering beauty
so fragile the color will change if you
touch your fingernail to its skin
and you think

we burned crayons to make them gray
when we were so small we didn’t yet
notice there were flowers
in this very box

Bookish

poetry

Morning Glory
Sing all of our sad, sad songs away.
Every story
leaves a heavy lesson.
Let us pray!

Brings your books to bear
and listen while they
sing for you a
tune or two
you’ve heard before
you’ve heard before
you’ve heard before
you’ve heard before

But this time it’s important
like the last time, it’s important
so God Damn it,
Bring your books to bear
I’ve got a lot of shit to say

no real finality can ever be understood

poetry

ah, to be the rock
off some unforgiving shore
with the knowledge of it all
or without knowledge at all
not to be moved by chemicals
or by any ill-thought plan
to be eternal and ephemeral
simoltaniously
no clever plot devices
nor clumsy accidents
nor seething animosity
or the acceptance that follows
to all that are wise
just what it is to be a rock

ah, to be the rock
for being human is so incomplete
happiness defined by it’s absence
the mind an ever growing
grey matter only shut-off
by will or unwilled haps
and the lies that turn it
on it’s self and twist
all of it’s senses into
some black hole that no
god could ever have
purpose for

ah, to be the rock
that i one day hope to be
that when my heart
throws it’s last fit
i will be taken by the
germs and decay into
dirt,
then put pressure upon
and am next to some
glacier that forms
some new ocean when
all of humanity has
either died or
left or survived
to something inconcievable
to me at this moment
and i will be on a shore
as a rock
at peace

the crowd rolls in

poetry

like shared experience so far removed
from their reality
we find no one to share it with
foot is placed in front of foot
and decisions are made as though
everything is normal when
everything is definitely not normal
and you find yourself standing
in a crowd holding things you cannot
explain
but no one is wondering about them
for they cannot begin to fathom

The ground once cold will become warm again

poetry

At the end of the tunnel, the winter’s wind threatens

But he has done everything as planned

excellent grades/wife/house/kids

he has done everything on time

and in order.

The sky can sink and disappear

Him, he has done everything as planned

If the sun shines today,

it’s out of rivalry with the one

who learned how to become his own best ally.

But at the horizon,

the winter’s wind hurls in its furrows

a golden scythe which moves to cut

the tall rigid grasses at the end of their season.

His uprooted and fragmented existence quietly goes

into hiding between the empty rows of a library,

the blank space between words in the book of the living

forever dwelling there till it doesn’t matter anymore.

Gas, food, and lodging

poetry

In that welcome phrase
is found all of the necesities
of a happy, joyous life,
traveling the road,
going to and fro,
never stopping, always moving,
observing, trying, surviving,
new things, new adventures, new places,
new people, new voices, new faces,
seeing giant balls of string,
and giant bells that ring,
towers that scrape the sky,
and fields that roll before the eye.
For what else is there for longing
after gas, food, and lodging?

on thoughts and things you forgot

poetry

left alone to my own devices
i find the thoughts i’ve pursued
lead to the emptiness at the end
of the same hallway from the night
on which
thinking i was alone i stepped into
the dark to search out the movement
is sensed and when you jumped
out to say a big ‘boo’ i
nearly scraped my head on the ceiling

and then wondering why i came to
the conclusions i did
i go back to my poor habits
leading further into darkness the fear
encapsulating my emerged emotions

graphite crap

poetry

the tip of my pencil is no longer made
from lead but i’m told has been swapped
for something called graphite
they claim it will kill me much slower
but i’m afraid before it begins to affect
my body or even my brain it has already
killed my plight

for if that which i use to write with has
no affect on the longevity of my life
i find i must seek for acidic paper
or take up drugs while writing so i can
bleed over these pages and hope
the future holds something terrible
as i spit out my fears on the page

begging the last few words will somehow
be dabbled in blood from my sweat filled
brow.

alas, i’m too hopeful and perhaps too healthy
which helps my dreams for the future