words sever
flesh you’re made
of paper cut outs
ripped up
and dropped down.
Predicament
poetryI really want to go
hunting today
but I don’t want to
call the uncle-in-
law to ask if I can
hunt on his land so
now what to do? what
to do? what to do?
what will I ever do?
hakpoo
poetrydark squares set in white
framed by blue marble tile
holding up my bathroom
out of the matrix and into the wilderness
poetry2 pigs, 4 cows and 12 chickens sacrificed for me to send this message, “I’ve been captured by savages(stop) I do not have access to a computer(stop) Do not send Chuck Norris to the rescue (stop) hope to be back soon(stop)”
wtf
poetrywhat was
it the seer said,
leaving us coughing
fermented dreams?
you aint hard you just pretend
poetrya burden to see the world with such
sand-worn eyes
exterior so smooth from the deserts
muscly winds
parts amputated by the sharp knives
of time
and the sand takes what senses i
have left.
thoughts on darwin?
poetryhenceforth
i move forth
from the froth
of primordial goo
hitherto
i move to
return to earth poo
as i pass through
(don’t) rock the vote
poetryit’s like
a pirate is
forcing me
to walk one
of two planks:
at the bottom
of the first a
shark waits with
gleaming teeth
the taste of blood
already in its mouth
while a leap off
the other would
entail filling the
entrails of a giant
fucking squid.
(perched upon
such a precarious
position, i pray the
pirate will suddenly die
leaving me free
to sail away.)
In response to Mr. Mugs’ recent post concerning the morality of the honored and respected profession of teacherhood
poetryDear Roger Mugs,
The teaching profession
may indeed be evil
but be it hear known
that said profession
is currently paying
me more than i have
ever made before,
which is probably
more of an indictment
of my past jobs
than a qualification
of the profession.
if only for 7-8 hours a day
poetryall day long
i look forward
to the sweeping
encompassing
oblivion
in which
i cease
to exist
to think
to be
on behalf of all things beautiful
poetryi apologize for my existence
i promise to remedy the situation
within the forthcoming 100 years
Creed
poetryYou are the voice of my heart
You are the voice of my soul
You are the voice of all reason
You are the voice of my whole
*
You teach me life lessons when it needs be
And at this, You teach me always and forever
You teach me about your way to salvation
You teach with a patience that won’t tear or sever
No matter what I show of understanding
You will not thrust me into the black abyss
But give me the chance to find my way back
To Your voice through Sin’s haze and mist
why the teaching profession is indeed evil
poetryforcing our words
whether created from inspiration or vomited out
of necessity
requiring we turn them in
as though ratting out our own parents
these words
we say as we staple our pages together
were written to be judged
so go ahead and mark your red all over
these pages
tell me my style is inappropriate
or i misspelled things by ‘accident’
then grade these words
and throw them to the wind
unless YOU decide MY words
are worthy of a refrigerator magnet
for the chains i drag with me
poetryi am so tired
of the trading of paper
and the loving of traitors
and the words that they staple
words oh so hateful
to the trees made of maple
ever so faithful
and i am so tired
of the silence pervasive
after the laughs have all faded
the glances we traded
i hope i can save it
wont try to escape it
or find love belated
and i am so tired
and probably always will be
for the chains i drag with me
ode to domestic help
poetryhow do i live without you
i want to know
how do i dream without you
how do i ever
ever cook pie
without you
take away
poetrytake away
this plane and
i’m just a man
39,000 feet in
the sky.
gorillas with guns
poetrywith words made of
the outlines of letters
but missing insides
you stand like a
silver backed gorilla
in the moonlight
pounding your
eat, shit, sleep
fuck mentallity
into anything you
can find and thusly
are the personifaction
of evil.
i hear new jobs can be scary. but i suppose it depends on the field
poetrytrifle lucky not quite ready
pardon every man stand steady
trigger pulling till its coming
pointing fingers prodding throwing
pick him up without a gab
place him face down in the cab
never any quite prepared
till they’re thrown in downright scared
baked and prodded
floating, lauded
time for someone else who dared
(in the end it was a matter of blood)
on why most poet’s brilliance isn’t discovered until after they die
poetryour words as awesome as they may be
the pages we color with melody
nothing we do will ever hope to seem
as poetic as passing to death
most permanently
haiku
poetryeach morning
new darkness thickens–
headlights approach.
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