animal fat congealing
forming solid mass on the surface of the
pepper red soup fondue
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat
and curdled blood served as a delicacy
sometimes you just need
liver diced into meat flowers
a little chicken foot
pig snout
or dog meat in your soup
to brighten your day
or keep you warm in the winter
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat
until you do
and find what smells like gym socks
tastes like candy
If living is living in the moment
Lord, it is so hard to make a second count,
it is hard to breathe in and [not] let go
There is this pain I can’t suppress or talk about
(you’ve got to mourn quietly after a while),
I’ve let it linger too long.
Maybe it would be better to go the bottom,
slide and disappear.
Gently, without noise
like the dreams that should have remained silent and
hidden in the teeth of the night.
disappointed
by the lack of ferocity–
waiting for the wind.
vegetized by indifference
this
train i’m on keeps rolling
down the track
no railway leading back
laying in the half-light
of Sunlight’s struggles
to penetrate fabric
considering the options
stay
go
sit
lay
turn
roll
sleep
wake
making no decisions
only processing
considering no ends
only meaning
Perhaps among the top
10 crappy plights with
which the elderly suffer
from day to lengthening
day, is sitting across
a table/room/bed/couch
from their grandchildren
who want to talk but
know not what to say
because they can’t ask
someone who never leaves
their house, who can not
do anything different or new
“what have you done lately”
or “what will you do today.”
I am no longer a student
But a scholar A follower
Of the teachings of Ignatius
My life is changing rapidly
To transform into a new
Being of competence
To show the world my best
What am I to become?
What am I in four short years?
What am I in my prime?
What am I when I move on to the other half of life?
I answer you now
I shall become
A Man for and With Others
I will be
A Man for and With Others
I shall succeed as
A Man for and With Others
When I leave this place I’ll be still
A Man for and With Others
sweet coated sugar dew
morning time delicious too
smothered in milk are you
you pour your
time
energy
life
into something hoping to give it life
hoping it will give life
only to find
most of the time
it remains as dead
as
the words on this page.
i write most of these lies
with the most truth i have
and the most mind i can muster
and the very most saddest
of laughs
i write all of these lines
for the white space they break
i write ’till the sky goes black
and the earth itself starts
to shake
one of my favorite things
is to hear old people say
unexpected and jarring things
such as this quote heard today
from the lips of my wife’s grandma
concerning her view of Sarah Palin:
“God didn’t put tits on women for no good reason”
that i referenced
the sieve along with the sand
in my class today
forcing them to read
or at least listen to
a descriptive poem
presented as a model
of impecable writing
a model to be emulated
the dreams i have
of jealousy
of hope and fame
dreaming of hope – i know its sad
they lead to things
like life again and again
i’m reminded
not to take things
for…
granted, i have things
hands being held
waiting for the next good picture
to present itself to me
in words
so i can know what color to paint it
and on what canvas
or 100% non-recycled paper
the greats?
they cut down trees and drew
their masterpieces
withered dreams revived
soft skin against silken sheets
nail on chalkboard breaks
down for the count
three taps on my left knee
knowing what’s coming i
face down in mud filled eye brushing contacts
remember the joy i find in the
bashing ramming pulling rucking scrumming
screaming
My heart beating fast
And my voice about to raise-
Released in a *sigh*
fu
ck
the
purpose filled
life
there is no
purpose
in
life,
th
us
it cannot
be purpose
filled.
qu
it
building these
walk-
ways
into
the
slaughtering house
so
the
she
ep
will follow
it.
(you will strip them naked and put their wool back on your shelves)
Regards,
David X. Hugo
sacrificial doves die
welcoming september
with their blood,
dying in agony, irrecon-
cileable to their
peaceful symbolism
Funny how my day was
snatched from the ruins
of wishing for a different life
(or at least a different career)
only to be saved by the glory
of hot sauce bathed goldfish,
dripping Louisiana goodness.
I am nothing but hollow
a hole so yellow
my words are like fetid air
all I’ve got is inconsistent despair
I wish to renew my dreams
chase away the stale realms
I, too, was a hoping girl once
but both luck and ball bounce
I’m left with nothing to say
with my years I pay
in tear and sighs, for so long, my cowardness lay
Did I ever think myself worthy?
Did I ever think that I was owed something?
Now I crawl under the shadow of the damned tree
trying to hide while my shame runs free.
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