vocationally i could see myself being a man…

poetry

of edible wooden colored planks
and beaches of white powder sand
of grainy office carpet in brown and tan
and tile of white porcelain
of sunshine without any sunglasses
and eye gouging pain from squinting
of air conditioning, freezing cold bedrooms
and pounds of blankets while fighting sunburn
of mexican, italian, barbeque, pizza, burgers,
and beer, whine, scotch, gin, margaritas

of joy
of rest
of fun

but not so much of fame
i think it would go straight to my head
evening out my clown-esque feet of
10 gallon floppy enormousness
keeping me humble in my inevitable
slow mopey gait

–
p.s.
i’d call it my vacation vocation
and i’d walk tall and straight
proud of my disproportionately dense torso

Love Letter

poetry

I love you-Goodbye.

I’ll always remember you-inside.

Of Mind, Body, and Soul-like the rest,

Mind and Soul I’ll remember-of you the best.

I’ll always know you were the love of my life

Through the sickness, the pain, and all the strife.

Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I hope to ever do,

I could only wish that it wasn’t to you.

For you raised me lovestrong.

Now I wish I could say-God’s will is wrong,

But faith in HIS plan is right,

Whether you do or don’t-survive the night

Mother, I love you-Goodbye

rat dogs and shitty sparklers

poetry

six summers
ago in russia
we attempted to
celebrate the fourth
with firecrackers
and hot dogs
in a field of pale green weeping
willows. though
i enjoyed the
motherland rumor
has it the hot dogs
are made of rats
and the sparklers
just do not last.
thus, rat dog in
one hand, shitty
sparkler in the
other, i suddenly developed a
sense of patriotism.

a tribute to you – Robert Matthew Van Winkle

poetry

okay cease from moving
work with me and hear what i have to say
the frozen water has returned with
something completely innovative
there is a force which grips me firmly
i rap like an underwater hunting device
both in the sunlight and at dark (because it’s late)
i ask myself if it will cease
but i cant be sure eh?
to the hyperbole i roll the recording device
like a person who steals
illuminate the performance area
and cover in paraffin the suckers
like a times-past lighting device
move your body
use your booty to run at the noise making device that
has good solid bass.
i’m broiling your thinking organism
like peyote
death causing
when i create marijuana like music
at all subpar can send you to jail (on a federal level)
like it a lot
or dont
you had best make up a path
hit the middle of the target
the child wont have fun with you

if there was a disaster
eh, i’d be the relief
dig my groove while my
disc-scratcher turns it in circles

frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant

(next week tune in for a tribute to Stanley Kirk Burrell)
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area….

retrospectively, the poem as prophecy

poetry

there are times i sit here
reading of worlds and wondering
if i have ever known yours.
three years and can i say
i know what you’re thinking? or
finish your sentences with familiar
eloquence? sometimes i secretly
fear that i cannot especially
when i just end up cutting you off
from a thought diverging from,
say,
us.