18 nov 4

poetry

can only be coincidences if the philosophies are expressed along with any tools or forms: the schemes can be done on purpose, but then the ideas can be seen as reflections can be floating in the darker outside.  i prefer la dulce to its specter.

8 nov 5

poetry

am i bold enough?

            i remember in feelings

                        and trust most events

            i sleep willingly

                        and assume unmonitored accountability

 

the sun slapped me across the face an hour ago

            and i pled for more sleep:

every one and thing must have a turned head at some point

            and not even on my knees i wanted that point

 

the integrity of the universe is great

            as far as i can tell

                        and the difference isn’t to me, but over my head

 

 

 

sometimes the reason your poetry sucks is the etymology (eat, my, logic – literally) of the words therein

poetry

billy the kid next door
rueben the sandwich i love
        but my oh my i despise the rye
billy rueben makes me baby yellow

frank billy’s dad
incensed how i feel around him
         why are stupid people so mean
frankincense fit for the king of kings

poe was dark and filled me with fear
tree three stories high i climbed as a child
        till i fell and hit my tailbone but did
        no lasting damage to my bottom
poetry ideas not prose but we dont know why

anyway

frank is totally incensed at the beautiful words
billy could use to write poetry about his awe-filled
        thus making it beyond aweful
regular rye wrapped rueben

On the beauty, horror, and sorrow of a drunken hit-and-run

poetry

The spray of dust was majestic
as the pickup exploded the bricks,
and yet it did not stop
but proceeded to further rut the yard
and straddle another mail box
which was broken into a million teeny, tiny pieces
by the powers of modern machinery
and alcohol.
And yet the truck was not dissuaded
from its onward course, but
denying the logical conclusion of the air-bag,
the truck drove on, with sparks flying as
the undercarriage scratched its path into the ground.

And as I watched,
I could not stop thinking
about the old man
I glimpsed in the driver’s seat
and the semi-circle and
squiggly line on the liscence plate;
about what causes an old man to become
so pissed at 6:00 in the afternoon
and then to drive home,
against all the insistence of MADD.

Was it bad news? bad health? bad gas?
Was it caused by a call? a friend? a thought?
Or was he just lonely: alone: forgotten:
drowning his sorrows: forgetting why he was drinking?
Or maybe he was just an old bastard,
trying to kill someone on his way home.
Whatever the reason, whatever the cause,
tonight the old, handicapped, mail box destroyer
is sitting in prison,
wishing today had gone down differently,
and I too wish it had happened differently
because these feelings of pity are not comfortable.

Dreamer

poetry

I’m a dreamer even when dreams crush and
lash out a vitriol: ” I’ve got no fuel to go on”
The void in my mind turns into a lush dream
where to be empty is to be filled with space.
Infinite and blue.

illusions of delusions of moola, of grandeur

poetry

in my head
i make a lot more money
and get paid to write

upstairs is where
all kinds of editors cant keep
their hands off me, cant get me
enough money quickly enough

in my head
i’m famous but modest
wise and generous
with my exorbanent amounts of coin

ideas flow
over flow
and page after page
has people begging for

moremoremore!
in my head
i start out modest
and forget how i got there
in my head
i forget where i am

in my head

you know you like it you know you want
moremoremore.

inmyheadpeoplelovemebecause
iwritealotbetterthanthis