ruminations and verse which came to me today when, after purchasing a popsicle to soothe my still-sore throat, i placed it on the footboard of my bike and rode the rest of the way back to work before consuming it. i thought it no big deal, but then it occurred to me that said popsicle must have felt itself on the verge of death (like a fish flopping on the carpet 4 feet below it’s bowl perched on the bookshelf — out of water) for those full five minutes.

poetry

einstein was right you know
about both time and relativity.

what’s five minutes, you might say,
well it’s a lifetime for a popsicle in
in the sun

and i’ve been waiting here a lifetime
or two, if you consider the span of time
a gnat tends to survive when born in a
frog infested pond

and frankly 2 minutes again is asking too
much. maybe you don’t value our relationship
always showing up five minutes late.

or maybe you just value our friendship relatively

The Spider

poetry

While out walking in the woods,
I stumbled into a silken web,
soon I became entangled in all my finery,
not a damn thing I could do in my suit,
my entrapment made worse by my thrashing,
only until I tired did I fully realize what this meant,
trapped, in a giant web,
where did this come from,
oh please lord please,
tell me this can’t be real…

and then my nightmares became reality,
and then did my horror begin to rise,
the fear crept over me, inch by inch,
Ensnared by a giant killer queen,
and I froze as I stared into its many eyes

It’s great jaws gnashing in hungry delight,
the hairs on it’s bulbous body bristled,
and it’s fangs glistened brightly, deadly.

All my life I’ve been terrified
by spiders.
All my life I’ve been afraid
of their killing principles.
And I’ve fallen into her trap,
fallen into her web.
But now,
I cannot fight.

To Numbers 2 and 1, respectively (1 through 3 never really counted).

poetry

5:

Every time you think of me
I imagine it makes my skin
pull itself tight in embarrassment

If you smile it pulls
tighter still, and my hands
start to have trouble
opening all the way

There’s a smell that follows you
and it haunts me most of the time.
It was burned oil and old smoke.
Now it’s just that chapstick.

And if I must I’ll make that drive
and sit and watch the stars shine
and the trucks run north to south
all night

And I’ll drive that much further
to keep you smiling, even
if it makes it hard to
let go of the wheel.

4:

I was happy for the chase.
But you never could outrun
that old Bonneville,
in the end.

um…. yea?

poetry

an oil pool on a corner 5 feet from
the sewage drain.

a rat running alongside the curb,
scurrying for food into your favorite
small “restaurant”.

the sun breaking through the corner
of the building behind yours, shining
on the table in the courtyard from
2:32-3:34 approximately (but you’re not
counting).

life’s like this. and you’re thankful for
the promise of a new heavens and
a new earth?

Transient Souls

poetry

I can’t for the life of me
remember your name but I’ll
write it down this time, I
think, and maybe then I’ll
at least have a concept, or
more likely I’ll just shuffle
that business card to the
bottom of a junk drawer or
a pile of ‘important papers’
on my desk. Who’s kidding who?
We’ll never know each-other at
this rate.

How to love a stained man

poetry

If you were to ask him about his port-wine stain
He would tell you it was a burn

And if you were to ask him how he got that burn 
He would tell you he was a hero in his hometown 

And if you inquired further
He would tell you his hometown
Was nestled in the crevice between two large breasted mountains

And then
he would not be lying

He was breastfeed 
And his mother’s name means “Queen”
And she always taught him she was as much

If you watch him in the rain 
And notice that it looks like he’s shaking fire off his hands
He’ll tell you he was only dancing

Don’t believe him

He does set fire to his arms sometimes
Especially when it’s raining
If only to see if he can defy the clouds long enough 
To mark his skin just a little

His mother always taught him she was a queen 
And so he touches women so delicately
They never notice until he’s painted flowers 
All over them

Then he burns his arms
So they’ll tend to him
And pay attention more to those marks
Than his port-wine stain
Or the weeds he’s watering on their backs

If you take him back to bed

Do not comment 
On his port wine stain

Always thank him 
For the weeds on your back 

Even as those tendrils tangle 
Tell him 
He’s getting things right
Don’t say “for once
Do not say 
“for once”

When you finally decide to remove the weeds from your back
Do not do it with a rake
Do not attack them 
Do not mistake them for malicious 
Think of them as dandelions 

Sometimes 
The beauty just spreads too quickly 

If you take him to bed after removing the weeds
You’ve made a mistake 
He will notice
And it will break him

Then he will go out into the rain 
Without 
Setting fire to his arms 
Instead 
He will notice puddles for the first time
And reflections 
And his port wine stain 

Birth

poetry

She looked at me through smoke.

Exhaled, brushed past her lips.

The shock of her gaze, stopping me dead,

What things could she teach me?

It was there, at that moment,

I was born.

Squalling and red, bursting into life,

After years of solitude,

I drew my first breath

Light flooded my eyes

And I saw the nudity,

The reality. The truth.

The innocence of life.

Simplicity.

And I saw my previous perspective again,

An eight legged beast,

Gnashing its jaws. Ready to devour

Any innocence I might have had.

What hell did I stare into?

What heaven has eluded me?

I beg for life.

a poem about going crazy

poetry

when it’s cold outside
and facebook is slow-moving
and the city-streets are grey
and your wife don’t love you
no more,
and the kids won’t look you
in your eyes faded from years
of looking
will you turn to your hope
chest
set up as
a time capsule
to remind
of what you asked of yourself
long ago
and will it be too late?

when i see you
standing in the cold-grey
street, my head barely
above a desk,
with your arms like propellars
i will wonder for a
moment where you’re flying
off to until you get crushed
under the weight
of the commute–

then systematically you
get cleaned up off the cement
like a stain on a white counter
that stretches for infinity
for absolutely no reason.

with friends like these, who needs hygiene?

poetry

you cannot help but comment
on everything you produce
be it the written word, a
creative project, the happiness
in your wife’s eye, you’ll always
point it out. something must be said
you say.
when you cough and it’s productive
you comment, when your home-
grown tomatoes taste wonderful
you comment.

and now in the distance i hear
“oh yea”
and i know it’s coming from
the bathroom where you cannot
help but comment on everything
you produce

poetry

Here I sit,

Watching greatness on television,

Inhaling smoke to get high,

Inhaling smoke to get low,

Already low in a dark canyon,

Looking at the sun,

Too high up, as to be a pinhole in a black sheet.

I light a candle to see,

Light a cigarette to breathe,

Take a sip calm,

Take a hit to feel.

I’m lost in the darkness,

Holding the walls to guide me.

Josh

poetry

It was a sudden act that brought you here,
I’m sure,
laid out so tidy with
your hair done right
and they got the clothes good, too

It’s an interesting place to spend a night,
all boxed up like that
and everyone in the other room
trying real hard to
have a good time

You’d love that the booze was free
and they got two of your favorite things
and all the acoutrimahhh to boot
and they did it, man.
With a few gospel tunes just for
added support,
and a couple old audio tracks with
your name on ’em,
they did it.

They could have used your help,
though.

a sprig of mint cut in three and some ginger sliced in my sand-porcelain cup to ease the youch

poetry

five days in the ancient city
void of internet
(yes, that ancient)
walking winding streets
with pictographs where
an alphabet, or even characters
do not suffice
seeking a restaurant of refuge
or a moment away from the canal
where you wash your clothes
dump your sewage
and generally swim for funsies.

five days in the ancient city
days 6-11 of my cold
and 10 hours overnight on the
second floor of the train
to bring me home.

as the stress falls from my shoulders
i’m hoping the oppressive weight
of the mucus in my throat begins to ease
and as i walk roads paved with
black-top instead of hand-carved stone
i thank the Lord for civilization,
good food, 3g, and overwhelming sunshine

and a bed i call my own
naps i call my own
and hot water
i foolishly call my own.