tim is in a bubble (part 4)

poetry

the bills were payed
the car was running clean
the sun was high and shining
and so was tim
messages, on his phone
were full of things to do
full of wanting lovers
and not so full of shit
at this time tim was a member
of a higher type of being
and feeling a unique euphoria
touching the bottoms of a holy aura
his moderation might be questioned
but his spine was true
and at the top of the hill
speeding along felt just fine
but one even sure of grip
knows the old addage
“what goes up,
must come down”
and down he’d
go
just
like every
breathing minute.

Of The World With Mr. Hugo, part 2.

poetry

Our wonder soon turned to the ways
and wiles of our fellow woman, particularly
a wife that Mr. Hugo had taken and
had run in to a stretch of rather
unfortunate luck with concerning her
comings and goings and other parts.

There were conclusions made, but alas
none could be delivered so surely for
the mind of the human being is a strange
and difficult-to-manage thing, so even
with all the thought and consideration
that we two could muster, eventually
we found to cede to be a simpler way.
Soon the thing had drifted
and we pair did digress.

Of The World with Mr. Hugo.

poetry

I spoke with Mr. Hugo some time ago
and asked him, from his professional
point-of-view how the gentleman in question
had come to so vegetative a state as
his current delusion would require of him

He responded simply that he did not know
and that it was not so important, was it?
That the gentleman in question was
roiling as a signal through an out-of-phase
loudspeaker should be topic enough
to pontificate upon,
and so we digressed.

Vegetable Medley

poetry

I get to this point and I’ve nothing to say.
So what then, where to?
At least the sentence can end with a preposition; this is poetry after all.
But that’s not enough; there has to be more.
I’m aching for it: diagnosable withdrawal.
The way one would notice the absence of food,
or at the very least, the recognition of malnourishment.
Where’s the proof?
In the un-inspiration, complacency even.
Dragged out, beat down, by a lack of production.
Gears grinding in un-oiled oxidation.
Akin to exercising: tiring, yes, but in actuality, producing more energy.
Need a first step, ball rolling, build momentum.
Finally achieves kinetic.
The pen scrawls unabashed fervor;
some junkie who feels the high even before the needle penetrates his skin.
And squeeze: there’s the release.
Orgastic even—teeming with life.
Here, let’s make it happen.
Fertilizing eggs of miscellaneous; goulash of the brain.
Grow and hatch into something beautiful, mysterious, titillating, compelling,
Albeit doubtlessly incongruous.
But in some acceptable fashion be squared off and wrapped up with an ink bow
or spoken disclaimer, “it’s only the first draft.”
A neatly presented gift from the patchwork of my mind;
A quilt for your viewing pleasure.

men who are good at describing themselves whose moralities border so closely the line of acceptability that they are interesting

poetry

i won’t tell you how to use your legs
i will let you lie, and sip my drink
for i’m a man who can describe himself
and my morality borders so closely the line
of acceptability that i’m interesting
and someone who can walk will come and sit
next to me and sip delicately on their drink
in tandem and we’ll sit far above the floor.

i will discuss with them.
and my compatriots.
dying.

kittner field.

poetry

put your dreams on hold and
remove your shoes to enjoy the
silence the sun is creating with
beams so thick it’s absorbing the
sound and your toes moving through the
grass with a distant echo of
some child laughing is the only
input your senses can manage.

put your dreams on hold and
take in the meaninglessness of your
life for a moment.

put your dreams on hold and
recognize your creator. this is for you
and you never even notice.

and your dreams are so easily worthless.

It is the way of things that some-times luck is with us, sometimes with someone else, and sometimes out to lunch

poetry

He avoided the dread monsters of the New World
and passed peacefully from the back to the front,
stepping jovially and uncarefully and stopping
just beneath the longest, tallest bridge and he said
he didn’t much mean to cross it for fear of
being blown in to the ice water – a cold wet grave –
but he’d have to give it a shot and so he
climbed up the hill to where he’d pay his toll, and
when he did not have quite enough change the man
was very nice and let him walk on anyway.
so he went and made it half-way along the longest
tallest bridge, but the wind had picked up and,
it is such a shame that a man who avoided
the dread monsters of the New World, would
be blown so unceremoniously in to the coldest
water he had yet been in. It then became
his everlasting grave, oh what a shame it is.

i love you the sieve and the sand

poetry

for letting me gush
to pour out rants i knew not were bottled up
for the beer words to have a home
alongside the words i’ve rolled around
in my head for weeks and slowly trickled
out like the Power Balls every week.
(that’s what she said).

you have been more than a friend to me.
you all have been more than friends to me

tim is in a bubble (part 3)

poetry

he sat as a beggar and held
a shakey hand out to the princess

she gave him a slice of bread and
it was wonderful,
wonderful enough to well up tears
in his hungry eyes

but later, as the pangs began anew
in his lowly stomach, he saw
trough a thicket of bush

the princess
frolicking in baths
filled with the finest meals
with fat
smiling men

fat smiling men with fat ear to
ear smiles like they could die and
be happy
fat smiling men that could die a
happy death in pools of the
finest meals whose stomachs
would be full and souls would
be empty and so tim the beggar
moved on again

his hunger subsiding.

4 jacknifed freight trucks and a collection of cars crumpled and tossed to the side of the highway like discarded pages torn from a spiral notebook.

poetry

So pretty soon
your hands are off the wheel
and you dodged what you could
and you’re already floating

and when the first hit sounds
you don’t feel so bad
and the second one,
it rattles you loose

But the music keeps playing
and it’s still okay to drive
as long as the going’s slow.
The cops won’t seem to mind.

tim is in a bubble (part 2)

poetry

in room 104
in between rooms 103 and 105
he lay unconscious

if you walked from one room
to the next and to the next
like he did in his dreams
you’d see vacancy,
of all sorts
and you could imagine
people coming and going
all wrapped up and tight
like little springs

the doctors and hangers-on
discussed mortally while he
floated in his dream way
above their heads

but then

hadn’t he

always been

above their

heads?

he’d not find himself, tim
on this plane or any other
ever again
he’d never find himself ever again.

constipatorificating print read aloud

poetry

on the kind of stone laid long enough ago
there are cracks in the mortar and weeds
grow through and you sit watching bugs
crawl by on the amphitheater stairs in the
afternoon sun listening to your poetry prof
read you all-too-pornographic renderings
of his own poetry he got published once
and sold to no one other than the members
of his family with whom is close enough to
pressure into a book, but distanced enough
from to not feel awkward about the horrible
undressing he does of himself in his writing
not just of his clothing, but of his own deep
seeded depression.

but it’s okay. because the amphitheater. and
the sun. and the bugs. and the afternoon
spent gaining inspiration from something other
than your teacher’s (disgrace to the human gift
of speech also known as) words.

And Brilliance I can Not Understand

poetry

A Breath:
A single sound in silence
and inspired
and again
And her hands move.

She works
sort of badly, you know?
but the resulting mess
the endings up
is/are/am beautiful.

And I sit perturbed.
I sit watching and
waiting and I
don’t think I have it in me
and I’m not sure
it’s such a bad thing.

But the resulting mess
The endings up
are Beautiful.

And really
that’s the
only part that matters.

Panic, it is highly likely you’re going to die

poetry

the moon will fade and gliste
as it flows slowly with blood. or so it
will seem when every stream flows
red from the bodies strewn around as
the end draws near and we fear for
our very lives wondering why we were
foolish enough to bring children into this world.

but I am a mortal being lost in the battle
struggling for existence

and to go down in a glorious firestorm cant
be all bad.