Shape Sorter

poetry

Scrambling like a firehouse
twirling down poles a’ clamoring
If theses shapes don’t go in soon
I’m goin’ to get a’ hammering
The alarm compliments the squealing screeching tires
I hurry to complete the task before the time expires
The wobbly and goin’ a’rollin’ stone
Falls into the circular shape of its own
Better be a’hurryin’ cause times a runnin’ out soon
Place it next to the star, slide in the crescent moon
Tick, tick! Yes, make it quick!
Will I make it in the nick?
Oh no, the square, it’s home, oh where?
If I can’t find it then—oh look, its there!
So urgently, oh the polygonal urgency!
Pick up the pace, this is an emergency!
The last two shapes are swallowed and contained
Times up! The piece pop! Let’s do it all over again

Conceited men

poetry

Imagine a little switch that
you could just flick
just like that
‘’flick”

and whoever you’re talking
to goes silent
Like a big fat blimp far
far away

Animated
but so silent

As silent as the
night

As silent as grandma’s
Sunday afternoon,
on a quiet week

If I could get that switch
installed,
(giving the handyman a
cold,  beer once
he’s done)

I’d use it on you

everytime

when you refuse to
shut the hell
up.

His power scared the crap out of me as a kid. But rain somehow dampens the fear associated with wind. The beauty of cleansing covering the reality of our need for erosion – sanctification. I suppose.

poetry

wind blows the rain
batting the ground the way
i shake my sheets to make ripples when
i spread it to cover the whole bed

God’s up there, shaking this rain sheet
making sure he gets enough wind underneath to pull
the corner over the side of this city

then he calms down. tucks us in.
and whispers goodnight

Everything Seemed Normal at the Time

poetry

After all, who doesn’t have their birthday party in the Pentagon?
Sean and I were partners as we colored espionage fish.
Cut them out with dull scissors, pasted them on the wall
Because then we’d get the tax break.
The trampoline we were on took to long to cross;
I didn’t feel as light as I should.
A few of us took pictures of the fish; no one could color very well.
We didn’t have time to asses our folly
Because that was when the eight thugs on rollerblades starting stealing presents
In the parking lot.
I knew one of them, his name was Lance.
He charged at me and I sidestepped under his swipe,
Grabbed his shirt and jabbed him in the neck.
Kevin punched another one and I tripped him as he reeled.
They ran, but I kept Lance’s shirt—it was a level nine.
The action must have been too much for Andrew though,
He kept screaming, ‘I’m going to freeze my dick! I’m going to freeze my dick!’
Your mom yelled at him not to,
But he peed in the misty corner of the room all by himself.
Outside was the beach and a verdant island.
Couldn’t visit though because Natalie wanted to leave and ran the other way.
There was a pathway between the valleys we were in with a barrier in the middle
That she couldn’t climb over,
Like when Ash tried to ride his bike over the miniature cliffs in Pokemon.
It was okay though,
Because Kenny quickly ran over and ate three circular holes through the barrier.
Natalie was still fat and couldn’t fit, so I think she went home.
The rest of us decided with her gone the next best course of action:
We spun in the sand.
Crowds joined and the tide came in.
When the waves were chest high, I saw the uniformed police officer,
He asked, “a little cold isn’t it?”
I told him it wasn’t that bad and climbed out of the lake,
The bear-sized teddy bear named Molly had been working
As a minimum-wage ranch hand all day
And we didn’t want to exploit the fact that he couldn’t swim.
His fur would get wet and then mold.
We went over to the truck rigs since we were in the industrial plant
And underneath a mountain of black trash bags we uncovered a duck suit.
The tall black guy with the mustache volunteered to wear it.
The farmer’s wife brought us eggs for breakfast and we ate them.
It would have been rude to tell her it was 28:02 o’clock.

memories or dreams?

poetry

i thought you were here but you were not
but i can feel you pulling me down
down into your sweet comfort
down into sugar soaked dreams

my eyes, heavy, catch shadows on the floor
thought i felt you pulling me down
down into would-be memories
down to where we sleep life away

my mind is tired, it needs a rest
i come to look for you again
you are not here, and never were
i made you up just for me.

Watch it.

poetry

I do not walk in to your house
with my head held high
and my sword-tip swinging low
for to cut up all the carpeting,
my boots making a mess of things
and all the while a smile across my face

I do not walk in to your house
a pistol in my hand
and a dagger in my fist
with a gun-belt and a bandolier,
and a swagger oh-so-cavalier,
my pomp and pride permeating the place

Outside, though,
I’ll kill you.

2.5 hours to get a table in a door is 2 long.

poetry

every time a table is delivered
on time and craftily built to fit
through a door in my lovely america
my confidence in this country
which failed to serve me butter
this morning for my pancakes
slightly diminishes. i need to return
home briefly, visit the dmv and
allow myself to bask in the misery
that is american red tape so as
to better appreciate this bureaucracy

Why Do I Do These Things I Do?

poetry

Not again? Not again!
It makes my blood boil.
Sold, misunderstanding—a slave to sin.
A slave to law.
Spiritually void at times.
For what I want to do I do not do,
but what I hate I do.
This law, this restriction—this good.
It is good, but I am not, am I?
I am good, but I am a slave to sin.
And yet?
Nothing good lives in me, that is,
in my sinful nature.
The desire is there—for good.
But I will always fall short.
For what I do is not the good I want to do;
no, the evil I do not want to do—
this I keep on doing.
But it’s not want I want.
It’s not who I am.
It is sin.
And I am not sin.
I am redeemed.

Hauntings

poetry

Cold sorts of fingers are
the worst sort gripping
’round the parts one tries
to breath through

and sometimes
(right now)
it’s getting hard to breathe
‘cuz there’s this pressure,
just below the
cheek-bones. Tightening up.

but I still breathe.
Now, only to peel
the frozen fingers
from my wind-pipe.

Red River, NM

poetry

To say that it is a little kichy
would be an understatement
but despite all of the tourists,
and all the overpriced shops,
and all the family bikes,
is the land
and the land is perfect,
an idealic world
of unspoiled beauty
still there to be viewed
and possessed for a moment,
so long as you stay out of town.

i’d write of trees but today (despite their beauty) i’m more intrigued by humanity and how we live with all it’s curious flaws

poetry

yesterday a girl attempted to jump from the 7th floor
to make her fiance eternally regretful of his decision
to cheat shortly before their wedding

and i found my daily time of considering death
has not yet prepared me to stare it in the face

and i found my life experience
has not yet prepared me to sit on the cold floor
next to this crying woman and try to understand

The Conception of You in Relation to My Fantasies

poetry

It’s nothing I have haven’t experienced before
And yet, that’s what makes the possibility all the more enthralling.
It’s no longer about the act or the finished product.
Hardly at all. In fact, that might very well ruin everything!
Well, almost.
But truth be told, it’s the enticement of opportunity,
The mere perception of the act that I revel.
Some call it the journey,
Some call it foreplay.
I’m not sure which of the two I agree with more.
It’s the mystery which piques my every sense,
It’s the unknown that I chase after with gratuitous diligence.
It’s the almost that I crave with ravenous appetite.
And there you have been, unknowing but tempting at every turn;
A leg, a sigh, a smile, and yes, cleavage.
Yet with exploitation or exposure is there victory?
Contrary, it becomes the inevitable demise.
Behind the shroud, the lust.
Beyond the shroud, it’s all the same.
We’re all the same.

let’s drive north

poetry

and leave this all behind,
saying farewell to our lives,
dropping the imperatively meaningless tasks,
walking out on our fucking jobs,
jumping onto 25
to see where it will take us,
leaving texas behind (good riddance),
passing through new mexico
only to linger in colorado
before tackling wyoming,
montana,
continuing on with no directions,
with no definitions,
with no plans,
except to find canada’s cool embrace
before our lives find us
and drag us back
to the heat of our lives.

gone too long

poetry

run me down to
the shore

grab my hand and
pull me to
the rocky beach

through the thick mist
peppered with salt and
pine and sea

through the deepening
shadows of the streets and
by the electrified home windows
that echo back
our bright laughs

we stop short of
the water, and molecules
collect in our hair –
in the needles of the trees

we share a glance
a squeeze
a heartbeat
and the sun has set