i’ve thrown my inspiration the way of the broncos’ super bowl dreams

poetry

oh i write brilliantly when the sun has been hiding behind the clouds for months at a time and i’m frozen. my down jackets and extra layers of all-humanity-is-suffering-alongside-of-me socks bring out the best in my desire for clouds and trees and something which will bring me joy. the hope on the horizon of the summer they claim will come.

but then i up and moved to where the sun will never fail to shine and i cannot pass the hour without both a hat and sunglasses (an accessory i’ve never used in my whole life and thus had to purchase the kind that fades in and out but embarrasses my wife when indoors and still slightly faded – but i love it because at the core of me i love when i’m judged a fool). now the mountains scream beauty to me every day and the last of our issues are being worked out in a city that actually serves donuts.

yes i’m afraid i’ve shot myself in the foot. or as a writer should perhaps better say – in the hand. i fear these bones will continue to type or write into oblivion or at least eternity and be wrought with not even the slightest of inspiration thus bringing you fear, trembling, joy, love, beauty, and everything you ever longed for

sans poetry.

I Don’t Get It.

poetry

The vastness of humanitiy’s opinions is staggering
and quite difficult to conceive, just as it is
similarly difficult to conceive an opinion
on the vastness of humanity

Are we what we say we are?
and who is we? Is it Science?
I didn’t vote for Science.

Was it God? Can he/she/it/we
give us another stab at
the definition? Oh goodness.

I hope we aren’t graded on spelling,
metaphorically speaking,
or I fear we might have failed this test.

Pessimist

poetry

Don’t think of it as half empty,
Think of the glass at half full.
If it was full to begin with,
And if there’s less now then obviously—it’s half empty.
Plus you need to factor in condensation,
And not to mention there’s a fracture at the bottom.
And you’re feeling down
Down
And out.
And some days
I just feel like poop spelled backwards.

Delirium

poetry

Last night, a god dreamt about me,
and I saw myself in the flow of his dream.
Amidst the vortex of  thunderous thoughts,
the eye of creation  was ever watchful.
It was a moment of intense gratification and heightned love,
for this sublime higher being had a spot for me in his consciousness.
I was the  red wine stain on the cosmos’s wedding gown.
The universe was festive and I was bold and depraved,
wildly engulfing myself in the brightest stream of light.
I had not a care. I was a mere fabrication,
thereby disengaged from any morale obligations.
Far from the grasp of gravity and
the vicissitudes of a life rooted in a consensual reality,
i stemmed from the dream instead and 
bloomed in vivid space.
I was
Aghast-marasmic
no
more.   

                        

oi

poetry

we can see for miles
on these hills they measured in meters
and beat our heads firmly
on rocks placed here as an ebenezer
by our ancestors.

that or we can buy donuts
beer
and celebrate

Whoddawhatsit

poetry

Give me the cue
And I’ll pull the trigger
We can start this now
Or wait until later
But either way
The time will come.
—So line up.
Take your places.
We’re about to begin.
—At your marks.
(Told you so)
Get ready.
Lights!
Camera!
Distraction!
These means they have no ends
Breaking pieces into more parts
Only to rebuild them yet again.
And with too much rope
The chances of strangulation increase per inch
Until every word is suffocatingly
Squeezed
Through taut lips, dripping like solitary pebbles into ponds
I have ideas
Some better than others
But I guess that’s to be expected.
And most worse than most.
Yes, could someone redirect me to the starting line?
It appears I’ve lost my place.
Ah, at last—completely unrelated and obscure
Viola! How admirably memory serves
When the extraordinary has become extraneous
So I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken
And could you please rewind
Because I have no idea what you’re saying.

Don’t Forget to Eat Your Irony: A Cautionary Tale

poetry

Jimmy always ate all his veggies even since he was two,
Ate all his peas and lima beans and so very strong he grew.
He scoffed spinach like Popeye and took his vitamins too.
And when Jimmy ate meat it was thirty times he’d chew.
He drank water everyday, eight glasses or more
He could do fifty pushups when he was only four!

Jimmy knew exactly what to eat and by the time he was able
He wouldn’t touch the meal until he’d read its food label.
Jimmy stayed far far away from any sugary treats,
He had no tooth for candy and that is no small feat.

In bed he snoozed his restful sleep,
Never did Jimmy count any sheep.
“Eight hours for me, no more, and no less.”
And I think that was the secret to his success.

Holding his breathe longer than a fish
He swam through water like a swan.
“He’ll be the next Michael Phelps!” they cried,
Why little Jimmy could swim a marathon.

He never sipped a soda, never smoked a cigarette
He shared his wisdom with me once, but I admit I did forget.
He rode his bike to work and he never once was sick
Amassed as many vacation days as you could shake a stick.

He ran five miles each day and five more at night
Like Usain Bolt, he was a rather impressive sight.
Jimmy was invited and begged to the Olympic trials
But he declined by saying it wasn’t worth his while.

By the time Jimmy had reached twenty-five
The papers declared, “He’s the healthiest man alive!”
They watched in awe and even began to wonder
If he keeps this up, he could live to be two hundred!

Yes, Jimmy was the fittest person in the entire world,
But as he left his house one morn that title soon unfurled:
He forgot to look both ways when crossing the busy street
And now Jimmy is the world’s healthiest pile of concrete.

born to run

poetry

i wear my feet down as though
sandpapered through pebbled
ground to rebuild the skin in
thicker measure and learn to
run as my great great great
grandfathers did because some
guy in a book somewhere told
me it would change my life

it has.

one year ago today

poetry

the sun shone bright,
making a most unfitting spectacle
of itself and of us all,
refusing to cooperate,
refusing to mirror our despair.

today it rained;
today it poured;
today drenched us to the core
quenching our inner light yet again
in memories and past remorse.

Absolutely (cruel) Fiction

poetry

He requests the sound of her voice
to pacify him; there is no peace this winter.
She makes to speak but falters.
It is not her place, if you ask her,
to bring her love to bear against his demons.

Perhaps he will plead his case.
Perhaps her ears will be deaf.
There is no justice, they have both
come to know. There is only what
little they can scratch out
of the rocks and trees and dirt,
before the eyes of the universe,
and hope no-one is watching.

Once, they would share their scratchings.
Once is rarely always. In her eyes
there is no exception here. In her eyes
his are but a pittance. Hardly worth
the time to cast away.

He waits.
She will dismiss.
There is no peace in this winter.

Weekend orbit

poetry

You spend the first
twenty minutes of
the party sipping a
warm beer
and reading comics
in the kitchen

In the Solar System
the Sun and celestial
objects are bound to
one another by
gravity

You finally detach yourself
and roam through
the living room,
squinting just a little
bit through the
lingering
smoke

In the Solar System
small bodies such as
comets, dust and
centaurs travel
freely between
regions

You stroll around the
backyard for a while,
kicking abandoned bottles
and exploring the
sad looking vegetable
garden

The area beyond Neptune
is still largely unexplored
It appears to consist of
small planets composed
of rock and ice.

You return to the living
room and walk directly over
to where I’m standing
We nod for a bit to some
alt-rock track I don’t know the
name of then
leave together
immediately

The Sun is the
Solar System’s star
and produces temperatures
great enough to
sustain nuclear
fusion.

C E O

poetry

you should be concerned
about the grapes drying up
in your orchard as the heat-
wave creeps towards your
summer home

you should be concerned
about not remembering the
science behind convection
as the particles around you
start to accelerate

and when your stupid old a/c
finally needs replacement
and your help draws their
pentions, you’ll find no-one
around to sell you new models

you’ll sit between the rows
of brittle grape vines, a beacon
of passivity, greed, and
ignorance; dry bones for
the archaelogist of 2mrw

The protection of pretending you’re making some things up on the spot is a glorious falsehood, and one that everyone wishes were true all of the time even though it’s it’s hardly true at all (hence, ‘falsehood’, I suppose).

poetry

If ‘expository’ is a shield of sorts
than I wish that I could
see you hold you feel you
every day every god damn day
with your smile (the real smile)
and your laugh (when you’re not
trying to make an ass of me)
and the strange sort of feeling
that plagues guys like me
about girls like you
but still behind a shield
they call ‘expository’,
so all things said and done
you’re not allowed to
know you know
even if you read it