No-One Is Listening

poetry

You are a pirate transmitter in an ocean of unauthorized frequencies
that cascade together creating distortion and static

My receiver picks up on a stray, clear transmission every now and again
so I can piece together your path based on your current bearings and location

I know that you have undertaken a grueling course through dangerous waters
without the help of your officer, who left you and your few crew members for another ship

The most of it, though, is hissing noise washed out by other radios with bigger amps
and one day among the swirling interference, your signal will go cold

Maybe I will notice.
Maybe I will not.

But based on my most recent data
I will be forced to understand, unfortunately,
that you have drowned

And that none of us other broadcasters
had taken enough time from our programming blocks
to help you out at all

I can’t stop looking at my phone and computer

poetry

part 4 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

tell me you think i’m beautiful
even if it is a lie
and let us not shy away from
the utility in fucking
the rent is paid now for sure
but i still feel homeless
i know you too well now to even
have a firm idea of
well i mean the relativity of it all
is the only solid thing
i can’t stop looking at my
phone and computer

even heaven seems really boring

i don’t know what i’m waiting for

this sinking feeling that is bottomless

you can’t talk your way out of this one

hold your breath, count to two

poetry

part 3 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

hold your breath, count to two
dive into the deep end

remember: you must get out
or you will dissolve eventually

close your eyes, count to two
don’t let your teeth fall out

remember: you need air to breath
grab the firm ground and pull

your limp body out
don’t go back until
you’ve learned to swim
dry off in
the light of a dying star
the summer sun
on the floor of a rounded
petri dish
floating like a soap bubble
through the void
it’s just like your mother
never taught you:
find what’s inside
while you still have time
and hold it with your breath
mark the moments
with your counting
open eyes and start anew
open eyes and start anew

davey and judi

poetry

she had no home but
that’s ok
davey had a fast car
and everybody knew it
and she thought she loved marky
but then when she got pregnant
marky just stayed with doretta
isn’t that messed up?
and when the pills didn’t work
(it was too late)
no one would come over
so she panicked,
and she kept it
and then built a home with ronnie
but she always was with davey,
in his fast car
always skinny
always young

if time could travel backwards part 3

poetry

you are scooping bowls of ice cream
it is 1978 and you are scooping 3 bowls
1 for you, your daughter, and your son
in the distance you hear them laughing
at the television as the bright spring
florida sunset beats down on your kitchen
you struggle to pick up the bowls and carry
them to the basement
but you make it just fine
and as you set the bowls down you forget
what or who you were getting them for
because you haven’t spoken to your children
in years
it’s 2016
and your wife is crying.

your life is your life

poetry

part 1 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

your emotions have
locked you in a box

your life is your life
and your life is hate-fucking
a bad ex-lover
whenever they come around

i’ve no sympathy but to unlock
the door
you can’t hear me knocking,
anyhow

my turned back finds a dusty trail

to follow but wherever i go

it’s like the fucking

hate-fuck capital of the world and

it hurts most

when the faces are

familiar

Hanna, Or the terrifying and uncanny methods available to the Modern human for uses in communication and documentation, and how even those can not protect a person from developing a rather slanted world-view (and perhaps may even encourage it)

poetry

I would call your phone sometimes
hoping the voice-mail message
at least meant you had been alive
recently enough to pay this month’s bill

When it started to ring
to one of those robots –
an IVR they call them
in the telephone industry – my
sure-shot measurement method
went bust

Text-Messaging wouldn’t do, either;
There isn’t even a robot to give
the common courtesy of a senseless
fleeting hope in the first place

but every now and then I’d get a word
or two, and so at least I knew that
someone was still using your
number

Then it was 2015

and somehow, the telephone slash camera
that I carry in my left-front pocket
started swapping stories with yours

Then, not just spare characters or
a pre-recorded speech, but real
actual photos would appear to me,
for only a moment, as if in a dream

Rather often, you are very nearly smiling

So now I am glad that, so far as my
millesimal view of your days can show,
you are well

but I wonder
if I had dreamt you,
actually,
all along

Questioned Idealism

poetry

What makes you happy?
What makes you you?
Follow your dreams
and you’ll be happy too!

And here I sit
at age thirty and three,
living my dream as a teen,
while often wanting to scream.

Is this what I wanted,
back as a teen?
Why did I not
dream bigger dreams?

Or why were my dreams
not made up of dollar signs,
carshousestvsboatsplanestrains,
things that are well worth my times?

Behind all these questions,
I know the answer quite well.
I do what I do because
I want to give a hell.

Whisky

poetry
Fill me up a cup,
Cause it’s been a long day.
And I’d love to say
That I’ve been out on the range.
Ropin’ the cattle,
And cuttin’ off their balls,
Brandin’ my mark,
Coverin’ it all.
But, I think you know me,
Know me enough to say
That all I’ve been doin’,
Doin’ the live-long day,
Is playin’ some video games
And watchin’ some TV.
But even so, I feel the need,
The need to get some whisky in me.

The Lecture Hall

poetry

Tans abound, bathed in
reflecting, radiating, vibrating
softly, glowing fluorescent light.

Worn carpet rests under;
never-in-style patterns surround
as ideas are tossed lazily about.

Some have merit,
some do not.
Some are young and vibrant,
most are not.

Reflected, radiated, vibrated
in lifeless fluorescent light,
surrounded by worn tans,
trying not to stand out.

Trampoline

poetry

I used to be better at this,

but no matter, for still I go

up and down, down and up.

And as I climb, I see you there,

over the fence, laying in the sun.

Then all I see is wood, on the descent,

until yet again, there you are,

smiling as you see me.

And too late, I return an awkward smile,

only to have it blocked by the downward fall.

But just as gravity sucks me down,

so also will it spit me up again,

and perhaps you’ll see me smile back.

Spring Break

poetry

If holidays were ranked,

first of course would be

the holiday of holidays,

the everythingakidcouldwantallrolledintoone extravaganza!

Of course I’m talking about Christmas.

And I can see the argument, of course,

to rank Thanksgiving next,

with the food and the leaves,

and the food and the family,

and, of course, the food and the, did I say food?

But up there somewhere is the break of spring,

which trades presents for getaways

and trades family for lazy days.

And, yes, the food may not be as nice,

but I’d trade it for sleeping late twice.

my eyes see only inside

poetry

i’ve grown appropriately concerned
with the way my head has turned inward
on itself,
my eyes see only inside.
i’m entirely incapable of looking at others,
neither noticing nor acknowledging their existence.
my eyes see only inside.
my ears hear the world
around me. the very one my vision ignores
and the signals in my brain are confused.
at once aware of the world, and blind to it at the very same time.
inward facing, while certainly more familiar,
only gives me front row seats to watch
my heart harden.

This is a poem about death

poetry

Not about a walkabout skeleton
in a black robe, with a threshing blade
or a plague or a sickness
or a rock-and-roll band

This is about the feeling
that washes over you
as you stand in a room
while another human being
struggles to keep blood pumping
through their veins
even though everyone knows
they should be gone by now

This is that stone in your gut
as you hang up the phone
from hearing the news: someone
whom you loved very dearly
had wrapped a strong rope
about their neck and throat
and tightened it somehow
until they were no longer breathing

Here, now, the dizziness that comes
when you remind yourself
that the phone number you were dialing
no longer connects

Here, the pain of knowing that
nothing you can do can
bring somebody back,
so it’s too late for some things
and all the apologies you owe
will have to go unsaid

This is a poem about death
and it is not romantic
because there is no romance in death

It is not beautiful,
there is no beauty in it either

it is dark and cold
and it is sad

And oh, what a big piece of shit you are

poetry

This time will be different

Just like every other time was

The screws are to me, now

I can feel them on my forehead

and my finger-tops

and just in to my spirit

so I will try to erase a decade of knowing better

I will understand that late is better than never

but I will know that late is failure, too

These screws will make sure I don’t forget

harness your dreams

poetry

the lighting of a candle
starts with the intensity
of a spark born of friction

and when this spark finds
a body for flame, it eats
and eats and eats and eats
because that is what flames do

but the candle’s body, by design
slowly kills the flame

there is no more intensity
only a slow diet of the same shit
every
single
day

when at first the flame was eating
with the passion of the spark
given to it by the friction and destruction
and even a type of devastation on a
molecular level it now,
distant from such an event,
eats only to stay lit

each day it dims with it’s steady diet
and lives in it’s own shit
and one day won’t even be able to breath

about midway through its journey
the flame dreams of the spark

if only it were a human
and not a lit candle
and could harness
it’s own dreams.

wasting potential

poetry

i will leave you on the shelf
fresh and new in your wrapper
but i will shop here every day
and buy anything but you

every day i will scan the isles
just to catch a glimpse

sure, i could take you home
unwrap you and use you
find all the things that make you great
but also the shortcomings
of your design

i’ve come to hate my own tastes
anyhow
and i’m sure i would treat you
no better than i treat myself

even the illusion of you
deserves more than me

so i will leave you on the shelf
shiny and wrapped up
i will shop here every day
and the distance between us
will feel like miles, to me
just another nameless face
at the store.

the wolf on wall street 2

poetry

now i will tell you about
the wolf on raymond st

i had been holed up blissfuly
in my home for who knows how long

i heard you howling outside
caged by my spineless greed

and i hiding away from the
relentless cold wanted to check
to make sure you were still living
boxed and forgotten in my back yard

startled at the cold, yet the
only one willing to brave it

a child of maybe 12 wincing at
the truth of your morbid reality

you had always greeted me with warmth
even when in the most bitter cold

your water-bowl had been frozen over
for days, possibly weeks

i would refill it, only to forget
again and let it freeze over surely

and you were always a wolf, to me
wild as the virtue of nature

and in the dead quiet winter night
an unwilling accomplice to torture
i sat with you and tried my best
to beg forgiveness, crying

and one night i saw you
climb clear over the fence
and unflinchingly sprint
into the night

like the truth in world
full of liars.