poetry

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.

on 26

poetry

he changed his surroundings and then
they changed him in a cycle that would
spit out each year for evaluation an
entirely unanticipated product

engineers could not figure out
this mechanism

“and here we see”
it was mused
“our 26th variant.
this organism which had built a hut
from dinosaur bones and aspired to
dominate its surroundings has since
put on considerable weight,
lost all appetite,
and lost all vision and drive.”

at what point
they wondered
do we cancel such an expirement?

never, said the boss
who colluded with the stars to
what ends no one could imagine

“let him stew in his own filth,
as he is doing now
and if he dies from it,
make note.”

“note down what?”
asked one of the engineers

“everything he ever thought and did”
said the boss.

“if we don’t get it right this time
at least we won’t have wasted data.”

the engineers scoffed at this idea

from their perspective,
this one organism had no worthwhile data
to note

the organism, however,
agreed with the boss
although neither of them
knew it. the 26th variant
would hear these things in
his sleep
every night
but could never remember
his dreams well enough
to break the endless cycle.

if time could travel backwards part one

poetry

i thought if someone asked me right now
i would start over at that beach

and maybe i would do everything differently
or maybe i would try and keep it the same
but i would know if someone came to take me

back to floribama
instantly

my mind spends time there
sometimes
i freeze as i peer out
to the part of the beach that
curves around to just more
ocean on the other side
like we had reached the
end of the land
sun beating down my face
ocean breeze whipping around
right before the first love
that i had known since loss
crumbled in my hands

and maybe i would watch it crumble
or maybe i would stop to save it
i can’t know now
but i would know, instantly
if someone came
to take me.

urinal bug

poetry

you don’t know that you are

the bug in a urinal

 

standing by your broken car

on romence when the great flood

comes

 

even in hollywood

they will all scurry

with no horns playing

to add to the suspense

 

just bug screams

and the loudest sound you

ever heard

as the water come down

feelings

poetry

you just want to fall down wherever you like you think the tears from your bruised knee should stop traffic you think fair for you is fair for everyone you think your mental boulders are real you think it makes me cold-hearted that i think you’re wrong you are crushed beneath the weight of a boulder and you are lying there with no strength to lift it you will spend hours wondering whether your time being offended at other people’s lifestyles helped you in any way move that boulder but it has no feelings to manipulate and you are powerless to move the objective things with no subjective ones around you are an individual worm who all along felt it was more.

what should i say?

poetry

i understand the river
of thought and learn
to breath among the
creatures of the riverbed

i speak but the words
get carried away
back down the curvature
of the giant sphere

i add my own water
to the stream but it
seems a pointless
endeavour

it becomes foreign
immediately
just like my reflection,
the morning after

one thing remains true:
that i cannot breath
in this land
of fish and mossy rocks

i feel freer with
my feet hovering just
inches above the ground
and drier, too.