shocked at how oft
i forget the feelings
you arouse not
so much for what you
bring as the way
you choose to bring
it to my ears
whispering poetry in stereo
through crescendo mastered
and captured here in pocket
to make the grey skies less so
my lack of works surpassing
a single syllable seems consistently
to lead to poems with lines nearly
or at least visibly
unrelated
but the thoughts seem so tangible
when my fingers move and they spit themselves
out
before i manage to complete the thought
reminding me
i cannot think without these words
my thoughts do not form without me
speaking
farting
or writing
and button after button this
idea makes it into history.
something i’m writing
because i’m unable to simply
dwell on it
1000 monkeys in a room
or rather 7 monkeys on a blog and
given long enough we were unable
to write, or even copy shakespeare
but dare i say we made great inroads
words are spilled these pages
you’ll have doubtful ever seen
in a finer journal
rhymes were composed and thoughts
spit out so few of us will ever share
with our mothers
and so it seemed fit as much as there was
and given from whence it came
the sieve and the sand
buttloads of poetry
(p.s. we published our third book – buttloads of poetry for less than $6.00. take home the brilliance)
because our imaginations seem
to slow as the crowds take vacation
heading home to see mom and dad
hopefully the man in red and determine
to be resolute rather than allow our fingers
to slide somehow romatically over these
keys and lull our blog into blissful
beauty of heartfelt words
but then
blog is such an ugly word
its perhaps best we just act like
you’re reading this in a quality
glue bound journal
our words as awesome as they may be
the pages we color with melody
nothing we do will ever hope to seem
as poetic as passing to death
most permanently
Stormed shadows crawling
Across nearly frosted lawns,
The passage of time.
mud
sweat
beers
the many words they help to conjure
rides and runs and
bitter cold
with blue sky – and snow
benches dedicated only be filled with you
– together
street lamps lonely and frozen
out of place
off the grid
mysteries
water balloons shot at distant trains
epic battles with snow balls
with fevers
overheating and overeating
the “phew!”
the proud
the in-betweens
and you
muse you are and muse you do
now life can be lived without you
whether you are aware or not
my ability to write
epic poetry of love and life
has been reduced
to that annoying little whine
coming from the breaks of a ’57
chevy station wagon
stacked with a whole house’s
worth of furniture
mattress
desk
rocking chair and all
up to the top of the
cottonless cotton tree
and almost as sad
are you serious
writing poetry as if
comments aren’t ’nuff
all too many people
shy away from the topic of poo
out of fear of offending
their mothers reading
their works when they finally
publish their own book
someday
the sieve can address it all
from rape to cannibalism
when we want to say pants
we say trousers
if i say trunk, i mean both
the ass of the car
and a garment to cover your ass
whilst you swim
i have boldly gone where you
have not
the deep has never challenged me
hover, and hold
squatting will keep you from having
to squeeze
but dont fall in
or you’ll become famous
you nobody.
billy the kid next door
rueben the sandwich i love
but my oh my i despise the rye
billy rueben makes me baby yellow
frank billy’s dad
incensed how i feel around him
why are stupid people so mean
frankincense fit for the king of kings
poe was dark and filled me with fear
tree three stories high i climbed as a child
till i fell and hit my tailbone but did
no lasting damage to my bottom
poetry ideas not prose but we dont know why
anyway
frank is totally incensed at the beautiful words
billy could use to write poetry about his awe-filled
thus making it beyond aweful
regular rye wrapped rueben
the sieve and the sand 