jalopy

poetry

i drove this rusty bucket down
what apparently was the wrong
way on a one way street, i noticed
because all of the ladies with their
children were dropping their jaws

i grinned because they look funny
with their mouths wide, waiting

my grin says be prepared

i was having a wicked conversation
that stuttered and stopped like
my old jalopy, i’d keep going
over the same lines driving
the wrong way and eventually
they’d get me (i knew)

i had the gumption but not
the guts to just gas it when they
pulled up behind me screaming,
waving their batons talking
about one way streets and
their directional nonsense

behind bars i dream of driving,
still.

pissed off

poetry

my fists are my sanctuary today

i throw them at:

the chinese clouds
raining their water-torcher

my box
and pet roaches and in
animate objects

cans of pop
indefinitely tipping

my own hands
knocking things
over and off

my eyes for their
tricks

every thing that
does not bend to
them gets broken
by my fists today

(i try so hard on every
other day but today)

and i hide in them
genuinely wanting to be
left alone from even
myself.

the highway to madness is madness

poetry

let us not be uncertain,
this map of ours is always
changing. let us run gallantly
towards insanity, headfirst, in
cart-pull-horse fashion.
let us listen with all ears
to our dead fathers and
contemporaries on different
parts of this path,
let us study their madness.
go now,
run,
dauntless till body gaunt
and thinner wire than current,
strung tighter than now,
let us get there because it
is the only way.
but how?
it is not the only direction!
let us first discern with
certainty the next direction
to follow from our map of
great confoundment.
let us get there or we,
gentlemen,
are all nothing.

my tombstone should include “wide-eyed” on it somewhere

poetry

i am wide eyed and high floating
above rivers of happy
philistines and i find that
everything is funny because
it’s all so very grave.
waves of irony end their journey
from: our massive sun-god
to: my face and
amplify my smile;
coloring all things in their
deep, deep comedy.

i smile and graze over the
earth with my eyes lightly
so as to not break a thing.

“humans are bad balloons”
i think and
look down
as i deflate
the crumbly breaky surface
giving way at the thought of
my come-down. sunshine
turning into heat
bird chirps
turning into traffic
smog
all things blackening and
crumbling as i come down.
i grab at the comedy but
cannot hold anything,
not even the air.

50% opacity

poetry

losing myself
daily
now
brains eyes ears
dulling
every day now
all these things looking
sounding
differently
either that or i’m remembering it
wrong
again. is it the light…
or the sleep
wearing
me
down?
these thieves in every air
particle
even now stealing my
breath.
too tired to get me
back.

loveless (or call the dogs off, jesus)

poetry

nothing can be more appealing
to me than the beauty of a woman;
i see in her figure, and in her form,
(or what she shows me of it)
the chesapeake, the rockies,
the sky.

however, much unlike a good book,
or an album,
the insides of a human are
much less appealing than the
outside. i venture to say:
this anomaly is not found
outside of our personal
shared condition.
the slow and painful stuttering
dive of disinterest that forms
once cracking open the spine
of one of these most
appealing vixens.

i hear the retorts of a million
dead poets in my ears, the
sheepish cry of billions
of single-celled
omnivorous,
monogamous,
thoughtless populi screaming:
but for love!
oh, i hear you all,
all of you shape-shifting spineless
oafs,
willing to subject yourself to
untold ignorances under the
name of some vague emotional
and societal ploy.

i say,
we have multiplied
many times over,
jesus,
now call the dogs off.
i am loveless.

climbing a fence

poetry

blah blah you
self-assured like the civil war
full of shit sayin’ god put it there
standing at a gate
with the key
someone inside and i wish it wasn’t
me
seeing like a blind man with a
telescope and some other
metaphors that would cut real
deep
if i had only used your name.

stick man

poetry

your the stick man and
they made a pencil outta you
woah your friends are all left
and your tryin’ to keep it right
they got a number for you
and you know it’s no. 2
you see the blue lines in the sky
nothin’ quite fits inside of them
you celebrate your loneliness with
nights by the sharpener
woah and you’ve got nothin’
nothin’ to write down.

when the tin man tries to love

poetry

when the tin man tries to love,
his lover working endlessly
to purchase more oil for his
useless joints,
the battery acid may suffice
for months;
however, as we all know,
and in the back of his lover’s
mind at all times,
there are gears under his
tin chest. and on lazy sundays
when the sun floats through
the slits in the shades,
and they lie awake, she should
know that when the battery
acid wears off, he will no longer
feel the warmth of her touch.
and worse yet
when the oil gets thick
and
his going
gets tough
and the
battery acid
isn’t doing it
any-
more
the gears in his chest will
drive him to the door.
(or maybe the cpu, or
his legs, or his feet,
or his hamstrings,
irregardless)
one day the tin man will shut
the door behind him and
freeze up a half-mile down
the street, with no oil saved
up to keep him spry.

rain cloud

poetry

i am the rain cloud above the
ignorance parade.
i block out the sun
and ask “where did you
put your umbrella?”

i did not choose this.

i can be light as any cloud,
when there is no rain for
me to fall. i can let the sun
through when the wind pushes
me out of the way, or when
i am not feeling gray.
why should i feel bad?
i am like anything else.
without emotions getting
in the way.

last day of summer and/or fall sucks

poetry

i can write LOVE on my arm
all day long but i cannot
stop the fall from falling
all over me like a whale.
sanity leaving with the
leaves i am a helpless
child to the rhymeless
wastes and abandoned humanity
that is MOUNT PLEASANT,
MI 48858 (Apt #A253).
all the debts must be
wrung in,
all of the snide comments
must be said,
all of the comfort must
get sucked with the humidity
and brought down south
to comfort the old souls
in florida being fed
by tubes and so-on.

do you remember the last
day of summer? when
we traded a pack of
cigarettes for a beautiful
sun, clouds, temperature,
scenery and situation?
that day was the last
drop of water in our
trip through the sahara.

the civil war that depleted all the soil of the soul

poetry

the worst part is
i’ve got nothing to say to myself
let alone at all
the colors of fall
they blind me with apathy
coat me with meloncholy
stifle me with uno

rigi

nali

ty
clog my veins into a syrupy
oil so thick it’s
not to be used by
farm tractors

let alone human beings
i touch the brink of a
thought with the tongue
of my mind and then it
withers away in the
laziest way
the craziest way
how can an artist ever
get payed this way?
i mean,
how long until i chop
off my ear?
or
will i even ever chop
it off?
that failure, too,
is the worst part.

diary entry from a shipmate

poetry

the oceans currents go into
circulate around in
and through my brain
on this damned ship
of which i am the only
sane man.
they save me when i jump,
nothing could be more
maddening,
having a ship of loons
save your life and call
you mad,
you.
i have forgotten where
we are going, though
the captain is assuring
us all that “we will
make it.”
his words sting worse
than the cold water
after leaping off
board.
must it be a 5th time
before they let me
float like an angel
in the ocean of god’s
arms?

qvc

poetry

DO YOU REMEMBER THE RIDE TO CRAIGS CRUISERS
DSC00542
WHEN IT WAS REALLY SUNNY
AND WE WERE PLAYING THE RADIO LOUD
AND WE HAD ALL OF THOSE TRAMADOL
THAT YOUR GRANDMOTHER LEFT YOUR MOTHER?
WASN’T THE SUN LIKE GOD AND
THE CLOUDS LIKE ANGELS AND
THE BLUE SKY LIKE HEAVEN?
bluesky
REMEMBER GETTING HIGH RIGHT BEFORE
WALKING INTO YOUR PARENT’S HOUSE?
BECAUSE SOMETIMES BAD IDEAS CAN
BE GOOD ONES, TOO.
DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU HAUNT
ME?
OR I HAUNT ME?
OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT?
YOU KNOW, IN REGARDS TO THESE THINGS
BEING MEMORIES?
THE PAST FUCKING HAUNTS ME,
I GUESS.
AND SONGS LIKE “SHOULD HAVE TAKEN
ACID WITH YOU” BY NEON INDIAN
MAKE ME WANT TO JUMP OFF OF
MY SECOND STORY BALCONY TO MAKE
A POINT TO MYSELF,
OR TO BE HONEST TO MYSELF.
BECAUSE THINKING OF YOU MAKES
ME
DO
THINGS
LIKETHAT.