Poem-A-Day: Day 49

Balls

It’s a new year marked by balls dropping.

How prophetic,
or metaphorical,

as some baby representing good fortune
dances around in a diaper and sash.

But what of the old fortune,
the hard knocks,
time passed,
and moments missed?

It’s been a year of what ifs,
Holy shits,
did we just do that,
change we can believe in,
fuck ups,
done wells,
firsts,
seconds,
and most certainly not the lasts.

A year marked with a toast;
burning bridges of the yesteryear
with clinking glasses
and champagne supernovas.

Weeping and joy,
it’s something or other, a mess most likely.

And on the dawn of a new day
comes nothing more

than the memory of balls.

Poem-A-Day: Day 48

Imperialist Mind

doing the imperial march
down memory lane,
high stepping,
and pushing things aside
like it makes a difference.

it’s a give and get nothing action,
shoving and taking whatever it takes
to get nothing done,
like the tell on a poker face,
some signal amplified by the speed of sound.

the black parade marches
through the square
until it reaches the lone protester;
an unflinching moment
that seems to never be erased.

it’s a piano tune,
caught like a casualty on the breath of the wind,
bleeding its music through the ears
of an army of none
left in shock and awe.

Poem-A-Day: Day 47

Wings of Wax

Indiscretion is the name
of this sinking ship
bound for ports of call.
S.S. Stuttering to a stop,
dead in the sea of unwashed faces
gracing one winged beauty back.
Angels refusing to fly
because they can’t hold hands,
and instead choose the path
of Icarus descending
down into the ocean;
blue and fervent angry sea.

It’s not the falling that hurts,
it’s sticking the landing
that kills,
shattering knees,
and tugging at the heartstrings
in some sad attempt to release the chute.
It will open,
if only too late.
But the water is soft
compared to the feathers of the wing
that tears to shreds
the finale of thoughts that bleed the ocean red.

Poem-A-Day: Day 46

Oral Report

One night standing ovation
for the orator of these great halls
adorned with candle wicks,
discarded moments,
and misunderstood bewilderment.
The speech is long and touching,
touching on everything that
needs attention;
global warming,
sweating ice caps,
individual rights,
and the deep and penetrating issues.
Each gaze cast to the crowd
is met likewise
by the eyes
locked in the passionate delivery.
It’s an act in exhilaration
for the speaker and the audience,
each moment,
and tender minute passing
is another poetic movement
taken in.

There is no closing argument,
because everyone is in agreement
that it couldn’t have gone better.
And with the crowd pleased,
the speaker bows out
with the doff of a hat...
and a wink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 45

Go Go Gadget Giblets

Whiskey a go go,
we’re going down,
down, down in flames;
a red velvet knapsack disaster
compounded by a slacking
serpentine whisker lickin’ good.

Double over,
double down,
just double up the double mint
julips, tulips,
red lips, dead lips.

Red rooster frowning
beaks a plenty;
throngs of yellow belly
beer busting blasphemous rumors.

Sometimes it’s hard to explain,
the goings on going on.

So instead,
I’ll just have a whiskey to go.

Poem-A-Day: Day 44

Lasting Impressions

It’s a life not lived,
or half-lived,
lacking some lasting
impression;
relief in the marble
casting shadows in the detail
of the craftsmanship.

The craft is mere witchery,
boggling the mind,
stewing in the bubbling muck
that resides within the darkness;
the shadows dancing swiftly like a breeze
slowly blowing across the laughable
boughs of memory’s memories.

The memory is world famous,
one at a time,
here, there, neverwhere—
some lasting impression
pressed skin deep in the mud
that’s washed off of a life,
just lived.

Poem-A-Day: Day 43

Heresy Hearsay

here it comes in wild destructive glory
riding valiant on a steed
held together by sinewy chords;
sound that gallops through the brain
from ear to ear,
in a grinning fashion
that exposes the dirty underbelly
of everyone’s own indifferent
bastardization of what we’ve come to love.

we love fucking up
and blaming everyone else
for some misbegotten gathering on,
like some accidental injury
rubbed deep with shit
so it stands out better on the skin.

there isn’t that big of a difference
between the
sacred,
scared
and the scarred,
because they’re all lying about something
far deeper than the dropping
of salutations and the sacrosanct
solution of some saving grace.

the best thing to do
is to remain calm,
and follow the fall
of this fastidious fellowship,
because it’s far more fascinating
than thinking
about inevitable obliteration.

Poem-A-Day: Day 42

Merry Christmas

Pagan holiday
absconded by the Christians
for magic babies.

Poem-A-Day: Day 41

Well I Never!

The ghosts of people walk past
reminding me of people I’ve never met.
It’s a horrible souvenir;
a globe
filled with dirty underwear
and a little man waving,
and talking
about some beach I’ve never seen.
It’s a pen that’s handed to me,
golden box,
with the message:
“54 years working in the United States.”
It writes me stories,
mysteries that delve into the deepest,
darkest areas
of the insane in my membrane,
though I have never read them.

I have never
realized the things
I’ve never noticed.

Poem-A-Day: Day 40

Christ

someone puked in the doorway,
and there were christ-like apparitions
shooting up in the corner.

girl,
the days keep getting longer 
the longer the sun goes away.

Poem-A-Day: Day 39

And I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues

A day saddened
like any none other
not unlike the next
but just as painful to watch
through rose colored shot glasses.
It’s warm,
and the scent stays
but only so long
as the olfactory shuts down
and the migrant workers return
to their pitiful homes,
tired,
washed up and dirty.
Despite their declining senses,
they know they have just lived
one thousand days longer
than anyone had imagined
in the matter of seconds
passing.

The door becomes the subtle release
to the dark and vacant.
It’s cold,
and despite calamity,
some reticent wind is wailing
sad, sad songs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 38

The Best Part of Waking Up

integrated festivities
sucking shades of yesterday
into kamikaze swirls
of caffeinated fascination.
it’s the dark city
liquid double blending
dripping subtle genius
in decanter dances.

life,
in one hand
sipped platonic.

Poem-A-Day: Day 37

Something to Think About

Red carpet massacre
stripping the last sanguine shred
from the core of copasetic.
It’s a transformation
into something not specified,
but nonetheless deformed somehow;
a tangential wave repeating itself
back and forth,
synchronicity,
robbing every sense and regulation.
It’s well regulated,
and worth thinking about.

Poem-A-Day: Day 36

Dream Warrior

try as I might,
there was no more fight left
     in me.
and while I touched the stars
on cloudy days,
reaching up past streetlights
and broken wishbone collars,
I still have yet to make sense
     of me.
sadly I’m mistaken
often, for other people,
     for myself,
or just in general.
dangling wild-eyed
and phantasmagorically
over the cliffs
     of my
own self pity, doubt,
seemingly endless shadows stalking
every step I take.

I suppose I wouldn’t trade
the horrors
     in my
nightmares
for the best Scotch in town,
but I would trade the angels
     in my
daydreams
for the chance to dream
     of you.

Poem-A-Day: Day 35

Resting in Ease

The scent stays for days.
It’s a blend of familiarity
and unadulterated comfort;
a head resting.


 It’s a scene of calm violence
 tearing to shreds complacency,
 and the sagacity of probity
 of a head resting.


The sense of decorum
is an emulation of home décor;
an absolutely beautiful mess
between two dead resting.


 It’s serene in tragic
 passion of memories passing
 over, and past the thoughts
 of two dead resting.

Poem-A-Day: Day 34

44

the cold steel flashes brilliantly
and fades to gray
in callow hands
sallow eyes
and flaccid fingers probing gently
amongst the pile of dead.

the diadem is no more diamond
than it is a golden halo of thorns
shattered softly on a furrowed brow
sweating bullets.

the ground is soft and malleable
and it pings metallic
rings ironic
and washes thoughts away
in crimson tides drowning borrowed souls.

the trumpet sounds spewing flames
glorious in hues of blues and reds
leaving burnt ember husks
still smoldering
tinder in the hand of god’s callous grace.

all worship the same devil
raining death
reigning death
from high above the skies
clouded by the cinder smoke
and reflected on the scarred land.

Poem-A-Day: Day 33

(-_-)

I once knew the whitest of Asians
Who dabbles in artsy persuasions
She shows up at chance
And puts chaps in a trance
But is never quite in the equations.

Poem-A-Day: Day 32

Cannibal Junction

I’ve been slap-happy silly
one too many times
to think about the consequences
that built up to my arrival.
I am, in a sense best befitting Jesus,
the king of kings of the nonexistent.
My entrance is more grandiose
than my egression,
yet far less noticeable upon repeat viewings.

They tell me,
“It’s just a phase you’re going through.”

But I haven’t been fazed
since Total Recall.
I recall everything in small doses,
jumbled up,
and shit back out on pages
sacrosanct in my vision;
the blind visionary
calling out to deaf crowds.

“Don’t cross the street,
there are cannibals on the other side.”

Poem-A-Day: Day 31

Word Up

I’ve made a business
of turning frowns
into upside-down syndrome,
adding one chromosome,
and playing with the English language
as if it were my dick
or something slightly more interesting.
Words are my tool,
I wind and crank them,
strip them down,
only to rebuild them
and inject them
with my own perverse meaning.
I’m a hackneyed doctor
performing surgical procedures
before I’m licensed by the approving board,
because I’m bored,
and choose to do something
with the only thing
that I have any vague idea about.

Poem-A-Day: Day 30

A Horse Is A Horse

Why the long face
teenage abeaution,
or something like that.
It’s a far cry from beauty queen,
and somewhere not as horrible as an abortion.
There’s no crown,
but a toilet bowl scepter
and a model to match the look.

It’s hard to tell if it’s horse envy,
or the other way around.
Either way I say neigh,
under my whinnies of disapproval
and triple crown champion stock.
It’s lamentable,
only in regards to my arrogance,
and complete lack of sympathy for the devil.

Poem-A-Day: Day 29

Scrivener

Shrapnel shroud,
my exploded seas of change
in golden glowing frames of orange.
I watch the passive roots
surround my feet
and overtake the sweat,
leveling everything
in unknown sanity
like a blue glowing monster
staring me down.
He knows better than I
what will proceed
in contemplating the messages,
that reside
in the dead letter department…

although,

I would prefer not to.

Poem-A-Day: Day 28

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Some random chip
off the old chopping block
can’t clock cold weather coming
soon enough.
Some snuffling,
a tug at scarves and snoods,
hood strings dangling,
draping on chests and necks,
and chestnuts roasting,
toasting the open pits,
our wallets.
It’s dead and dear,
only one letter difference
as it descends
into our hearts and hearths,
warming socks,
clocks,
and chopping blocks
teeming with holiday hams.
Hamming it up
with family units,
untying, unifying,
It’s beginning to beg to differ:
who, when, where, and
why didn’t I get what I asked for?

Poem-A-Day: Day 27

Math is Hard, I’m Done Trying

Contagiously masquerading through
the valley of the shadow of draught,
kicking up heels,
together,
and shouting with the wave of a hat:
ten gallons,
or forty.
Shudder at the thought;
the sky’s drought
cast down like a discarded core,
apples and pears.
Pairs
have a simple meaning,
being two,
or twos of two,
which makes them four total.
Somewhere, where the pairs
are laughing under neon tubes illumination,
is a note scribbled on a napkin.
It has numbers,
sequentially mixed
side-by-side.
In the context of things
it makes sense,
but there’s no use for it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 26

Cloud Gazing

Poem-A-Day: Day 25

Response to Hate Mail

Dear Reader,
 It is, with my understanding
that I have deeply offended
one, or all of you.
To this,
I give my sweetest condolences?
Perhaps, as a token
of my true understanding
of our venerable, personal relationship,
that I offer you my life
in response.
At least, I would,
if you hadn’t already taken it.

   Yours,
   Author

Poem-A-Day: Day 24

Rolling the Die

Poem-A-Day: Day 23

Nightmare

Residual,
like a bad dream
that you fall back into
time and time again.
It’s not reoccurring
because it’s only one night
of horrible memories
and villainy,
calamitous intent
that drives the stake
into a werewolf heart.
It doesn’t do anything.

It’s laughable in the morning
after the cold sweats
recede.

Poem-A-Day: Day 22

Dark Side of My Moon

Sacrosanct the words
that etch their way
into the indelible memories,
like an ulcer;
acid eating away at soft tissue,
or collections of silver halides
caused from exposure,
to a what that remains unclear.

But the word’s permanence
takes precedence,
residence,
and grips tightly to the tendrils,
neurons hanging
from a jellyfish brain.

The words and diction,
a collection
of dictionary definitions
set to rhythm,

prismatic winding words
cast off in every direction.

Poem-A-Day: Day 21

Poem-A-Day: Day 20

After a Rain

Sometimes the trees looked like perfect mirrors
releasing

d
r
o
p
s

of water
from high above transcendent thoughts.

Poem-A-Day: Day 19

Last Call

a slap in the face
and a promise of
steady attendance
to a classroom drenched
in neon lights
the smell of despair
misery and mire
sludge of wasted dreams
genius and
a trite attempt at
best made attempts
uncorking a pale comparison
that would become
or has
what now
have more
in sudden realization
bread a salted round
and dropping dime
on wet counters
leaving under the power
of my own true self

Poem-A-Day: Day 18

Winter Nights

The air smells cold
and the wind calls my name in frigid whisper.

My gloves are on,
but I still feel the sting
of the freeze
tingling fingers
and soul alike.

I take two steps
and numbing air tells me to take ten more.

The wind doesn’t know,
but it tries in vain
to intercept
my veins and thoughts
with a chilling desperation.

My feet are a burden
and I wonder if walking has turned to bitter conversation.

I lay down to death,
but it’s no less a yoke
than it is
some joking anxiousness
waiting to be heard.

The algid air winks
and reaches out to me with compassionate boreal grace.

Poem-A-Day: Day 17

The Some of All Fears

Somewhere
I left life in the lurch,
or it left me
something
that I just don’t understand.
Not fully,
I get the point
sometimes,
but not often enough really.
I tell myself
that I’m in the know,
when I’m really
face down in the shit.
I’m not sure
how I got there, but
somehow
I ended up cheek deep
in a mess.
Maybe there’s hope yet.
Someday
I’ll be your next,
best thing
since deciding to shower.
Or I’ll be the next,
prominent figurehead
in the field of poetry.
I’d be
somebody.

But as it stands,
I’m nobody,
just the next,
great poorhouse slave
working to live,
schooling to tell myself
that what I will amount to
is more
than another wasted space,
someplace
other than here.
I’d like to think,
but I can’t,
because I am no more,
than the same
someone
that sits next to you on the bus.

Somewhere,
life is laughing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 16

I’m Talking to the Man in the Mirror

This man
before me
looks strange
but familiar,
he’s charming
platonically speaking.

We begin speaking,
but this man
is too charming.
More than me,
and it’s unfamiliar.
The thoughts strange.

I shouldn’t feel strange
when we are speaking,
because I feel familiar
with how this man
presents himself to me.
We are both charming

each other. It’s reflectively charming
how the interaction is strangely
like something seen before. Me,
the one doing the speaking
to this attentive handsome man.
It’s not gay, but familiar.

Why should it seem so familiar?
Because we are both insanely charming?
From what place did this man 
come to me from? It’s strange
to question something like harmless speaking.
I feel like he knows me.

He touches on every aspect of me,
and the coincidences are beyond the familiar.
It’s like he’s dissecting me by speaking
to me in the most unthreatening, charming
way possible. His smiles match mine strangely.
Why am I attracted to this man?

And I before me is this mirror man,
who is fluently speaking a language beyond charming.
I am so familiar, because it isn’t strange.

Poem-A-Day: Day 15

Expand/Collapse

She stands
confused as always.
Always and never,
always never,
never was.

Like a blank sheet of paper
awaiting the next great
dialogue of modern moments
that would never happen.
Never and always,
never always,
always will.

It’s a transcendental moment of clarity
lost amongst the clarity of the night sky,
washed into the blackness
pockmarked by countless beauties
that hang like candelabras,
swaying with each upward glance
that happen to fall
at the end of every sentence.
Every and once,
every once,
once in a while.

It’s the feeling of surrender,
that tender slap not spoken
that goes without saying
for once in my life.
Once and every,
once every,
every day.

I stand,
like a simile,
painting suggestive pictures
of me
and you.

Poem-A-Day: Day 14

Sudden Stops

Two black marks
on the gray pavement;
tire tracks that fell just short
of inevitable ruin,
or remarkable, agonizing luck.
The cement median
is unscathed,
not fazed
by whatever may have transpired,
or almost…
I can look at these marks,
and put myself in place
of whatever may have happened,
if only because I am a dreamer,
and my dreams often suffer
the same inglorious demise.
It’s a bitter battle,
loving the friction
that keeps me held in place,
and the sudden
fear of realization
that takes me from it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 13

Sitting

I sit
blood purpling
on my fingertips
from working hard,
hardly working.
Slamming away at my mind,
punching,
berating,
debasing everything
by restating it in sentimental fashion
over worded,
and complicated.
It’s no wonder nobody ever understands
me.
The keys to my soul
laid out “qwerty,”
when it should read “dirty.”
A cesspool of life
that’s sharper than it appears,
cutting each examining hand,
rendering them bloody
and lost,
stumbling to figure
what just happened.
Nothing happened…
It’s no wonder
I sit.

Poem-A-Day: Day 12

Meditation’s Fifth

I want to get back
because it’s dark again…
it gets dark
every single day
around strangely changing similar times.
But I’m stupid to want,
because I embrace the dark
in some blissful reverie
that finds two eyes
staring back in contemptuous bewilderment.
So I get back,
and get down
with it.
I find myself
mesmerized by the mysterious quantitative
that surrounds entirety.
It’s something
more than the self-
destructive delight
that I find makes life oddly livable for now.

Poem-A-Day: Day 11

Tattoos

Two bodies writhing
The scent of sweat and latex
Gracing artistry

Thieves’ Den

Transient bus stop
Housing countless vagabonds
Waiting for repose

Lonely Bulb

Hummus on my breath
A garlic bold reminder
Of my lonely state

Hai-Coup D’etat

The turn of a phrase
To well worded mastery
Of poetic form

Between Classes

The spectral voices
Echo through the deepest bones
Hungered harmony

Jesus Christ Stupid Star

Bearded misanthrope
The Student Center Jesus
Preaches to his crowd

Insomnia

Two shadowy orbs
Visual sunken treasures
Of the sleepless nights

Simplicity

Forging false resolve
In languid simplicity
Wanting nothing more

Poem-A-Day: Day 10

Everything In-Between

Carefully searching for thoughts,
combing the stalks of deserted dreams
adorning a furrowed brow.
The landscape belies a life
that has, and will have been;
a playful escape from reality
and its clever attempts at distraction.
Destruction wrought reverie
galloping on gilded steeds
with lance in hand, dust in tow,
spearheading another crazy idea
that is just so crazy,
that it may actually work this time.
Insanity is, and always will be
the best form of entertainment televised.
Vision, regrettably leading nowhere,
but pleasing to those, eyes
haunting every waking nightmare
not easily woken.
A life carefully searching
for thoughts, forethought,
and everything in-between.

Poem-A-Day: Day 9

See You Next Fall

I often wonder,
wander,
but always waver
ever so slightly.
Like particle acceleration
not really moving,
but shaking back
and forth
so fervently,
feverishly,
falsely,
that if I was photographed
under a long exposure,
you could see movement,
but no emotion.
Exposure,
I’m usually exposed
in some way
or another:
fly down
hair disheveled,
naked
and drunk
passed out face up
on a pile
of clean laundry,
or just being
a loud mouth
like normal.
It’s funny to think,
travel,
and trip along the way.

At least I can get up
without professional medical help.

Poem-A-Day: Day 8

Caretaking

Stick a fork in him,
but not to check the done.
He’s been done gone
and dead
for years.
The fork
is simply to pull
what little left of worth
remains in these remains.
It’s a tiring act
that’s left the caretaker
caring less each day.
The body
doesn’t really need care
it just seems to enjoy it
in some twisted way,
gnarled fingers
pointing in
conspicuous directions,
motioning
in some half begotten way:
hither.
Too bad
it has nothing to say
but rotten
drops of teeth
and leathery winks.

Poem-A-Day: Bonus 7 Day Anniversary Poem

I have to admit that this is directly inspired from hearing that Levis commercial with the Walt Whitman poem, Pioneers! O Pioneers!. Was it Whitman or the Levis, you be the judge.

Tell the People

Tell the people,
 go tell the people.

Tell them what they have always
wanted to hear, and do it in
an inside voice, so as not to cause alarm.

Tell them the truth, regardless
of the situation and scads of
lies that have become precedent.

Tell the people,
 go tell the people.

Tell them without shouting
that the act of being is relative, at
least in terms of everything.

Tell them to weep, because
that is humanity; knowing that they
are merely the afterthought to exist.

Tell the people,
 go tell the people.

Tell them that they
have become what they are;
a structured sense of irrationality.

Tell them this message in
a clear way, so the message stays pure.
The words could be lost in form.

Poem-A-Day: Day 7

Meditations on the Chi-Lites

Have you seen her?

Tell me,
have you seen her?

The wild eyed goddess
dancing out of control,
mine.
I laugh,
snapping my fingers
and whistling Dixie.

Have you seen her?

Tell me,
have you seen her?

It’s the same sad tune
I’ve sung for years,
humming
and talking
of the lost years
left leaning on myself.

Have you seen her?

Tell me,
have you seen her?

There is resolution
in knowing at the very
least,
I have
known something,
if barely anything.

I have seen her.

Tell me,
have you seen her?

Poem-A-Day: Day 6

It’s Always Darkest Before Turning on the Lights

It’s easy to lose
track of things when it’s dark,
thoughts tend to push others,
bullying,
pompous,
like the kid still wearing his varsity coat.

Give it up retard.

It’s the darkest part of the day
that pushes every person to
that point,
the tip 
of the iceberg
with so much beneath it.

People fail to mention
everything above it.

The air, wind, gravity
pulling down.
There’s always something pulling down,
lifting up,
and rattling the think-tank
on the countertop.

Like lifting weights,
waits,
looking for something,
but seeing everything instead.

Sometimes it’s hard
to remember
that the icebergs are merely rocks
adorning aqueous tranquility,
slowly melting
into passionate thoughts.

It was too bad once,
but it seems it’s so far beyond
bad,
that it’s good,
graceous, electric candlelight love.

Thoughts through still,
through but not gone,
a slight haze,
though not slighted in the least.
Complacency,
simplicity,

past dreaming,
and well into the night
that’s pitch black,
except for a single star
shining
through clouds.

Poem-A-Day: Day 5

The Philosophy of Nothing

Philosophy is
the art of stating nothing
in the most longwinded
confounding fashion
while not actually getting to the specific idea,
because there isn’t one.
It’s citing someone
who said something plainly
and then elaborating on it
in a way that obscures it
to a point
where it doesn’t mean
anything.
It could be then assumed,
that while philosophy
being the art of deception,
deceptively tells us of our needs
to see things that we don’t want to see,
despite the fact that we are seeing
nothing at all.
Nothing
manifests itself as the most
peculiar bunch of
everything.
Kant believed that Being
was the subject of all predicates;
the sum of all reality.
Which is to say
that being is being beyond
the simplest of ideas.
Being is an act of reality
seeking the sum of reason,
which can then be viewed
as the equation of existence.
Being that acts of reason
have a basis in reality more noble
than the condition of all objects
in the purest of forms,
it can be antiquated that reason
is lost.

Philosophically speaking,
nothing has been said
in an overly elaborative fashion.
So are philosophers fashionable,
or nothing to be concerned with?

Poem-A-Day: Day 4

Sadly

“Sadly…”

was the last thing I heard that day
before I leapt through the door
like I had something to prove.
Don’t we all?
Proving to ourselves
that each day we can wake up
and manage the hum-drummery
of typical day-to-day
in and out
punching clocks.
We beat ourselves up
the same way.
But leaping through the door,
it was an act in self-reliance.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1841.
The call for staunch individualism,
avoid conformity,
and false consistency.
That goes against the very needs
of proof.
Consistency,
oil-like,
the ilk of society
milking their desks for money,
not really understanding why
they leapt through the door
in the first place.

I woke up that day
with their same goal of perfection in mind.
Raise the flag high,
and the pay higher;
a jolly roger signaling to those near
that I mean business,
or at least,
mean to liberate it from them.
But as I held my chin up,
and cinched the Italian silk noose
of hatred perpetuity,
She simply looked at me
from her spot
lazily maintained in an unkempt bed,
and waited
until I was ready to lunge out the door,
and she said poignantly,

“Sadly…”

Poem-A-Day: Day 3

Sonnet #38 (Tract on Writing)

Somewhere deep in stratospheric thinking
sits dishevelment unraveled, sinking
down in levels similar to stinking
calloused eyes. There, among the transient
sallow moments and people not quite there;
a briskly floating bubble cast on air
that’s waiting for the pop to leave its prayer,
So something more is left for permanent.
It’s not perceived as sad, because it’s lust
that drives the passion to be printed, thrust
in between the sheets, making moments bust
forth from wicked, wild splendor salient.
The time that fades to shade from day to day
is nary thought a wasted word bouquet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 2

Now

Feeling like it’s now,
not now,
but the not next rendering,
fat
grease
in typically worded algorhythms.

Music to my ears,
I drink it up,
drink your milkshake
to the meandering motions in the yard,
yearning to be on the greener pasture.

It’s the same fucking street
that I drive down every day though.
That’s the point I guess,
smiling and waving
at the passers-by passing by.

I am the passer
passing myself on the one way
intersection intersecting thoughts
with the next now,
not now,
feeling like it’s now.

I do the right thing,
do the next thing
and hang myself high on the flagpole,
hang myself.
Swingin’ like a dick in the breeze.

I’m a dick
with a dick to match
tit for tat,
I spit on my sleeve to wipe the dirt away.
My mind.

It’s the farthest thing from now,
not now,
but the next normal now,
which is to say there is no now.
Not now.
I’m feeling.

Poem-A-Day: Intro

This is the first entry in my attempt to write a poem a day. No, this is not inspired by that goddamn movie about Julia Child (as a sidenote, I would like to state that I have no problem with Julia Child, and I think she was a fantastic chef and woman). Instead, it is an attempt to keep me focused on writing, despite the stresses of studies and work. The idea is to just sit and write out what comes to mind at that moment. Similar to perhaps Ginsberg, but infinitely less speed involved.

In the future, I'll just post the poems without all this bullshit introduction stuff.

Drop a line if you like, call me gay, whatever it takes to float your boat, or toot your horn. Although, I would avoid tooting your horn too often in public, look what happened to Pee Wee Herman.

Anyhow, steady class attendance would be much obliged. So without further adieu, the beginning of a 365 day journey into the mental mess that is my brainus.

Everything is Eventual

Everything is eventual in this goddamn world.

My ears blister under
 the blast of waves of mutilation
  blaring the hot sun sound that dances on my head.

It’s an act of unimportance,
 acquiescence to myself,
  acquitted from my self.

Finally I don’t mind
 drowning when I should be breathing,
  drifting when I should be earning.

And the waves crash
 warping the hardwood doors,
  worshipping my new found sense of confidence not to
  continue.

Everything is eventual in this goddamn world.

In the high life again,
 haranguing the books at my feet for failing,
  home to my own guilt.

What was right,
 rough-hewn bricks in the wall
  regaling with glittering gold stories.

All that glitters has the wrong attitude.
 Gleefully believing it’s gold,
  glad I know better.

You were right when you said,
 “Respectfully, I decline your advances.”
  Rooftop serenade in moonlight madness.

Everything is eventual in this goddamn world.
 Everything is never all right.