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.