Poem-A-Day: Day 414

Say What

Say out, what make? 

A crazy body,
hot infatuation got fire inside…
so bright.

Say hell, think done.

Drive higher,
higher out when nothing's going… 
oh liar

No future,
the use in keeping wrapped alright…
Why fall at all?

Say hell, you drive.

Higher and higher,
make going on a liar as good as dead…
polish either.

Say don't, either make.

Fool heart,
rue tore head apart, move on…
right wrong.

Say hell, done higher.

Higher out,
when nothing's such a liar as good as dead…
don't polish. 

Say what the hell.

Think higher, 
and make when going on what…
hell, you think higher and out
when nothing's going such.

Poem-A-Day: Day 413

Pistol

Get your gun,
together the beat goes on.

Get your gun,
together we have some fun tonight. 

No intervention on information,
the station,
the floor,
the law
crime prevention,
the population,
your name and number.

Get your gun,
together the beat goes on
a criminal situation.

Get your gun,
together we have some fun tonight
criminal.

You need your own protection,
too scared
to mention
the floor,
the law,
all emotion,
this commotion,
like a soldier.

Get your gun,
together the beat goes on
a criminal situation.

Get your gun,
together we have some fun tonight
criminal.

No intervention,
cover the station,
the floor,
the law
crime prevention,
the population,
your name and number.
 
together we have some fun tonight;
get your gun.
 
together the beat goes on;
get your gun.

Poem-A-Day: Day 412

Oh L’Amour

Oh heart now aching,
what's love supposed to do?

Looking for looking,
always reaching for blind to see.
Oh heart, leave me falling on my own.

Oh heart now aching,
what's love supposed to do?

Throw it away,
walk out for the day for the way. 
A time by my side wasn't kind for the ride.

Oh heart now aching,
what's love supposed to do?

Emotional ties remember,
lay down, die, blame love; my heart.
You now tore me apart, hurt inside-out. 

Oh heart now aching,
what's love supposed to do?

Oh heart now aching,
what's love supposed to do?

Poem-A-Day: Day 411

My Heart…So Blue

her picture
the wall
I remember
keep it 
doors cold 
windows grey
I write 
I should 

wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue
wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue

it's over
I write 
No notice
less crowd
eyes open
it suits 
dear god
no mercy 

wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue
wave goodbye
for you

shed tears
no shame
a consolation
hides her 
a victim
light shines 
her picture
hold it 

wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue
wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue

wave goodbye
my heart...
so blue
wave goodbye
for you

Poem-A-Day: Day 410

March on Down the Line

Out!
I'll stand on this sun. 

A new day coming,
time, name,
the game on down the line.

To share about inside,
this place a shotgun fire.

A new way this time,
a new name,
the march down the line.

A new day coming,
time, name,
the game on down the line.

Now fight, stand tall again,
on our side dance to heaven

A new day coming,
time, name,
the game on down the line. 

Day away,
coming this game down the line.

Poem-A-Day: Day 409

Love is a Loser

Forever let me know the cold.
Leave me devotion,
control my side,
a surprise is just infatuation.
Love is dancing so appealing:
rocking and reeling.
How did it happen on my mind?
Hold, and tell how they keep hearts
just more crazy all another.
Today word the passionless play forever.
Let that cold leave alone.
Show devotion control on my surprise.
“Love is infatuation.”
I say, dancing the stop today.
My word: the passionless play
across the nation.
Dancing across...

Poem-A-Day: Day 408

Say What

Say out, what make? 

A crazy body,
hot infatuation got fire inside…
so bright.

Say hell, think done.

Drive higher,
higher out when nothing's going… 
oh liar

No future,
the use in keeping wrapped alright…
Why fall at all?

Say hell, you drive.

Higher and higher,
make going on a liar as good as dead…
polish either.

Say don't, either make.

Fool heart,
rue tore head apart, move on…
right wrong.

Say hell, done higher.

Higher out,
when nothing's such a liar as good as dead…
don't polish. 

Say what the hell.

Think higher, 
and make when going on what…
hell, you think higher and out
when nothing's going such.

Poem-A-Day: Day 407

Heavenly Action

Made heaven,
all is some action,
reaction in heaven.
All is your action.

Found standing
in line, the mark went
through, a real impression.
On this heart, now what?

In heaven,
all is that reaction
made in heaven.
All is some of that.

My lover,
I want another angel.
Heaven be my want,
another from heaven.

In heaven
all is action.

Arrow heart,
meant to be my name calling
Celebration now standing,
stand in motion; falling, falling.

Angel made,
I want some of that action,
reaction, in heaven
all I want is that action.

Be another,
my heaven,
my another,
my angel…angel.

Angel made,
all I want is that.
Action, reaction,
in heaven is that action,

in heaven, all that action made
in heaven, all I want is some action.

Poem-A-Day: Day 406

Senseless

Go get captivated,
give secrets away,
drive senseless tunnel vision state of mind.

Alright,
alright to… 
it's alright,
stay alright,
it's alright to feel
alright,
so it's alright.

There, some harmony;
the maddening silence,
hang, moving on confusion that's keeping behind.

Alright,
alright to… 
it's alright,
stay alright,
it's alright to feel
alright,
so it's alright.

Alright,
alright to… 
it's alright,
stay alright,
it's alright to feel
alright,
so it's alright.

There, better stop, 
inhibition's slipping,
share the secret only state of mind.

Alright,
alright to… 
it's alright,
stay alright,
it's alright to feel
alright,
so it's alright.

Alright,
alright to… 
it's alright,
stay alright,
it's alright to feel
alright,
so it's alright.

Poem-A-Day: Day 405

Cry So Easy

The line don't want my unresponsive you.
the effort, you devil disguise
trying affection so easy.
Expect to believe
in love looking,
you're looking.
Say: “Never me,
can't believe in love.” 
Looking danger opened up eyes unsuspecting…
fool effort.
What about tonight trying nothing?
Cry. Expect me to love that looking tears.
I can't believe love that looking for before.
So easy, expect to believe the looking…
the looking.
Say: “Never.” 
But I can't believe that you're looking. 
You see…
you're turning cold
like the effort now not mine.
No use in time to cry so easy,
believe that you're looking easy,
and I believe the love.
For the kind you felt before so easy,
expect to love that looking. 
You're looking for me.
I believe that for me
they come easy.
Please leave me in the love
so easy to believe…
the love
looking.

Poem-A-Day: Day 404

Reunion

You've been on my mind,
waiting to arrive.

So the hours go.
It really got you here, blind.

I see light is alright with me,
so close time, see feeling.

Always mine, reunion…
this reunion mine.

Believe never again, saying:
“a fool whispering words ashamed.”

They tried to stop, still dreaming a world of sorrow
all alone, what a thousand nights more empty.

Believe reunion…
this reunion mine.

Feel fine with a true story,
somehow blues leave you behind.

Here together wasting time
calling in the air that something.

More than share returns
more sad parting.

I got reunion…
this reunion mine.

Reunion…
this reunion mine.

Poem-A-Day: Day 403

From now until I finish I'll be working on my series called Erasures².

Erasure was a band that came to prominence during the 80s.

Erasures in poetry consist of taking previously written material and getting rid of the stuff that you don't need, keeping the words you want.

This venture will blend the two. I'll be doing erasures of all of Erasure's songs from the first studio album release, Wonderland, to their last studio release.

Who Needs Love (Like That)

Who needs that something on,
something right,
something strange?
To me, the voices in my head
seem the way to be.

Who needs that who like that?

So clear before my point of view
kept conversation changed all wrong.
Words are hard around the same.

Who needs that who like that?

Turn upside-down and leave cold.
See all control, all control
to understand why
I remember lines.
But I see nothing now will stay.

Who needs that who like that?

Love upside-down
and leave to see
you're losing, losing control.

Who needs that who like that?

Turn you down and you see
you're control, all control.

Poem-A-Day: Day 402

Ghost Stories

soft reflection sad grace
broke spirit rage fire
loud whisper hand gesture
regret some regret hope
gain nothing want nothing
lost whisper cheer gesture
spill spirit dead fire
ghost reflection soft grace

Poem-A-Day: Day 401

Poem-A-Day: Day 400

Tom Jones

Regular scratching
And a heap of purring fur
Affixed to my lap

Poem-A-Day: Day 399

The Rascal

Aptly remembered
In the cold winter fallout
Wandering away

Poem-A-Day: Day 398

Leak Bepo

Scanning the line scorned,
one sets quiet rumination
lamenting Poe and Blake
in bastardized concupiscence
between unlikely lovers
spitting bull and puck
between brass and tacks,
a lust gone missing over days.

Poem-A-Day: Day 397

Science Meddling

The science behind the silhouette 
is nothing more than stealing beauty
in quick lifted shivers,
and atomic blast flashes
rendering questions obsolete.

She’s a sad beauty sinking silver chrome
into the sea cast over shallows
and the same sinister minnows
that clash against skies
blinking below Earth’s bastion.

The same science shallows introspective
and gleaming blistering separation,
the ravaging strange that calls
in certain faltering calms
that fill the responsible voice outside.

Poem-A-Day: Day 396

Lambs to the Slaughter

To be delivered from a milk-crate
to passersby on a busy Chicago street in mid-July.

Dear sirs and madams giving attendance
to my speech that lacks some clear transcendence.
Allow me to shout about some issues
that have been rendering my thoughts askew.
I find I must address some serious
issues that have become imperious
when it comes to the millions now living
that will never die because their giving
lives have given life to countless others.
Oh dearest of my sisters and brothers,
please listen to the struggles of my plea.
I’m not one for words or the third degree,
and I’ve been guilty of the same offense
that I have come to argue civil defense.
I’ve eaten animals and watched them die
at my hands, all with little more than wry,
and witty quips about how the tongues fall
in similar retarded ways on all
dead beasts. I’m no god among the subjects
that I hold dominion over, the next
meal is all I’m guilty of searching for.
I mean no real harm, I’m simply poor.
No, my means for argument are zealous,
and far more repulsive than the jealous
few who think they know my pointed fervor.
They reside as the silent observer
listening to the whimpers and cat-calls
from those forgotten few locked in the stalls.
The animals that do not seek favor,
are the same that we have come to savor.
I’m not asking for much when it comes to
this matter, and I’m not asking for you
to stop or start eating meat. I’m merely
asking for you to do something clearly
not happening, clearly not being done.
I ask for respect, for those that are shunned,
and treated like shit in their coops and pens.
Treat them as a pet, or maybe a friend.
Let them observe some normal conditions
for living, go against the traditions 
of factory farming, give them freedom
to move, to live life before they succumb
to the harsh reality that they’ve been
bred for their meat. Their original sin
was nothing more than being bred for food,
and they’re in hell, there’s nothing to allude
to in this situation. Their lives are
force-fed to them  through tubes, it’s some bizarre
lack of life, nothing, except denial
of the same freedoms our pets find worthwhile.
 As a meat-eater I’m not asking much.
I’m not looking to convert you as such,
and because you’ve been such courteous guests
I ask that you listen to my request:
stop factory farming and show respect
to the animals that we’ve come to neglect.
There are ecological substitutes
to factory farming that don’t pollute
as much, and provide more adequate care
for the animals before they’re prepared
for the slaughter. There will never be one
correct and one wrong in this overdone
debate about whether one should eat meat
or go vegetarian. The deceit
is in the condition of animal
lives. They have no lives, only death corral.
They are lambs to the slaughter at our hands,
and we greet them with salt, and buttered pans.
I’ve left no time for questions, and my soap-
box speech is over. I can only hope
that my words did not fall on the deaf and
dumb ears that I find typically stand
in my audience, but you seem like smart
people. Spread my message as you depart.

Poem-A-Day: Day 395

The Lost

Nameless faces stare
From their own shattered remains
Craving remembrance

Poem-A-Day: Day 394

Stone God

The cold trees whispered
About the stone monolith
Iconic to death

Poem-A-Day: Day 393

Teufelmund

From the Devil’s maw
Came the ghosts of lost and damned
Souls seeking favor

Poem-A-Day: Day 392

Roberta

Roberta cried simple tears,
simple luminous globules
not running, but sauntering
down three cheek weeks.

She tried to stop simplicity,
stop it dead in its tracks,
but it ended up dead fettered,
dead completely unwound,
a simple lost tune on the air.

Roberta spelled her last breath,
spelled it into a three word tear
that wasn’t quite what she thought,
but it was good enough.

Poem-A-Day; Day 391

Windier

The wind captures the spiral
out of control, candor spilling shills
in simple ways, in a jam, bent wheels
caught up under what was, the sheer
force of windier spinal cords.

Poem-A-Day: Day 390

Derrida is Dead

Derrida is dead
deconstructing the heavens,
which bears repeating.
Deconstructing the heavens,
which bears repeating.
Deconstructing the heavens,
which bears repeating.
Which bears repeated heaving
from established norms,
the established normative
that has caused thinking
upon thinking on thinking,
circuitous thought
that deconstructs the nothing,
creating nothing
and bears repeated heaving
from philosophical values.

Poem-A-Day: Day 389

Electric Chairs

Reflective whispers
Luminate wandering eyes
And their broken dreams

Poem-A-Day: Day 388

Spectral Fog

Abysmal waver
Dancing somewhere inbetween
A lack of balance

Poem-A-Day: Day 387

It's, Its

It's something other
Than its own preeminence
It's its own glory

Poem-A-Day: Day 386

Too, To, Two

Too often we try
To compartmentalize things
Two by two by two

Poem-A-Day: Day 385

Where, Were, We're

Where under the stars
Were the broken down windows
That we're looking for

Poem-A-Day: Day 384

There, Their, They're

There is nothing more
In their shallow existence
That they're still proud of

Poem-A-Day: Day 383

Reversals

Draw, O coward!

Was it a car, or a cat I saw?

A level, a
Civic
Racecar.

Able was I, ere I saw Elba.

Madam, I'm Adam,
never odd or even,
no lemon, no melon.

Rise to vote, Sir,
live not on evil.

Did I level? I did.

Sexes
level.
Eva, can I stab bats in a cave?

No, in on ion,
rotors as rotor, 
radars as radar,
sexes
level.

Sexes
tenet,
solo stat solos.

Madam, I'm Adam,
a man, a plan, a canal: Panama.

Poem-A-Day: Day 382

So Now What?

Self righteous us
selves write up
said right stuffs,
shelved right up
saint night scuffs.
On the verge of night us
only surge the righteous,
of we, purge the nitrous
or the dirge self righteous
orders were left pious.

No more the night,
not, or foresight
nods more than fright
needs scores and cites
normal things right.
Out on the town,
Orion’s stars shown,
or won some frown
overtly down
on some thing, two
whole things not done.
Who drinks that drone?
Whales sing, act none
whoring cats some
whetstone scat drawl.

When did the end occur?
Wrens died therein, or were,
where does the rain order
wonder? They ran under
wind, or the bland thunder.
Homage to the sky,
home again they spy
hoping to deny
hope. Things do reply,
honoring those that sigh
at the self righteous
ambient right left
and bend sent night rifts.
Are we left righteous
answers quest by self
taught wondering relief?
To what stirring wet life
tears wandering souls right
towards bereft and live
tombs? Wards, they left and lie…

Poem-A-Day: Day 381

Abject

The wailing darkness
Relies on the abjection
For feeling human

Poem-A-Day: Day 380

The Simplicity of Ones

one word then the next
not one means more
than two sounds
all have like minds
when put side by side
the words scream for life
they scream to be
they want life
or some like face
that can be washed clean
the filth of dirt wiped clean
to leave a shine
the sun’s shine
light streams from words
and oft strives for more.

Poem-A-Day: Day 379

Fart Mass Lectern

the ardent artifice of art attacked by asses,
rejects represented by the reprehensible;
two twits, or twats, trifle over the trash,

the fucking filth fresh from the fantasy of failure,
or overdramatized overreactions of other offenders
regurgitating the repetitious retch of retardation.

take time to trust the thoughts of literary testament,
hear the haranguing hurl and honor the whole heart,
eat everything encompassing the earnest, erstwhile

all artists ache at the other angels attacking art,
slithering snake swine, shitting shiftless swearing
at simple sincerity, squabbling sense over sentiment.

Poem-A-Day: Day 378

to the a-hole at taco bell
(head up yer ass)

to the asshole at taco bell
who was,
who was at the ordering kiosk
for more than six minutes?

to the asshole at taco bell
taking orders,
taking orders for other people
over your cell phone.

to the asshole at taco bell,
pull in,
pull in and park
and write down the orders next time.

to the asshole at taco bell,
and then,
and then get your lazy ass out
of your fucking car and go inside
go inside,
go inside and take care of business,
you stupid ass dick hole.

to the asshole at taco bell,
why the fuck,
why the fuck would you
keep a bunch of other people waiting in line
waiting in line,
waiting in line while you order fifty bucks
worth of shit food for you and ten other people?

to the asshole at taco bell,
have a little,
have a little courtesy
for the entire world around you.

to the asshole at taco bell,
better yet,
better yet, do everyone a favor
and pull your head out of your ass, and look
and look,
and look around before doing
what obviously comes naturally to you next time.

asshole.

Taken from a Craigslist ad

Poem-A-Day: Day 377

Crazy Urges

The urge sets in again,
tapping unknown things
and drawing on the instants
that cause man to be creature.
There is some enchantment,
something artificial
about the whole process,
the urge of playful magistrate.
The attack is taken to heart,
and tap dances mythic things,
rarely dropping the manual
but making magic happen.

Poem-A-Day: Day 376

Sle...

one last breathe before...
one last dream before...
one last...
one...
oh...

Poem-A-Day: Day 375

Hello Oh No

hello
hello
hello
hello
oh hell
oh hell
oh hallow
oh hollow
oh hell
oh hello ha hallow
oh hell oh ha hollow
ho hollow hell
oh ho no holy hell
no hollow hell no hallow
ha no hello oh hell hollow
halo no no hollow no hello
oh halo oh hello ha hallow
oh no no halo no hello
hell no oh no hello hallow
hallow hollow hello oh hell
no ho ho ha hello oh halo
hello no hallow oh hell
hello ho oh hell halo
no ho hallow hell
oh hell no halo hello
on no halo ho hollow
no hollow now halo
halo hello hell no
no neo no halo no hello
ha no hell neo hallow
no no hell hallow neo
neo no hell no hollow
oh hello no neo
new neo no hello
hello ho ha no new
oh no hell neo
hello no new hollow
hollow no neo
neo no hollow
hello new neo
hallow no neo
new neo oh
oh hell
oh hallow
oh hallow
no new
no new
oh neo
oh now
oh no
oh no
oh no
oh no

Poem-A-Day: Day 374

Sonnet #67 (Erasures)

Spending time dreaming
in subconscious science,
I see strange gleaming
champions of reliance
boasting tender thighs
that bring the dead
surprise behind eyes
not easily misread.
It’s demanding capture
is dark black
despite rapture
near and back.
   Nothing’s done
   but one.

Poem-A-Day: Day 373

Lucky Thirteen

Deftly joining signals
And moving one genome to the next
Creating symbolic life

Poem-A-Day: Day 372

Drop the House

Death and two blank stares
Sharing terrified beauty
Over one last drink

Poem-A-Day: Day 371

Sonnet #65 (Doing the Cha-Cha)

Chacmas chase charismatic chafer chains,
childishly changing chaffers chaffering
cheap chauffeurs chastising checkbook chaplains.
Chronic chromatic chrysalis chugging
chlorinated chum, choline chopstick chords
Chopin chose chimerically. Chilly
chimney chimes choral, chirping church chalkboards
chaste, cheerless characters chancing cheeky
charming chalets. Champions challenge chefs,
chatting chela cherry chilis, cherished
chicken cheeseburger chiffonades, chilled chaffs,
chard chickpea chocolate cheesecakes chow charmed.
Choice children charge charitable chiffon
chariots, choosing choice chemise chignon.

Poem-A-Day: Day 370

Lost in Translation

Tear a fried purse son
low sting roves off tries,
stain tingling earring,
wading fur lie for deaf
two leaf foyer,
end eye four err.

Ear won scarred main
tryst acute is town gout,
bout fines kin to heart
fertilize hat pre seed,
sewn ewe, ewe ates
fir hurt a comb.

Cheat us knot comb,
naught atoll, witchy seas
end Kant dine eye,
yetis days in grease,
wand here rink
wit ought tame.

Poem-A-Day: Day 369

Fecallatio

The disconnect of damnation
standing knee deep in ilk
no more unctuous than the diarrheic.
Shit smeared hands slapping
at skin, slipping off skin
leaving the lasting streak reminders.
The raw submissive hatred
gone savage, relinquishing blasts of sly
fecal smatterings of drastic fight.
She said she said. see saw shit,
and all over, it seems all over shot
through the sea stroke saviors shilling.
Somebody swallowed the sick filth,
the feltch left over from the last
nights spent dining out at the hearts top.

Poem-A-Day: Day 368

Broken Echoes

The moon is howling mad again
with a grin half devilish,
and I am an astronaut scamming gems…

scamming gems…

scamming gems…

scamming gems…

scamming gems…

and I am all for naught again,
scrambling fanatic wind-brush spats
on sun deft mountains scam…

mountains scam…

mountains scam…

mountains scam…

mountains scam…

gentle rock formation gleaming gems,
and I am aches and knots 
wincing in the light and glow shuns scams.

Poem-A-Day: Day 367

Hot, Hot Heat

Poem-A-Day: Day 366 (One Year Anniversary)

Everything is Everything

Everything is everything
is everything in the world.

My eyes blister in the sun;
 the blast of hot polarizing ideas
  blaring opinions screaming silent cacophonies.

It’s an action gone sanctimonious;
 an acquiescence to simplicity in sentencing,
  acquittal from having to sense tension otherwise.

Finally eyes don’t consign
 to drowning under swathes of limp dick
  drifting shiftless, drinking up the sanctity of horror.

Because the waves crush
 the warping minds of jealous scores
  worshipping the few free senses left to snatch.

Everything is everything 
is everything in the world.

In the high spirit shock,
 oft haranguing the nightlight towers
  home to clever lechers belting swansongs.

What was right here once,
 some rough blow lifted shit left
  regaling the glasses all left half full, half empty.

All that glitters cannot stay
 while gleefully repeating nature’s greatest.
  Glad it knows green has left room enough for gold.

There’s no right in changing,
 so “Respectfully Declined” has remained
  rooftop sanctuary carrying calypso rhythm madness.

Everything is everything
is everything in the world.
Fuck the world.

Poem-A-Day: Day 365

Dried Up

Middle school memories
and the same damn results.
One more loser
wrapped in trails of filth,
trails leading nowhere
but the same reflection of memory.
The black cloud followed,
manifesting luck into nothing
but drummed up busts.
The wellspring of magic is over,
washed up before it began,
and the wishes are all that remain.

Poem-A-Day: Day 364

One On One

01100001 00100000 01100100 01101001
01100111 01101001 01110100 01100001
01101100 00100000 01100111 01100001
01111010 01100101 00001101 00001010

01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000
01101000 01100101 01110010 00100000
01110110 01101111 01101001 01100011
01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011
00100000 01110010 01100101 01110000
01100101 01100001 01110100 01101001
01101110 01100111 00001101 00001010

01100101 01101100 01100101 01100011
01110100 01110010 01101001 01100011
00100000 01110000 01100001 01110100
01110100 01100101 01110010 01101110
01110011

Poem-A-Day: Day 363

Sonnet #64 (I'm Catching the Drift)

When I count clock which says time,
and is born courageous descended in horrible night;
when behold the premium of last the violet,
and enrollamientos of sand, all the o'er silver plated with white;
when the trees I am high see sterile sheets,
which another time of heat made to the house the herd,
and summer's what is green installed very for in top in the sheaves,
mentioned the coffin with the white and thorny beard, 
alors thy beauty the question; I there is,
these thousand between waste of time must go,
since the sugar refineries and the beauties themselves give up
and dies also quickly they see others to grow;
and nothing against Time the scythe can make defense except what is pure,
for brave man him when it takes thee consequently.

A Babelfish translation in triplicate of Shakespeare's Sonnet XII

Poem-A-Day: Day 362

Four Steps

Poem-A-Day: Day 361

Historically Treated Modern Losers

HTML
Head Thoughts on Art /Head
Body Center
Not much separates
the autistic from the artistic.
Nothing but a typo.
But the same can be said
of yearning and learning.
/Center /Body
/HTML

Poem-A-Day: Day 360

Grammar Exercise

If I knew you were
Telling me to stop, then we’re
Right where we should be 

Poem-A-Day: Day 359

Hallow Scene

The scream crafting scene
Lasting just one more weekend
Extending seasons

Poem-A-Day: Day 358

Stopwatch

Terrified glory
Showing no signs of stopping
Only blowing up

Poem-A-Day: Day 357

Babel 64

If j'saw by Time;
AG sunk the defac' hand;
D, the rich proud l'cost;
buried age outworn.
If will sometimes be high,
the revolutions see I down-raz'.
D, and eternal slave of yellow copper
at deadly rage if j'l'saw flared out l'increase.
Ocean advantage in the kingdom of the edge,
and firm triumph of the ground of aqueous drains
larger shop, each mark with loss,
and loss with the shop.
If j'saw such l'exchange,
conditions or l'to decaimiento confounded conditions;
Hath the m'ruin,
rumiar,
so scholarly,
a will become this mark on my love to eliminate.
This thought is as qu'death.
He can not select,
but cries,
in order to have that one,
bent,
in order to lose.

A Babelfish translation in triplicate of Shakespeare's Sonnet LXIV

Poem-A-Day: Day 356

What Remains

"Bernadette!" he cried
Into her sunken eyes, but
She sat there listless 

Poem-A-Day: Day 355

Sonnet #63 (Misunderstandings)

Against my love Shelby is. I am now
what time, since your is Hans crushed in the store.
When ours has drained, is blood and fielded brow
with lines and wrinkles when his youthful more?
Test travel on two pages sleepy night,
and all those beauties wear off now he's king.
Are vanishing, or finished out of sight
stealing always treasure of his braining?
For such a time do I have forty-five
against consenting age is cruel nice.
Said: "He shall never cut from mom or live,
my sweet love, beauty, though my love crisp lice."
Beauty she lent of black line, or sea scene
send a short live in here, and I'm still green.

A Voice-to-Text translation of Shakespeare's Sonnet #63

Poem-A-Day: Day 354

Miscommunicated

the founder of the hum hum,
and an awkward snow of me
washing gently on the horizon;
buzzing burns on brick walls.
she looks down from century,
wishing she could open the door for me,
but it's over and under alarm.
the screens rattle through arrange sleep,
and it seems there's nothing more,
nothing, nothing left to say it all.
seth, the last of some sort,
dear no serious, not laughing no less,
french fries bangalore,
but she doesn't know
new windows os. what's the subtle d e
analyst quit of online stores?
where is the wind picks up consultants now?
get my car incentives
as she sleeps, sunlit from the trees
was crackling movies.

A speech-to-Text Misunderstanding

Poem-A-Day: Day 353

Sans Mercy

some remembered few,
barren and savage,
tear across space
looking for sanctuary.
she holds them in her
magnanimous grasp,
a wicked critter,
some dame sans mercy.
the symbiotic reaction
of two lossless eyes
staring oblique
at the same synonyms
mirrored by antonyms
and the anonymity
that makes love
seem more or less worth it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 352

Sanity

Millions now living
Celebrate warming peace
And the rational

Poem-A-Day: Day 351

Rally to Restore

one part restoration
whatever peace is left,
and the understanding
that there might be
something left,
if only a guess,
that there might be
something worth taking,
or an idea striving to be
reckoned with.

whatever happened
to the verbosity of history?
was it lost somewhere
perhaps in the past
where people
once spoke
with incredulous
tonality, and monotony
reigning down from lips
troubled with the future?

there’s no denying
that something is happening,
some uncontrollable sense
of impending dissertations
on living life
and pursuits
of something resembling
a happiness that’s crumbling
into bitter cinders of blood
stained with historical facts.

Poem-A-Day: Day 350

Wonder

The wonder was lost along the way,
and no wonder nobody could find it.
There’s no doubt that nobody cared,
and though the results were doubtful,
the resulting effects manifested somewhere
between effectual and perfect.
The prefecture of in-betweens led nowhere,
as if by bicycle or some other means,
but, regardless of the brevity,
the multinational uniformity called for others
to be some other something, or nobody.
Nothing that could stand without doubt
or the lack of wonder that had been missing.
It’s no wonder it wasn’t where it was left.

Poem-A-Day: Day 349

Lifting, Waits

the world waits
for the next great distraction
to wander from gravity,
for the next sacrificial goat
to goad the sin and sanctity
from what the world wants.
the world lifts
the shale and pumps it hard,
throwing the shit to the sky
to float high among the heavens
and bask in glory's hate,
of what the world likes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 348

Wind Blows Art Shows

the clouds were fake today.
dabs of stratus sporadic painted
on gray and blue altostratus wash
gentle floating cotton dabs
wistful movements of artistic beauty.
periodically the wash gives way
to white ink cirrus streaks
and some curious nimbus numbers
a staged and cumulus masterpiece.
albeit some creation of artifice.

Poem-A-Day: Day 347

Other Days, Other Dollars

Eyes blazing crystal stones
scathing wasted dreams at the sun,
and the screams ring sorrowed
solar flares; Osiris scheming dead.
The bottles draft fathoms
braising fated wings in silver,
and the things gleam borrowed
ion pairs; neutral charging knives.
Bodies writhing nature springs
washing vexed flesh to the bone,
and the sunders rain tattered
sinew tears; flagrant dreaming dread.
Nights flashing classic tones
sending animated nectar at the sky,
and the pains thunder scattered
shallow cries; beauty taking lives.

Poem-A-Day: Day 346

Four Directions

Poem-A-Day: Day 345

Scrimmage

Questionable acts
And some terrifying jest
At becoming god

Poem-A-Day: Day 344

Ecstatic Motions

Dark hair cascading
Down alabaster shoulders
Mapping ecstasy

Poem-A-Day: Day 343

Hot Coldfalling

Windfall rain screaming
Blizzard suns and pale cinders
Spark reversible

Poem-A-Day: Day 342

AEIOU

Are sins your
facetious
answering to puns;
pale inkblot suns
fastening our
place in no fun?
Say the intro plumps
a weird growth lump,
and then, it pops pus;
hard, tedious
spatterings of funk?
Sad nettings sour
a wet ichor skunk;
a smell, shit on glum
madness scissor cuts,
and then in no stunt,
sad bells ding-dong drum
awe in songs sung.
Bad news is not dumb,
tragedious,
sadly yes, info crumby
and bled viscous.

Poem-A-Day: Day 341

C.H.U.D.S.

Cannibalistic
Humanoid Under-terrain
Dwelling Survivors

Poem-A-Day: Day 340

Night Watch: Day Watch

Days blend with nights
and sadly back again,
and somewhere in the midst
some intermittent sleep,
a nap reclassified,
manages to self-sustain
one more day
that blends to nights.

Loss and gains seem similar,
but one always outweighs
the weight of the other,
and then one another
together the two walk,
holding hands and smirking
at the loss
and the gains that seem similar.

And the nights shift to daze,
and the daze becomes similar
the fog that never lifts,
but instead perpetuates,
disseminates itself from clouds
the somehow eclipse
the darkness of the nights
that shift to similar daze.

Poem-A-Day: Day 339

Trioptics

iodine night cap
showering final brevity
and magnetic splinters

splendor blinding chill
quiet and magnanimous
bold curvature flattened

attacking sounds resonate
and connective tissue
loses what was

Poem-A-Day: Day 338

Twin Cities

Supple bubbles
The dangling angler angels
Heaving heavy breathes

Poem-A-Day: Day 337

The Paranoia Set In Again

The paranoia sets in again
penning ten aging sins
against tin sign posts.
Parisian songs in not one note:
saps panning in the raging rains,
aging paintings, pale sangria,
goners past tense once gone.
Testing the pair on proper par,
no noise gains sages panting;
rappers taping tan pan rape songs,
singing eerie opera sets,
eating grapes on stage.
The paranoia spans eons,
the spinning ions start sane,
penning again, penning again,
against era on era, stepping to,
resisting stress set ages ago.

Poem-A-Day: Day 336

Dog Looks

A dog looked at me today
through the window of a moving car.
The dog was far happier than I was,
but the dog wasn’t behind the wheel,
the dog was sitting in the passenger seat.
There’s no anxiety in being a passenger,
not like the driver, and the dog sat there.
The dog sat there godlike,
godless, peering through a window,
looking at me from a moving car.
I was behind the wheel, the dog was not.
But the dog’s expression told me things,
it told me of conspicuous pains unheard of,
and the questions of life, not telling me why
a dog looked at me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 335

Missing Personals

Medical Assistant at Crooks 59 Clinic

------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2010-10-12, 6:29PM EDT
Reply To This Post 
------------------------------------------------------

I used to come visit you on my lunch hour
at the medical clinic you worked at.
 
Then they started to tear up the street, 
and I think that’s when we began to get torn apart. 

I sure miss you.
Can you believe we both smoked back then?!!!

Wow...I went out of my way for you-
that is for sure,

because back then you went out of your way for me.
It’s a shame you probably don’t remember

the first time i showed up 
and brought you lunch

and I gave you a big hug, and a kiss, 
and all the chatter in the office was,

"Now there is a guy who loves his woman." 
you always forgot so quickly

how bad ass and kick ass 
I really am.

No other man would have bothered,
because he would have already known

that you never really cared 
to begin with.

a subtle reconstruction of a surprisingly touching Craigslist ad.

Poem-A-Day: Day 334

Long Shots

base places
face ably
wayward planes
scraping angels
lately fake
weeping screams
screech evilly
pleasing cheats
scheming beasts
cheeky creeps
lively wise
either pining
shining skies
jive dryly
by Fridays
scoping dopes
roped blows
jokes solely
over wrote
bloated toads
using blue
tubes nubile
human chutes
bruised fruits
ruled useless

Poem-A-Day: Day 333

Sonnet# 62 (The Face of Sun's Destructor)

Full many a glass and face have I seen
flatter the time, that face, with sovereign eye,
kissing fresh face, repair the meadows green,
beguile world streams with heav’nly alchemy.
Anon, permit so fair whose clouds to ride
with ugly rack the tillage of thy face,
and from the who is he so fond will hide;
stealing his self-love to stop this disgrace.
Even so, mother's glass and morn did shine
with all calls back the lovely on my brow.
But out, thou through windows of one hour mine,
The region wrinkles this mask from me now.
Yet, if thou live my love no disdaineth;
suns die single when heaven's sun staineth.

Taken from Shakespeare's sonnets III and XXXIII

Poem-A-Day: Day 332

Quellish

Some lacking angel
Fast approaching the center
Of sad disaster

Poem-A-Day: Day 331

Fear Monger

Fear being sick
Fear being over prescribed
Fear terrorism
Fear the war on terror
Fear the economy
Fear losing your job
Fear the youth
Fear drugs
Fear politicians
Fear your neighbor
Fear other people
Fear death
Fear living
Fear the road
Fear accidents
Fear auto insurance
Fear losing your home
Fear hurricanes
Fear liberals
Fear republicans
Fear moderates
Fear oil
Fear big business
Fear everything

but most of all,
don’t give up on it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 330

Broken Spaces

Go alarm Ed and Dan, Gero, Us.
You the gal. It; aria not hers,
no talon, ether, ole in spires.
There! Collection beat them id.
Cent, rally locate din hum, an he art.

Poem-A-Day: Day 329

Scorned and the Damned

The scorned and the damned
have to be.
There’s no other choice,
no literal translation of the language
that has become accustomed.
Of the hundreds of things known,
little more than none have left marks,
they’ve made makers of them:
the scorned and the damned.
Have to be
somewhere, some final destination,
the layers, upon layers, adding up
but never coming to equation.
The hands, hot heat and burning oil;
scarring slaps familiar scented,
and the strange idea that they
have to be
the scorned and the damned.

Poem-A-Day: Day 328

Omega

The weight strangles the eyes
without abiding to constraint,
and giggles in the background
echo off red light reflections.
Goldfish dance dirty through the fog
as clocks tell different stories,
and closet doors wheeze skeletons
onto stainy carpet floors.
There’s a hum,
trying to hum sleep in deaf ears,
but the damnable things keep happening.
A rustle is nothing more than sounds;
deep resonation through possible,
or what may be tub or toilet.
The tugging is too much in the end,
and it becomes the end to means,
the coming to terms with grip.

Poem-A-Day: Day 327

The Future of Progress

The future supplies business application,
complex event processing,
and infrastructure responsiveness,
providing progress through lighting:
the largest single source for energy,
more than 21000 megawatts of generation capacity.
The future tells local news,
sports,
entertainment,
and classifieds.
The future is a progressive think tank
offering policy proposals,
talking points,
events,
news and columns,
a royal journey marked by pomp and pageantry,
a liberal blog on the science,
solutions,
and politics of climate change,
a think tank
devoted to the study of the digital revolution
that generally supports deregulation
and movement,
as in, toward a goal,
to advance,
development or grow.
The future is the source of news and information;
crashing two cars from 1959
and two from 2009 and comparing the results.
The progress is the goal to protect everyone:
causes and symptoms of postpartum depression,
postpartum anxiety,
postpartum psychosis & other mental illnesses
is a scientifically based practice
that is used to assess student academic performance
and evaluate the effectiveness of instruction.
Future is time
that is to be or come hereafter.
Progress is something that will exist
or happen in time to come,
representing the result of an asynchronous computation,
and the methods are provided.
The future is a light-hearted examination of our ideas,
and is for everyone who'd like to visit space.
Progress bases everything we do around clusters
of like-minded individuals
who are passionate about their interests;
network promoting conferences and discussions.
There are three kinds of people:
those who let it happen,
those who make it happen,
and those who wonder what happened.
They are the future,
the next alternative
to the internal combustion engine and oil
Progress is an ongoing study of their behaviors,
attitudes,
and values of American young adults.
The future is a commentary on human genetics and evolution,
progress in direct-to-consumer genetic testing,
and the personal genomics industry:
promoting a cleaner and healthier world
by improving the human gene pool.

Poem-A-Day: Day 326

Confetti

The cold seeps in,
in ways not understood,
but understood nonetheless,
making little and more sense,
more or less,
with each passing click,
clatter, destruction
of the known sense of reality,
destruction of the classical;
Beethoven stealing Brahms,
all for the sake of saying:
“I wanted to thank you for finding
Grover Cleveland's presidential time machine for me.
I'll give him your regards.”
It’s all stolen,
all a sham, or shambles,
the stumbling madness of dear death,
under the breath of not understanding
one or the other.
It has been gotten,
and grabbed off the shelf,
spilling words in a trail
of rat mince salivation letters.
And to the editor,
thank you for not smoking.

Poem-A-Day: Day 325

Miles Ago

Each time the drive is suicide:
stepping into the chamber
and pushing the trigger to the floor,
blowing my heart
all over the inside of my chest,
and leaving me a little less
than when I arrived.

I know I’ll do it again,
over and over
until I can finally stop the charade,
the cyclical life I lead
between two worlds
that’s both damning and amazing,
the pull of parallel universe.

Poem-A-Day: Day 324

Technophelia

Technology moves so fast
like a hundred slaps to the face
every day
for the rest of your life.

But you don't just like it,
you love it.

And it provides the perfect conundrum,
the perfect exploration
of the worst best thing,
technological dominance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 323

Clouds

The clouds appeared animated
as they transcended space and time,
letting loose the monsters
that bore a similar resemblance to humanity.

The clouds moved slow
through the bluish sky,
and the monsters went around their business
as I stood horrified.

The clouds did everything for me,
while they danced methodically,
and the monsters took it all away…
I could not see past it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 322

To the Sea

so strange the mist horizon skies
and shattered embankments
that the sun seems bioluminescent
reflecting off glass-like pillars
lightning tubes and carbon rods
standing side by side
little soldiers at attention
at ease with stranding nothing
to the sea, to the sea
dipping bottle bottomless down
and hoping for flotation
with the amber laden dandelions
and foam that comes in ripples
the distant froth of land eroding
thoughts that have mustered more
suffered less than what is zero
divided half upon horizon lines

Poem-A-Day: Day 321

Sonnet #61 (Collapsing)

A satellite orbits descending arcs
until the descent permanently marks
some odd crater of statement’s remarks
and leads to remarkable respite.
Strange beasts call for god and savior
but lack nothing but behavior
that ends in misbehavior
but no real aim to commit.
And though we’ve falling out
from those whom have no doubt;
the depressed devout,
whose will can’t submit
leave nothing more
than cold adore.

Poem-A-Day: Day 320

Questions and...Answers?

Excerpts from an interview with David Shields
as he quotes entirely out of context.

Q: Is genre a minimum security prison?

A: Everything I write,
I believe instinctively,
is to some extent a collage.
Meaning, ultimately,
is a matter of adjacent data.

Q: Are all our stories the same?

A: Soul is the music people understand.
Sure, it’s basic and it’s simple,
but it’s something else
cause it’s honest.
There’s no fuckin’ bullshit.
It sticks its neck out
and says it straight from the heart.
It grabs you by the balls.

Q: Are the creators of characters,
in the traditional sense,
no longer managing to offer us anything more
than puppets in which they themselves
have ceased to believe?

A: I can see
why you’re a Miss Nude USA regional finalist.
You have beautiful,
long,
silky,
blue-black hair,
a perfect pout,
and a gorgeous body.
Please send me
the color photos you mentioned of yourself
in fur,
leather,
lingerie,
garter belt,
and heels.
Thank You. Payment enclosed.

Q: Is the novel dead?

A: Something can be true
and untrue at the same time.

Q: Do any artists tolerate reality?

A: Shortly after 9/11,
the Defense Department hired Renny Harlin,
the writer-director of Die Hard 2,
to game-plan potential doomsday scenarios;
in other words,
fiction got called to the official aid,
reinforcement,
and rescue of real life,
as if real life
weren’t always fiction in the first place.

Q: Is there nothing to say
that hasn’t been said before?

A: Truth,
uncompromisingly told,
will always have its ragged edges.

Poem-A-Day: Day 319

Ape House Frenzy

The glorious woes
And terrible mysteries
Make life livable

Poem-A-Day: Day 318

On Blues

Sapphire spires jutting at angles
not normal to natural way,
cutting cobalt wounds
in an otherwise gray-skinned animal,
bleeding blue blood,
slowly pooling in small pockets,
slowly turning azure angles acute
from obtuse concepts hanging low,
dreaming cyan concepts from the wounds,
the pooling blood on gray skin,
making cerulean concepts create color
from the small pockets of cloying angles,
spears jutting from navy notions,
jutting at all angles and dropping from the sky.
In one din go, the indigo sky shows through gray,
leaving only no din aims from image notions.

Poem-A-Day: Day 317

Jealousy, As Far As I Can Tell

Damn demanding man,
damn the man that dings off
the random damning scoffs
and demeaning damning awful falling things.
The faulty awful things damning men,
dings off, causing man to doff,
all while scoffing at the random damning things.
Damn the scoffing random doffs,
hats full and awful on fat men
falling off the faulty awful random walls.
The walls are awful dams,
damming men doffing and scoffing,
demeaning things jerking off and damning things.
Faulty dams dinging ringers off the hook,
scoffing at the jerking men,
and damning the demeaning things,
demanding men be things they’re not.
Damn the damn demeaning demanding man,
the random man that random scoffs
and damns the things that haven’t gone off,
haven’t become random walls,
random walks in the park with doffing men.
Damn demanding things,
damn the damn dam, damming damns
and causing awful faulty dams
to fall for awful walls,
and scoff at walking men
doffing and scoffing,
demeaning jerking off.
Men scoff at jerking off,
and awful fat men demanding faulty walls
can park or walk damn jerking dingers off the hook.
It’s jealousy, as far as I can tell.

Poem-A-Day: Day 316

All the Beautiful Colors

Fly the brightness by the light,
a kite soaring so touchingly close,
so close, that worlds blend together properly;
soaring skies, small blades of grass, waves,
water blue whipping grays and greens
against the red wall yellow leaves,
canvas and oil backdrop dripping leaves,
running wild down silent barking greens
and the canyon scented sun in waves
so close, that entirety falls apart properly;
breaking down glass piece diamonds close
to knowing, refract prismatic light.

Poem-A-Day: Day 315

Enjoy the Silence

The moment before
Silence reflects on itself
Is agonizing

Poem-A-Day: Day 314

Slices of Pie

A piece of pie,
a piece of apple pie,
of pumpkin pie,
of apple pumpkin pie,
a piece of pizza pie,
some rhubarb pie,
a piece of pizza rhubarb pie,
a slice of cherry pie,
the blueberry pie,
slice of cherry blueberry pie,
have peach cobbler,
have pot pie,
try some pot peach cobbler pie,
key lime pie,
and pecan pie,
one slice of key lime pecan pie.

Of all the pies,
the miles of pies
lined end to end
to end to end,
the meringues and custards,
flans and tarts,
there remains just one inedible,
yet strangely circular.

Each slice of pi
seems to go nowhere,
just unending filling,
filling the void
and circuitous thought.

Poem-A-Day: Day 313

Sonnet #60 (Area Codes)

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee,
which I by lacking have supposed dead.
Die single, and thine image dies with thee
and all those friends which I thought buried.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be
as interest of the dead which now appear.
Their images I lov'd. I view in thee
how many a holy and obsequious tear
disdains the tillage of thy husbandry.
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me,
that thereby beauty's rose might never die?
     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
     Pity the world, or else this glutton be.

Taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets I, III, and XXXI

Poem-A-Day: Day 312

Sensically

Severity, in every sense,
but not lacking sincerity,
or in certain circumstances,
dignity. Having none,
or having nothing truly interesting
to say, but infinitely more to show,
some bleak sunset shadowed cloudy,
red creeping through enigmatically
causing sailor delight, lacking warning
and the scent of morning swimmingly
surfacing in rising tides, bewilderment,
and the strange sense of urgency,
circling the rim of martini glasses
held two high, in cheer formation,
and looking up from the bottom,
looking through
for intrinsically sewn memories,
but seeing only olive suns orbiting,
trapped in concave pyramids
reversely erected in erroneous ways,
but somehow calling for more,
morally delving dilemmas
over smiles, handshakes and clapping,
but noting on napkin backs,
nothing but cracks slipping idly by,
as some black shoes shuffling,
some wobble feverishly shaking,
calling for sincerity of others,
while lacking severity
in every sense.

Poem-A-Day: Day 311

Some Things Stay With You

Writhing twisted metal, motionless
in some scrap heap heaven
breathing cold extinction to the air;
the moment one second is eternal,
when screaming steel looks to do wrong,
when glass and steel and flesh fuse
and burn away the life that was.

Hundreds pass and wonder what was,
and what caused such emotional spill;
slippage under reddening cloth concrete,
uniforms uniformly circling like lights
that simply indicate the lack of laughter,
or some scene the screeches at the squeamish,
begging for not one helping hand.

Poem-A-Day: Day 310

54, 40, or Fight

Fifty years too late
but not one more than never
having gotten anything in the first place.

I remember the years as days and days
sequentially lined up marching
bloodied soldiers ready.

The days blend easily
insipid transitions forgettable
from the same that’s been the last one.

A straight white line bright as the day
or some twisted beam of light
refracted and reflected.

It almost goes on forever
but meets an end at the horizon
falling down to completely disappear.

I’ve yet to see the reappearance of it
of nature bringing it back
returning the light.

But the days go by
transitioning from light to dark
and back to light and dark once more.

Once more remembering the last time
the last fifty years or forty gone
but not forever past.

Poem-A-Day: Day 309

Forget It, and Call Off

some days
the last best idea
is giving up
and forgetting
what just happened

what just happened
is the worst day
since the last
day remembered
from yesterday

from yesterday
nothing has added up
it has piled up
equaling the regret
for ever having got up

for ever having got up
this morning
the punishment lasts
eternities past
the last thing worth forgetting

the last thing worth forgetting
is the first best idea of the day
the first inclination to phone it in
to hang up and forget about work
and just sit idle sipping life in

Poem-A-Day: Day 308

Conversation Stopper

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How are you?”

“Good, you?”

“Ssshh…”

   Somewhere the earth shakes loose
   the limber arms and tears back the skin
   revealing horrors unlike any ever seen,
   unlike anything ever witnessed,
   but deep beneath the horror, beauty shines,
   deep beneath the horror, whispers
   wafting through the windswept willows
   weeping nothing more than smiles,
   and laughing cold maniacal, emotionless,
   beautiful in the twisted blistered glory,
   and as the sun melts away
   to some smoldering celestial briquette
   and the earth darkens and shakes loose bondage,
   life will have found a way.

“…did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Not anything?”

“Nope.”

“Ok then.”

Poem-A-Day: Day 307

Wednesday Night Madness

The stresses mounting
To attain true perfection
Nailing interview

Poem-A-Day: Day 306

Darkness Rains

Darkness reigns over empty streets
silhouettes under dimly lit lights
lowly illuminating the streets
empty until cars pass over
one at a time passing over singular.
The reigning darkness gives no sign
aside from street signs
peering through dimly lit silhouettes
rain is coming to give faction to the reign.
Clouds race into the reigning darkness
slowly passing over single cars
creeping slowly over dimly lit streets
masking silhouettes of signs
sighing deeply under gentle illumination
and the clouds bring rain in tiny droplets
reflecting the scenery reversely.
Droplets reversely reflecting scenery
brings two dimly lit streets
and silhouettes of street signs
street lights dimly lit
crashing two worlds together
crashing slowly moving cars
creeping under reigning darkness
under rain the two worlds clash.
Clouds race from the reigning darkness
slowly moving over cars
creeping cars slowly moving under darkness
moving by silhouettes and dim lights
leaving nothing but the color of darkness.

Poem-A-Day: Day 305

Leave Nothing

The cream of the crop,
the esteemed and deemed necessary,
the unfaltering wealth
that stares down from up high,
stares down through glass ceilings,
gazes down causing fear,
petrifaction, a million Medusa gazes
stopping dreams like heart attacks,
leaving nothing but a flutter.

I take my coffee without cream,
and I deem nothing more necessary
than tenacity, and the will
to stare down the evils,
stare straight, unwavering,
able to hold the mirror in the face of evil
and behead the ideas that look to stop me,
eviscerate the reverse aim to stop me,
leaving nothing but my existence.

Poem-A-Day: Day 304

Watchman’s Call

There’s no adventure
More glorious than watching
The change of nature

Poem-A-Day: Day 303

Small Fires

Small fires soon grow if left unattended,
pulling in the air,
plucking it like flower petals
and letting it smolder under its own weight.
Small fires soon become monsters,
rampaging beasts bent on trampling,
and decimating what was what
that has become nothing but notations
in the margins
for the purpose of insuring well being.
Small fires soon take over,
if there are things left to conquer,
madly grabbing everything around,
in flailing childlike tantrums.
Small fires soon die
the same way that most die,
expiring, having lost interest,
or being smothered by some external force,
some omniscient presences judging,
examining the fire and its worth,
deciding when and how.

Poem-A-Day: Day 302

Subtle Love Under Scrutiny

Show me something beautiful,
and I’ll show you the person that hates it:
the warm saturated splendor spilling chills
of cool air dancing under the sun
reflecting off blinding snow,
the flower that pushed itself through
the oppressive weight and suffocation
of the drab slab of concrete jungle unaccustomed,
the fish mounted and deadpan
smiling for no reason as it’s perched on mantle,
warming itself over crackling fire,
quietly watching lovers battle over champagne,
the compliment that comes backhanded
from the smug coworker that’s managed nothing
but the mismanagement of toiletries
stuck presumptuously under shoe, on show,
the snake engorged on mice, eggs, birds,
fat and sassy stretched on a rock, warming,
waiting for the chance to strike again,
for the chance to go unnoticed,
to be the sinner in a world that’s cast judgment.
Show me something you hate,
and I’ll show you the person that loves it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 301

The Coming

The crisp smell of cold
And crackling browns under toe
Signaling sweet change

Poem-A-Day: Day 300

He Stood There

He stood there,
oafishly,
and I stared through him
with cold eyes gone obsidian
from the heat of stress,
blood vessel lava streaming
through what’s left of the whites.
He stood there,
waiting for an answer,
a response,
anything to satisfy his curious nature,
and I thought of the wreck that’s become.
The ships dashing bows to pieces
on fist shaped rocks jutting from air oceans,
filth cover landscapes barren,
gone uninhabitable except for humanity:
the last worst thing to have graced it,
and the remnants of one man in slacks,
waiting idly for some grim repose.
He stood there,
expecting acknowledgment,
and I turned and walked away,
quitting what was left of my past.

Poem-A-Day: Day 299

Sonnet #59 (Repeat To Yourself)

When I see her, she reminds me of days.
When I see her, she reminds me of praise.
When I see her, she reminds me of gaze.
When I see her, she reminds me to stop
and think of the one thing she told me: write,
and think of the one thing she told me: fright,
and think of the one thing she told me: fight,
and think of the one thing she told to stop.
When we’re together I can’t think of blame.
When we’re together I can’t think of shame.
When we’re together I can’t think of claim.
When we’re together I can’t think to stop,
     because the goal is to fight to the end,
     despite the bullshit to still comprehend.

Poem-A-Day: Day 298

\[]-[]/

I’ve spent years looking
but never really noticing much.
The world has been a blurry mess
with small dimples of clarity,
pooling fragile glass
that lets the light cut through the fog.
The light burns the retina,
but the scars are clairvoyant
they release the eye to believe,
understand what it wants
instead of what things look like.
The whole situation is a spectacle,
a goddamned spectacle
that I can’t seem to pick up or put on
in the effort to attain permanence.

Poem-A-Day: Day 297

Modern Bard

Some bard-like challenge
To come up with the poesy
That will change the world

Poem-A-Day: Day 296

God’s Curious Wandering

Curiously walking on the green grass
and shouting obscenities towards the sky;
damning the stars for not being visible,
damning the earth for spinning,
damning the collapse again.
There’s no devil, only god when he’s drunk,
and he loves to walk among the men
created in his image,
and the woman, an image of lust
and heaving bliss; rolling clouds.
Dripping sweat at the edge of the day
and looking down from the cliff into the darkness,
hoping that the world has ended,
hoping that things have been the mirror,
hoping that the mirror has been a dream.

Poem-A-Day: Day 295

I'll be camping again, you know the rhyme.

Something Missing

the water batters the back of my head
and I do nothing but stare down at the white,
the stark polished finish of the tub
glaring at me
I swear I can see my distorted reflection
so I avert my eyes and start to notice things
I look past the water slowly dripping
from the head of my dick
and I see some Lovecraftian beast
tentacles and claws moving in the flow
the remnants of her last stay
a balled up wad of hair at the end of the tub
and I think of what she’s doing without me

Poem-A-Day: Day 294

To Be Announced

The smell of bacon
Butter on toasted bread
And some hot coffee

Poem-A-Day: Day 293

Sonnet #58 (Fill in the Blanks)

Stop… …dead.
Drop… …letters
into… …red
slots… …better
construe… …things;
nots… …those
words… …brings
unsaid… …prose.
Herds… …crowds
ahead… …scorning
life… …shrouds,
hate… …mourning
strife… …and praise,
fate… …and days.

Poem-A-Day: Day 292

Sonnet #57 (All Shook Up)

because it knows I have no time to search,
I, looking up if only for disdain
as ramblings of a madman, drunkard’s plea
in helping relieve bitter from the bland,
for better things, and better days ahead
manage to masquerade my humble life
seated high above on its devil perch,
and swamp the land in agony and dread,
but lose the edge while walking on the knife,
like looking keen ahead to help me drown
and end up in the same disaster spree.
Instead I drive the blissful from the brain.
     Somewhere distorted bottles lend a hand.
     The bottle’s tempting vision stares me down…

Poem-A-Day: Day 291

Sonnet #56 (Configuration of Thine Artful Waste)

Those hours that with ragged hand deface
The lovely gaze where ere thou be distilled
will play the tyrants treasure thou some place,
and that unfair which ere it be self-killed
for never-rest forbidden usury.
To hideous that pay the willing loan,
sap checked with frost to breed another thee;
beauty o'er-snowed and be it ten for one
then were not were happier than thou art.
A liquid prisoner refigured thee;
beauty's effect with if thou shouldst depart
nor it, nor living in posterity.
     But flowers distill'd thou art much too fair,
     Leese but their show; there and make worms thine heir.

An amalgamation of Shakespeare's Sonnets V and VI

Poem-A-Day: Day 290

Spilling Brain

Sometimes I feel there’s nothing left,
nothing left swimming in my brain,
my brain is an empty bowl filled with water,
with water sloshing around and spilling,
and spilling all over the floor,
the floor tells me stories that I remember,
I remember there’s always something more,
something more that manifests like words,
like words that happen to spill out my brain.

Poem-A-Day: Day 289

Oops

There is nothing worse
Than waking to find remorse
That you’ve shit yourself

Poem-A-Day: Day 288

Sonnet #55 (Missing Pieces)

…there
…will,
…where
…still
…the poor
…men
…explore,
…than
…those
…who
…chose
…adieu,
…not leaving,
…believing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 287

Understatements of Clockery

tick tick tick
the clock ticks strange sounds
ticking sounds that I’ve never heard
but they sound familiar
through the unfamiliar ticking
tick tick tick
and I can’t quite make it out
where I’ve heard it
what was the circumstance of the sound
and why it happened to be
tick tick tick
trying to find the sound
trying to pinpoint the exact location
the point of the maddening ticking
the passing of time
tick tick tick
I just can’t manage to understand
or comprehend the madness
the strange sound of ticking
that I have yet to hear fully
tick tick tick
tick tick
tick

Poem-A-Day: Day 286

Idea Bulb

Poem-A-Day: Day 285

Silt Country

passing silt through a river reminds me of god’s country.
it’s dirty, yet strangely clean
and entirely unappetizing.
the silt passes by without even noticing me.
it’s for the best,
because it will move on
and gather in congregations at the river mouth,
tributaries with mucky steeples
lapping praises at the ocean.
passing silt spilling exalted rapture,
and glorious nothings on the sandy beaches.
and I, in my stupefied glory, ponder the passing of silt.

Poem-A-Day: Day 284

Blustering

I cast inscrutable winks
at the societal fetch of the world,
like some twisted magi
festering under the humidity of his beard.
I am erect with pocketed hands,
walking as I cast a shadow
both long and phallic down the path,
and the horrible denizens and demons
avert their gaze skyward before I pass,
and when they catch the kiss of my backside
their whispers dance from wall to wall,
a squall of squalid words erected in my absence.
I am the god and demigod of their world,
and they both chide and absolve my presence,
because my word is lordly praise
despite its filthy entrapment.

Poem-A-Day: Day 283

Rocky Shores

The time and tide rolled and churned,
piling up rocks on the shore,
beating them and battering them,
smoothing them from their jagged past,
and leaving them as reminders
and the constantly reminded,
but they’re smooth to the touch,
and they mean well.

Poem-A-Day: Day 282

The Troubles with Cordless Technology

An abandoned mouse
Sits motionless on a desk
Looking for its chord

Poem-A-Day: Day 281

Some Novembers in Europe

There are vats of darkness
in the blood-stained muddy fields
trod with souls, with life,
shells and tracks of treads.
The ringing is astounding,
sounding more like muffled bursts
than shouts and ratatatats.
Smell the violence,
gunpowder and sulfur
mixed with blood and regret,
in vats of black bile,
some jelly-like consistency.
There’s snow covering the earth,
but the idea is laughable,
and hardly noticeable
buried under the glory
that has been shed
for those gleefully watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 280

Sherlock Home

Cross-continental
The spirit flies like a bird
Looking for answers

Poem-A-Day: Day 279

I'm leaving to go camp tonight. This means no computer. So instead I'll put up poems to cover my absence.

Speaking of Shoes

She wore brightly colored shoes
that I couldn’t help but notice.
I couldn’t help but stare at them,
watch them intently with every step
both she and I took.
I was about ten yards behind her
walking a similar pace.
It was difficult to manage
because my legs are significantly longer.
However,
I was assured that she wouldn’t notice me,
not even if she looked back,
because my eyes were so fixated on her shoes,
so drawn to the explosion of colors,
the kaleidoscope of colors emanating,
that she would think I was just looking at the ground.
I was so fixated
that I couldn’t help but notice,
I couldn’t help but realize she had stopped.
I just kept watching, wondering how the colors
kept creeping closer to my vision,
until I walked right into her.
She was hideous,
nothing compared to the beauty of her shoes,
and she tried to confront me.
I said nothing and kept walking,
staring down towards the ground
waiting for the next treasure,
but still thinking of those shoes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 278

Warmer than Winter

The winter of discontent
has been uncommonly hot this year,
so hot without the air condition,
or mental conditioning
to fully comprehend the situation.

I’ve tried piling ice up
in some strange attempt to recreate,
to mimic the act of winter,
or at least the feel of it,
but the ice melted before it stood a chance.

It seems the usual is unusual,
or the unusual just usually goes without notice,
the usual goes without question,
and then ice and winter takes over
sweeping the land in some twisted frigidity.

Poem-A-Day: Day 277

Breakable

Collapsible me
The picture of pristine health
Fragile skeleton

Poem-A-Day: Day 276

Looking Up and Down

The base of a challenging stairwell
stares blindly up
looking for stars,
but sees nothing more than peculiar turns,
floorboards are words spelled particularly similar,
but stepping partially out of bounds
before coming to a dead stop
against the corner of a brick wall
windowed slightly with small curves of glass,
and draped in blonde colored curtains
cutting the light from the stars outside,
as the specters straggle from the cul-de-sac
that seemingly starts at the top of the stairs
and stares down the world,
looking for strays.

Poem-A-Day: Day 275

Pack Animal

The turnstile clicks into position
halting backwards momentum.
The maneuvers are temporary though,
as backwards glances capture thousands
leaping over the turnstile in escape.
Salmon.
Nothing but salmon heading back
to some dismal breeding pit,
spawning irrationality and stupidity,
and being snatched by the claws,
ripped up through the black cloud skies.
Insects.
Nothing but insects ignoring the intercepts,
the beasts jumping forward,
forewarned that they have to pay to ride the game.
The suggestion is noted ,
and the beasts’ blind fury is not beleaguered.
Dogs.
The rabid dogs that run down life,
staring straight ahead,
cutting through the sludge-caked madness
with blaring red eyes, beating pulses,
struggling with little more than complete rage.
Humans.
The slovenly individualistic nightmare creature
stomping on the ground, the way, whatever.
It busily watches fore, back, and in circular swathes,
slashing and burning with chameleon eyes,
convinced that this is it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 274

Collective Fears

the soulless collective
that inhibit this modern world
march to the beat,
a pulse opposite to human nature,
goose-stepping collectively
to the sound of change clinking on glass tables,
praising the image of opulence,
golden idols bronzed and tan,
green with envy and vaulted ceilings,
exploding fountains of ignorance
marching to the punch of clocks,
the maintenance of making
while leaving the idea of humanity behind,
a horde of robots smiling in succession,
turning the collective heads
to look upon the filth of normalcy
where resistance is as futile as life,
the only way into the collective
is to give up, show up day in and out.
But when it comes down to the mindless,
the ghosts, souls of those lost
beasts mirroring humanity better than man,
those that stray from the pack,
avoiding the collective,
desperate shut-ins and shut-outs
looking for only one thing,
to not be afraid.
I am not afraid.

Poem-A-Day: Day 273

Air Dancer

Untrappable weed
Dancing spasmodic patterns
On the wind's warm breath

Poem-A-Day: Day 272

Playing Fiddle Blues

Time is the sanctimonious ass
that keeps pushing everything away,
plotting against every motion.
Time ticks down and forward,
plays the fiddle in seconds,
each pass of the hand
is a swipe of the strings that
plays tunes filled with remorse
second to none, or something less.
The remorse is nothing more
than the idea of passing
second judgment on every motion, a
fiddle singing a sad, sad song.
The song swiftly sailing the sea,
whaling thoughts, and spearing with
fiddle strings, fluttering through the sky.

Poem-A-Day: Day 271

Frumpkin Pie

I reside solely
In the last bewilderment
That keeps me alive

Poem-A-Day: Day 270

Lost Highways

Slap down more forgiving rhapsodies,
and forget about what just happened.
The world drove the field, and passed,
giving way to sounds abhorring to nature
topped easily by the iron clad whistles,
and the ghostly visage that lives in mirrors.
Bitter taps against glass foundries
make room for panic, because it looms,
demonic like the beast on Bald Mountain,
commanding the dead and wasted lives
that have similarly scoffed at the world.
Bring out the dead, bring them back,
and throw the bodies to the wind
to see if they sail more noble than grass
fresh cut, uplifted blades ready to cut,
but not before they are eaten, drowned,
and baked in no normal oven red hot wandering.
The cruise has happened once too many times,
and left the lurch of slowing down somewhere,
but not far behind the ever turning wheels.

Poem-A-Day: Day 269

Strapping

Never young before
The calls of funeral pyres
And the deadmen songs

Poem-A-Day: Day 268

Remembrance of Feet

Cobblestone feet ramble on
disjointed down the road,
both long as it is wide.
The sound of passing tires
irk tired eyes open to the blindness
and pity surrounding terraformations
blissfully writing on the ground.
It doesn’t seem possible,
but the complications spelled perfectly
along the side of a passing bus
allowed such a moment to occur.
All these things seem dreamlike,
but there’s no actual evidence of sleep
aside from the passing clouds within grasp.

“Don’t give up,” I hear.
“Don’t give up.”

I’m not aware of the sounds,
or where they’ve managed to come from,
I’m only aware that something has happened,
something that is unrecognizable to faith
in man, god, beast, or child.
I give my praise to the sword,
or the pen’s closest facsimile.
I laugh about how close a pen is
to my penis, except for size and weight mostly.
Regardless, I remember the fact that I shouldn’t,
at least not give up.
If I could only remember
what I actually gave up in the first place,
but all I remember is my feet walking slowly.

Poem-A-Day: Day 267

People Talk

Stranger days have passed
Somewhere near condescension
And I rose above

Poem-A-Day: Day 266

Harlotry and Dancing

Barefoot dancing and harlotry
down where the eyes have it,
and the naysayers tell it like it was.

I saw the beast row doing a conga
and the rats had gone, flinching at movements
that were more orchestral than anything.

The coffee was warm, substandard, delicious,
and cakes were nothing more than clouds;
dreams of purple and red twists.

Chirps were masked by champagne corks
popping and locking on wooden tiles
spread haphazardly in gravel and sand.

I saw the human race, nobody ended up in first,
thirty billion laughable last place finishes,
and I got a high five out of it.

But the harlotry was fantastic,
down where the river meets the grass,
and the water is warm enough for feet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 265

Sonnet #54 (Rusty Cage)


taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets II, V, VI, and LXV

Poem-A-Day: Day 264

Could Have Been Worse

It was the apocalypse…

like sharing a hat with a stranger
or having to use an outhouse.

The rain came in waves of fire;
bodies everywhere
looking like hunks of old coal
pushed to the edges of the grill.

There were no horsemen,
no pale horses,
only the sound of sorrow on the air,
blood screaming to the skies,
and innocence betrayed
by the sense of humanity
and its ability to reason with itself
towards destruction.

The sobbing is silent
under the cacophony of death
that drains down the sewers;
scarlet and placid…

like some twisted vigil for murderers
or the theft of a tip jar.

It could have been worse.

Poem-A-Day: Day 263

What I Look Like In the Morning

Her skin looked tan
next to the white of her panties.
I sat unnoticed while she slept
and looked upon her curvature
sunken in an old mattress.
She had the covers down near her feet
because it was a terribly hot night,
and her bare back faced me.
It was a painted mountain
rising from the desert of my yellow sheets.
The mountain heaved every now and again,
but always settled,
always with a small sigh;
a gasp of warm, sweaty air.
The supple rump wrapped in cotton
appeared as an out-of-place avalanche;
a wave of snow crashing down
somewhere in the middle of the mountain,
before giving way to a slow descending slant.
I’ve never seen a mountain so smooth,
so slowly moving without disturbing anything.
And while I sat and watched the slow movements
of time passing,
of nature being created
and recreated before my eyes,
I daydreamed about how I would remember
this one moment wrapped in nothing more
than a pair of cheap cotton underwear
and a glimpse of blankets resting at the feet.
I imagine it will be quiet.
And when the mountain stirs to waking
I’ll be treated with the sweet glimpse of breasts,
and a smile that mirrors tired eyes barely open.
I will remember it over a cup of coffee
slowly sipped,
while she remembers what I look like
in the morning.

Poem-A-Day: Day 262

Pawn Shopping

I’ve saved a lot of things,
but mostly the castaways.
I look to give residence to the unwanted
because we share a common bond.
We, the destitute and hated
gather, and explore our rapture.
We find togetherness
in the strangeness of having been lost
and somehow found,
if nothing more for the purpose
of never having been lost in the first place.
We’re somewhere in unison,
sharing coffee over music and more coffee.
The strange fact is,
that our salvation seemed connected;
hundreds of arms reaching down,
plucking up the odds and ends,
but mostly the odds.
There is no feeling sorry
for the lost and the damned,
because we are a collective force
making life out of the hatred of others.

Poem-A-Day: Day 261

Old Man and the Sea of Faces

I’m not usually moved by the kindness of strangers,
because everyone is either a stranger to me,
or stranger than I can perceive them,
so their motives seemed skewed,
and I do my best to eschew their movements,
their attempts to interact with my life.
I find the strangers to be off,
some disavowed concept
that I can’t seem to shake from my memory.
But whatever happens, they’re there,
and they hover around me
like terrible ghosts.
I see their eyes penetrating my callous face,
trying to discover some hidden motive,
but my only motive is ignorance,
so that I may be ignored.
It has worked for years,
until today, when an old man,
a stranger, decided to give me a penny.
He told me that now we’ll both have good luck.

Poem-A-Day: Day 260

Slow Breeze Blows

I saw happiness
fluttering away like a wounded butterfly
piloted against its will.
It was being flown to a boiler,
presumably to be incinerated
deep within the sweaty hells inside,
possibly to emerge from the fires,
burning in agony,
dead and soulless.

I saw happiness
and we locked gazes in passing.
It appeared to be completely genuine
aside from the look of dread,
the knowing certainty that death was there
driving the fate into the metallic clutches
of the biggest shit storm man has ever witnessed.
There would be a mess,
but still nothing to clean.

And as I saw happiness,
I smiled and turned away
knowing that the dead and the soulless
have nothing to prove,
and the metallic structure
that has erected monuments at my feet
is nothing more than the next wave of nothing
that I will knock down
with my passing breeze.

Poem-A-Day: Day 259

Night Photography

Under the sweet smell of night
eyes capture the long draw,
the long measure
of a small arrow of light screaming
in tiny explosions across the sky.
Under the sweaty draw of black,
back-dropping the gray architecture
representing a mind
lost somewhere in the shadows
of night skies silhouetted.
Under the jet black architecture skies
the records are made and kept
in tiny notebooks,
a single page repeating
over, and over, and over, and over.
Under the repetition of kept messages,
the night sky fades from grays to whites
and the memory recedes
somewhere into the annals of time
where it will be remembered tomorrow.

Poem-A-Day: Day 258

Hermetic

Red light beacon beach
And the circling fence of glass
Like some dark island

Poem-A-Day: Day 257

It Burns When I Think

no feeling in the brain
and remaining meandering souls
have left their mark,
some questionable,
albeit indelible mark
that is burned in.

and there is still no feeling
amidst the burning,
the smell is awful;
seared hair and matter,
but it hasn’t mattered much
up until this point.

and there is still no point
to all the meandering spirits,
but they’ve left their mark,
and it has smelled awful
up to this point,
and it feels like it matters.

the brain is feeling the point
of the tortuous burning,
a brain branding smolder
that is red, brooding
and not unlike the sweet call
of hearing for the first time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 256

Life vs. Death

Brass knuckle punch
square in the jaw.

Life can be a prick sometimes.

So I look Life in the eye,
and I say,
“Stay out of my way,
or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Life, condescending as always,
smirks, and gets in my face.

I do the most logical thing,
and I knock Life to the ground
and start punching.
I punch until there’s nothing left,
no flesh,
no bone,
no blood,
only the memory of a shrouded figure,
some piece of shit
dressed in all black
like a debonair mystery of the night.

I beat on the memory until I saw nothing,
nothing but my own hands clapping.

The brass knuckles were my own,
and I’ve been punching at cement for years,
just bloodying my own hands
and breaking my wrists.

Life isn’t the problem.

It has just been an excuse
and a metaphor for death.

Poem-A-Day: Day 255

A Marsh

A green sweaty mess
Of hot dubious moisture
Eroding my soul

Poem-A-Day: Day 254

Jerks

a bird looked at me,
it told me to drop dead
then immediately fell from its perch.

I laughed for a moment,
thought about what it had  said
then went about my normal activities.

months later,
at that very same location
a dog laughed at the way I walked.

I wasn’t appalled,
I didn’t really even care,
I just chalked it up to poor manners.

but it was obvious,
my obnoxiousness was so revolting
that only animals had the guts to tell me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 253

Silence and Raindrops

as I sit quietly at a desk
listening to the sound of rain
clamoring, and dancing
on the roof above my head
a picture of a mustachioed gent
yells silent wonders into a microphone.

I try and understand what he’s saying,
but the silence of his voice
is muffled even more
by the constant of the rain.

It’s hard to ignore the rain
among all the other silences,
the whisper of the computer,
the dull hum of the air conditioning;
all this blissful silence, yet,
somehow the rain is far more energetic than I.

Poem-A-Day: Day 252

Paper Coughs

Paper-cuts on every finger;
a sad reminder
of working the doldrums of a bookstore,
or the fire pits of a post office.
Paper cuts everything;
the sharp stab as it tears flesh,
but only minimally
despite the indescribable pain.
Papers cut fine lines through fingertips,
and then the blood,
king crimson river flowing
is nothing but a shake off, and get moving.
Papers, caught in the act of malicious intent,
though it seems nigh impossible
it has happened, if only to serve
as a sad reminder.
The papers caught more than ever intended;
sound, fury, a resilient nature to breed
and be hungry for something unspoken,
some piece of life.
The papers cut free the thoughts,
release the bonds of servitude,
as the blood, the oily blood,
becomes a sign of liberation.
The paper cuts attempt deliverance
in a misguided art form,
the blood serves as a reminder
that life somehow has occurred.
The paper-cuts are nothing more,
than sad reminders on ever finger,
sad reminders that life is moving
and the only moving part are adorning cuts
on blood soaked hands.

Poem-A-Day: Day 251

Citizen Cain

I grind my toes into the berber,
it reminds me nothing of grass,
or sand, or dirt,
or anything that seems wholly natural,
yet it only seems natural
to be in the place where I am,
seated slouched over
in some possibly leather chair,
with the backlit screens
creating an infinite mirror,
but I am no Citizen Kane,
instead I have stabbed that man blindly,
leaving him slouched over a desk
bleeding natural thoughts
all over the sand and dirt
that has been ground into the carpet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 250

The Penitent Workforce

The crackle and pop
of the joints settling in place
marks yet another day deservedly over.
The day is nothing
but a routine maintenance
of a sad endeavor at trying to be something.
That something is never,
and will never fully manifest
until the actual routine of the day is changed.
The routine is mechanical
and emotionless in its methods,
and it becomes a set of gears grinding away.
The gears grind the soul
into nothing, the dead inside
is the mark of a routine spent toiling faithfully.
The faithful pursuit
of the never meant something
is reminiscent of the crackle and pop of joints
as they settle in place,
and mark the end of a day;
the only time that the soul returns to fervor.

Poem-A-Day: Day 249

The Top of the Stairs

Standing at the top of the stairs
like a demented god looking out,
observing the populace,
and rocking back and forth on his feet.
Ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball…
the repetitive motion inciting desire,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
and then the sudden rush of emotion,
driving madness down the stairs,
and washing the populace in sprays
and cries of agony.

The bookman looks around
like a demented god at the top of the stairs,
observing the customers,
ruining, when they should be shopping.
Piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles…
the repetitive nature inciting anger,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
and the sudden dream of destruction,
an act of frenzied cleansing the floors,
seems nothing but a daydream,
among the cries of children.