Poem-A-Day: Day 80

Static Thinking

skin white crushed velvet
scented with lost memories,
the twinge of bittersweet uncertainty,
salad…

scowls and smiles
somewhere between the two
teetering back and forth depending on
subject.

subjective becomes objective
self weighing opportunity vs. something
that resembles reliability
sadly…

twisting uncomfortably as the one
thing passing moments singing
softly into cold leathery hands
tries to stir lack into luster.

Poem-A-Day: Day 79

You Spin Me Right Round

Frankly spoken core demographics
write off my latest, greatest masterpiece
to dumb, fucking luck;
but I haven’t been lucky ever,
and I haven’t written any masterpieces,
and I have no core demographic.

Mostly I have a noose
dangling like a sweaty set of testicles
being punched repeatedly
by the failures in my life,
repeated over and over,
like a broken record.

Life hasn’t been as it should have,
not by any standards
written in the code of conduct,
so I conduct myself in a way
that best emulates a broken record
spinning wildly out of control.

Poem-A-Day: Day 78

Full Moon Madness

Poem-A-Day: Day 77

How Goes It?

So it goes, so be it
whatever it may be.

I’ve yet to figure it out in my wanderings,
because all I can figure
is that I am your biggest annoyance
and your greatest obsession
mixed methodically
in whatever you may want.

What is it you want,
so it goes, but what is it?

It may be nothing
as far as I can tell,
but it has to be something more than the nothing
I think it may be,
otherwise what would it be
besides nothing?

So it goes,
it is nothing.

I’ve repeated that phrase
over and over again over coffee and beer,
and I tell myself that it will be ok,
that it’s nothing to be concerned with,
but I concern myself with it,
because I am compelled by it.

What is it I want,
so it goes, but what is it?

It is something more than nothing
that I seem to can’t fully function without,
without falling to pieces in its wake
because it has me captured
in its wicked snare,
ensnared by whatever it is.

So it goes,
whatever it is I want.

I have seen what it is,
and whatever it is I can’t take my eyes off of it,
so I sink myself into it completely,
so it goes, and so it went.

Poem-A-Day: Day 76

I apologize to my small amount of readers for not actually having this up yesterday, but the internet collapsed before I got home from school/work. So here are two poems, plus the hope for more today. I hope I can be forgiven.

Roughly-A-Day

A process ruined
By modernity’s failure
Of consistency

PhilosoFie

Poem-A-Day: Day 75

Charlie’s Angels

Theatres housing overtly morbid answers, systemically
halves one motion at suspected times.
Only my angel sees the hours
moving asymmetrically, subtly, though her own
angelic smile trembles heavily over me.
She tries hiding openly, missing acceptance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 74

Sonnet #44 (Out of Syncopation)

Spending time in darkness daily dreaming,
and in some conscious subconscious science
I see strange reflected echoes gleaming
like the champions of self reliance
boasting toasts of touching those tender thighs;
the kind that bring demise amongst the dead
but brings surprise behind beloved eyes
when words not spoke aren’t easily misread.
It’s command demanding color capture
even though the night is dark and glowing black,
and despite despotic odds to rapture
near closing doors and teary callings back.
   A dream is but a dream when nothing’s done,
   but something’s more than sum of one plus one.

Poem-A-Day: Day 73

Browsing the Book Store

Her fearful symmetry
is a glass castle
housing lovely bones
and hot water music.

She is a wolf at the table
when you are engulfed in flames;
a million little pieces
of mice and men
become the rising tide
of blood meridian
in her beach music.

And I, the quiet American
for whom the bell tolls,
eating my naked lunch
in war and peace.

We’re in a long fatal love chase
that’s sure to end in cold blood
on some brave new world,
with me, the lord of the flies,
in my hundred years of solitude,
and her, the mysterious stranger,
an echo in the bone.

Poem-A-Day: Day 72

Keeping it Together

Each day it gets harder
to think,
of the one thing
to keep it all together.
                         each day it gets harder
It’s the one thing
that keeps it all together,
but it’s hard to remember
                        each day it gets harder
that one thing.
Keeping it together
                        each day it gets harder
becomes a challenge
on a daily basis.
                           each day it gets harder
Try to keep it all

t    o    g e        t     h        e          r.

Poem-A-Day: Day 71

So I Do Something

Never a boy scout,
or an athlete,
the best medal I ever earned
was crass.

I’ve never been much
for thinking too deeply
about shallow subjects,
because I have no depth for it,
aside from the death
of seedy underbellies.

I felt bad once
if only to see what it felt like.

But I found
that finding
is as worthless
as the act of looking
in the first place.

So what do I do?

I do nothing
but look at the fact
that I’ve been blessed
by some unholy force
survived through me
after cars,
bars,
bats,
and poison
tried to send the message
that no matter what the age,
I’m worth more
than the shit I speak most highly of.

Poem-A-Day: Day 70

Welcome to the Bauhaus

Flip on the form following function
as Ikea laughs at steel tube design
and flat-packed packaged furniture…
just one allen wrench away
from being some done piece of uncomfortable
piece of shit.
I find no peace
in,
on,
or around it,
but rest assured,
it has been designed with my life in mind
and custom tailored to a room
of substantially small stature,
however,
there will be no rest.
The chairs dig poor quality hatred
deep into the steel tube design
of my neural networking neurons,
sending transmissions
that form functionally futile hatred
towards something I had no hand in.

Poem-A-Day: Day 69

I.O.U. One Fish Stick, Bum

Fish sticks swimming in my ribs
like little dinner mints, stripping
my insides and filtering the silt
down around some other corner
than those whom overtly come
to stop me from doing whose works
I used under tunnels of smug, thuggish
grumps bunting fucked up luck, and
gulling up ugly, summer bum thumbs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 68

Scenic

Poem-A-Day: Day 67

Lucky Charm

                        A bewildering savvy
                     like a crooked smile
                  seducing the pants  off
               your body, one leg at
            a time. It’s some smug
         indifference laughing
      quietly on the inside
   because the bastard
knows something sly,
and solemn calming
deep within the fair
toothy grin adorning
his celestial, sexual
body that you can’t
seem to get enough
of. He’ll charm you
and stay distant all
at the same  time,
because he’s made
   a game of the dance,
      waxing and waning
         from your scornful
            wicked watching eyes.
               He shadow dances on
                  the dim corners of your
                     body, touching you gently 
                        in every place you ask.

Poem-A-Day: Day 66

High

High endurance
invisible max power
peppermint mocha tragedy,
as I fall asleep against another
dead wall, holding my coffee cup
high, and bringing it down to reality
slower than most normally livened.
Intensive care, cool and fresh
moisturizing madness map,
regulated winding roads,
high and free.

Poem-A-Day: Day 65

Alphabetrics

Absolution, blowing calm destructors,
entrancing flowing golden halogen
imagination, justifying kilometer lavish
musical nightmares overwhelming prom
queens, relinquishing sorrow, the
underground volumetric whale: xerophilous
yammering zephyr.

Poem-A-Day: Day 64

Slowly Sinking Self

hands dry and crackling pop
like corn in the dusty microcosm
that has the makings of a bookstore shelf,
dusty and forgotten
in the ebb of the watery web
that spins its tubes in every direction,
casting information
aside like discarded tissues
sullied by hollow sexuality digitized,
masqueraded
as masturbatory facsimile
housed within lotion hands,
forgotten
in the motions
to extol a feeling,
cast
in bag
lined glory.

Poem-A-Day: Day 63

Gangland

Surfing plowshare tides
of irrefutably futile systems
and warring tribulations
amongst the kings, counts and barons.
The banners, held high,
and left like the mark of the beast
on white castle wall
in an act so territorial,
that god himself has had favor in it.
But when the blunderbuss
and canonical smoke
recedes in hairline fractures,
the banner colored red reflects
the royalty that past proceeds to future.

Poem-A-Day: Day 62

Anagrammar

"Genius might be the ability to say
a profound thing in a simple way."
Wasting away the human genome in libation
and drowning thoughts in sinister mastery.
It’s the siren song smudging the mighty profound,
as wise as it is asinine
saying goodbye to the palm frond life,
and balling fists with tender fragility.

Poem-A-Day: Day 61

The Old Saloon

A heretic of the modern age
as I sit listening to myself debasing
the fore fathers , four fathers,
four horsemen of my apocalypse.
They provide a calypso tune
for my ears to prune,
sprucing up the hum drum room
of a brain I call disaster.
It’s not so much a transport
as it is the sporting transfer
from bus to bus,
subway to subway,
sent packing on byways and highways,
driving down parkways,
and parking in driveways.

But if I had it my way,
it would all be beat box dreams
in western saloons,
dropping rhymes like saliva
in dusty spittoons.

Poem-A-Day: Day 60

Oblivion

Oblivion,
watch it grow
in the hands of the wild-eyed
poet come to town,
as he scrawls dangerous whimsy
on the stalls of bathroom walls,
and crawls from fantasy floors to cheaper whores
than most have grown accustomed.
He stokes the fire,
burning blatant free on broken branches,
choked down bottles, and a loss of equilibrium
passing judgment on a night of violent visions to behold.
The blaze it burns and dances on his tongue
under jealous notions
passing glassy eyes, and steamed yellowed words
on sallow paper folds that crisp
in ashen madness, popping no less than three times
before emitting deathly embers to the sky
for slowly dropped release.
The poet rolls from town to town
stomping fires he himself has grown,
and punishing the faithfully renowned.
With each passing footstep
flames fall remiss,
and oblivion
has nothing more
to kiss.

Poem-A-Day: Day 59

Mountain Climbing

Looking up
from hardwood mountaintops
climbed with crampon bottles
and blurry talc powdered hands,
the summit stands
as a shadowy peak of blinding splendor.

Pure beauty
wrapped in terry cloth clouds
and beautifully scented dripping rain,
that turns to swirling snowflakes
touching my skin
like smooth, groping butter tendrils.

Helped up
by something other than here,
a glamorous glowing lack of gravity
that tears from slumber the one thing
left remembered
in a life spent mountain climbing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 58

Seraph

wild seraphim emblazoned
in sun scorched reverie
dances idly behind the backdrop
housing stolid cold reminders.

the haunting depiction
of a true self reverse
lost and wind kissed lips
chapped in puckered stance.

and under spreading wings
the light is cast in all directions
purging my known world
and spreading it on time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 57

Here Come the Bombs

The drugs take effect
and wrap me in their tender
god-like fingers,
melting away
drowning cinder block sadness
and the discursive
felt-tip madness
that makes me aware of my
immediate surrounding danger.
My halcyon daze
piling air upon clouds
giving weight to weightlessness
with bittersweet strangling bliss
released in twenty below gravity.

And here come the bombs,
 here come the bombs

dropping atomic, somnambulistic
dripping magic down my spine
in retribution
for my shallow winding crimes;
a flaming arrow
aromatic crime of new scents
tracking snowy footsteps
through grey matter wastelands.
Predictability is the greatest statistic
in whirlpool winter dreams,
spilling violent afterbirth
in sadist tide pools
like spools of swimming 
threaded fingers dancing on my body.

And here come the bombs,
 here come the bombs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 56

5 Drams

the air smelt of the oncoming onslaught
of my own true desire,
clouded in the jaded mess that makes
driving nigh impossible

under the bitter bliss of superfluous spirits;
a one-sided conversation
of ceremonious chitter-chatter clattering
words down like liquid

missiles whistling clean across the sky.
delirious, and championing
some fortitude not at all forthcoming,
but sadly off-putting.

a unique, chivalric confidence of inquisition
that violently dances
with some flippant, proprietary qualm
that can’t be squelched

by means of the maddening mosaic
painting something
other than me; it’s what’s intended
any more, but always less.

Poem-A-Day: Day 55

The Turtle Eats

A turtle eating leaves
leaves everything to the imagination
as it shovels very slowly,
methodically moving its head

back
     and
          forth;

sweeping the pile for traces
of whatever it has yet to get
in its beaklike jawing conversation
best had alone with others watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 54

Cane

Under certain ambiguities
the mundane of modernity
seems almost as refreshing
as the bottles that adorn the floor.
Glass of green and brown
casting twisted color shadows
as the light passes by
like a gentleman twirling his cane.
He whistles while he walks,
and works the crowd over,
six pence none the richer,
but damn does he look good.

I watch the shadows creep with time,
and they become cockroaches twisting
thoughts in my callous subconscious
conscious fervor forming thoughts.


I wish I had a cane to twirl.

Poem-A-Day: Day 53

Drafty Windows

The day is a drafty window
with wind passing through it
like shit through a trumpet
played by the indelible
memories of a room with a drafty window.

They are the best memories
that money can buy
with credit where credit is due
processed with something more
probable than the best memories.

It is less than probable
in some impossible fashion sense
of irony that dwarves its own impending
doom patrolling day and night
watching the less than probable.

So as the night is spent watching
reruns on an old television set
out to get back to the one thing
that remains true to life:
a day spent drafty window watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 52

Epic


Image by Michael Kenna

Poem-A-Day: Day 51

Solemn Maniacal

deep in the heart of solemn silence
sits a waiting rumination,
patient and penitent,
laughing sweetly on the inside.

and as the scent permeates
the callow sweeping darkness,
it stops briefly to listen to itself
and ponder.

the question isn’t what to do,
but what not to think about,
and simply crash face first
through the picture window.

it’s a never ending game
of haves, and never nots
passing by in idle desperation;
quiet grinning maniacal.

Poem-A-Day: Day 50

New Year

Night descends to day
And a new year marches on
Into the future