Poem-A-Day: Day 108

Aiy Aiy Aiy!

I am false resolve
squared by shoving hands
forcing a cornered position,
like a dog being whipped
for shitting the new rug.

Iron man of no more honor
than being lost in the rain,
wandering with untied shoes
dragging the last sense
of lacking in four  tiny wakes.

Imagine, the brain working
shifts to flat panel heaven;
a laughable perversion mirrored
of my own lost behavior,
trapped within the hell of bliss.

Poem-A-Day: Day 107

No Rain

I've manufactured a reality
so bizarre
that it has completely ceased to be
anything that I remember.

But I don’t remember much,
if anything
from the things that I’ve found real,
there is nothing really.

So I stare down the scope
ready
to take the shot and blow my own brains
clear out of my memory.

And when the cool sweet
purity
caresses my lips in slow distilled disaster,
I come to sudden realizations.

Poem-A-Day: Day 106

Too Many Dicks On The Dance Floor

Too many,
of any
offers plenty

More than needed,
and also anteceded,
nor proceeded
yawns completed.

Down trodden:
interlocking
cerebral blocking
killer locking,
spoiled rotten,

Overbearing,
not for sharing

This humble flock
haranguing sock
exaggerated cock.

Don’t make note
and rock the boat,
near wood floored moats
commanding float;
emancipating scrote.

For there are many
looks, and plently
other manly
offers plainly
rousing proposition sanely.

Poem-A-Day: Day 105

Dam the Man

Glamour clamors its way down
the brick and mortar tombstone villa
wishing mortifying wasteland madness
on the crowd that gathers, gate crashing
painful, brass tacked tackle-boxes
filled with hook, after inglorious hook.

Twist of the wrist blisters back wire string
beauty, pulling the tarp back
from trapped hooks under silvered,
glowing shine of the sun blaring
whistling screams as they rocket through
the cold dry air to find release in shallow thoughts.

Bobbing bobble-headed thoughts hooked
on the tranquil sanctimonious,
under tugging troubling flowered grasp
and brimming admiration, leaving nothing
but the shrill capture of faltering bliss,
and falling asleep in woven chairs.

Poem-A-Day: Day 104

Drown Syndrome

Window shades draw strings
to see who goes first,
pulling down,

              down,



                                  down,




         down,

drowning under the rabbit hole,

hiding
with the people under the stairs,

hides tanned,
skinned,
screened silky smooth
within cloth burrito wraps
dapper than the duke of
earl of Rochester
swapping dick tales,
fluids,

more dapper even,
than dare say in heresy,
my own common sense;
two cents drawing straws
to see who goes first,
slowly drown,



drown,





                           drown,



            drown,

down within the wishing wells.

Poem-A-Day: Day 103

Mystery Machine

Two sunken mysteries milking
living worlds for favor,
favoring some where’s Waldo approach
over approaching the situation
instead of situating reality;
sitting quietly contemplating
demise akin derision in decision
to make the fatal move…
fatally renowned, unknown
before begotten known to no one;
the props and circumstantial evidence
marks eviction from,
or rather to too much, too little, too late
so soon bewildering the camp befuddled;
lacking mystery, so overwhelmingly
obvious in apocalyptic obliviousness…

though some say not enough.

Poem-A-Day: Day 102

Waiting, Just Waiting

Waiting, just waiting
for words that move like tornados
over the prairie fields filled systemically
with the damning thoughts,
damming the river of ingenuity
that’s filed systematically 
into cabinets toppling over,
topped off with a cherry on top,
cherry jubilee, jubilation
that ruminates on the words;
running dogs ruining the carpet
as they scoot slowly,
butt to carpet,
but to put things in perspective
floating languidly down the river;
though the thoughts are damnable,
the words move instead of
waiting, just waiting.

Poem-A-Day: Day 101

Reflections on Olympic Hockey

Shines like a diamond in the mouth of a roughy
swimming deep below the surface of belief,
and the fins are a slapping five finger sting
leaving the glowing red maple leaf mark
on the cold surface floor, flooring the
everything that has, or ever will be.

Critics claim in their critically acclaimed ways
that miracles happen miraculously every
thirty years or so. But counting eggs
before they’ve hatched has never
been the thing of thinking sharp,
despite the fight, the fight is
worth it, in every way.

Poem-A-Day: Day 100

I Cup Stuttering

Injecting direct mild officiate
into weary blood, streaming down
cheeky bastards chasing dreams…
chasing monkeys gone to heaven
under the ocean, under the floorboards,
up on the killing fields drenched
plain white madness, starving blandness
picked up fixers licking dead.

Poem-A-Day: Day 99

Chasing Waterfalls (Despite TLC’s Advice)

Arms draped like waterfalls,
gray charcoal waterfalls
ending with foam fingers
splashing calmly down ribbed landscape
as far as the water will reach.

It’s current:
fast and unexpected,
sending misty wisps of wind,
scent, skyward towards
graying thoughtful clouds.

Wind whispers lost phrases
into cavernous ears,
caverns like ears capturing
everything and nothing,
trapping it methodically in time and space.

It’s tactile:
heavy and warm,
sunny, soft scented breeze
caressing nothing more
than a day’s last moments before release.

Poem-A-Day: Day 98

Six Million Dollar Plan

The path to automation is clear,
shorn with gentile metal fingers
piano playing their way across my landscape,
prodding methodically
in places I never knew existed.
Replacement is the next best thing
since complacency marketed itself
as the next best thing since autonomy.
It’s not for a lack of trying,
because as the metal fingers massage
the magic metallic membrane,
down to deep tissue fissures
forming cybernetic bond, I’m left to ponder
if I should have spent my six million elsewhere...

Poem-A-Day: Day 97

On the Shelf

3:10 to 12 Monkeys 28 Days later,
tends to 300 2009’s lost memories
of the adventures of airplane aliens,
and pure American beauty psychopathic weddings,
assaulting baseket-batman begins down
the dark battle of Beverly Hills Lebowski;
big man Japan in trouble in little China.

Poem-A-Day: Day 96

A Bastardized Color Definition

Aquamarine:
  1. bluish green benzene somewhere between
     caffeine citrine and
     dandelion green through diffusing screens.
  2. executive routines
     foreseen fourteen years from fifteen figurines.
  3. green gelatin within the golden mean.
  4. harmonic means and hyacinth beans
     intervene within the infernal machine of
     jade green jelly beans.
  5. keen killing machines, kendal green
     latrines lean with lima bean library routines.
  6. mean marine mincing machine.
  7. nineteen navy beans
     obscenely olive green, or
     preening pea green propylene
     routinely to reconvene in
     seventeen serene submarine silver screens.
  8. thirteen tangerine trampoline time machines
     unclean, unseen, and umpteen
     vaccine voting and vending machines,
     Xerox machines, and
     yellowish green
     zines, zincous with zinc.

Poem-A-Day: Day 95

Time (Is Not On My Side)

Time has become the thing
undesirable
within its lack of  being,
having none
and piling more and more
on top of  it,
creating a towering inferno
of being late
for everything that’s been,
or needs to be
done and finished on time.

Time is a symbol of being;
consistently
doing things on the thing it is,
but nothing
more than piles of bottled up
anguish and
the lack that seems to come
from not
having the essentials when
it comes to
needing the one thing, time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 94

St. V

Hillbilly deluxe dine in special,
white, pink, and red blooded
picture flashing, knocking back burgers
and the beer of champagnes
with one lane for two.

It’s simple days, and simpler nights
spent dressing down and out of style,
keeping style laughably wonderful,
and tacky, pouring it out for the fallen
and going home to pajamas.

Poem-A-Day: Day 93

Saturday Mornings

Scrappy dappy stay tuned for
sweet ninja turtle action hours
after these messages.

Mighty maxing out and earthworm
jimmy masked crusaders working overtime,
fighting crime, and inspecting gadgets.

Godzilla stomp and screaming
at the MGM monster mash:
Elvira black and white mistress of the night.

Glass of milks later, and legends
of Zeldas doing the Super Mario,
the mornings have never been the same.

Poem-A-Day: Day 92

Todorrow?

Silver slip stream,
screaming down around the mountain
pass, passing past the passing
moments, and monuments, prominent
in some strange way.

There doesn't seem to be a strange
way of being in a strange land
any more than any less
from yesterday
or tomorrow or today.

Poem-A-Day: Day 91

What To Do?

You’ll know what to do when you get there,
when you get there,
you’ll know.

Repeated over and over and over and over,
until it becomes my
best Pavlovian response to the same question
that gets asked most of me.
I spend plenty of wakeless nights
sleeping in the sense that I keep repeating
the act of not doing it over and over and over,
lying on my back,
as I stare blankly into the darkness
reflected on the blank white ceiling
mocking me with its lack of emotion.
If I could find release,
the question probably wouldn’t be repeated
over and over and over and over.
What do I do if I’m dreaming,
what if I never find sleep?

You’ll know what to do when you get there,
when you get there,
you’ll know.

Poem-A-Day: Day 90

Response to a Car Accident

He looked at me like I was crazy.

Little did he know I was,
and as I raised the hammer
high above my head
in the effort to drive a nail
clear through the world,
he shuddered quietly,
but I heard him.

He looked at me like I had nothing to lose.

I don’t have anything to lose,
that is to say,
I’ve already lost most things
at one point in time
either presently or in the future,
and with that in mind,
I bring the hammer down
in an almost perfect arc
collapsing on itself in slow motion.

He watched in horror.

I am horrible,
as horrible as monsters come
with little regards to man, god or beast,
because instead of abjectly howling
like a beast in heat,
I coo in adulation
as the hammer strikes the target
sending the last remaining life it had
spiraling in an almost perfect arc
expanding on itself in slow motion.

He sits quietly on the cold dark ground
cradling his head like a wounded baby
and laments his broken Hot Wheels.

Poem-A-Day: Day 89

Snow Day

The world a screaming waste of space,
like two whales screeching out their woeful song
behind glass tank majesty
mirrored by gaping, idiotic slack-jawwery
and vacant thoughtless eyes
living soulless
within the wrinkles of furrowed brows.

A bitter reflection, reactive
in a semi-radioactive way
spreading stupidity across the land
irradiating and retarding progress
through thoughtless progressivism.

Thankfully, to the applause of none
comes the sweet taste of cool relief
from hollow skies gone grey with envy
at the shallow displeasure of the earthly tone,
raining down a slow and gentle sneeze
whirling to disastrous laughter
that blankets the world in thick white brevity.

Poem-A-Day: Day 88

Baskets

Smooth rounded lips
bring self destructive bliss
to a wretch wrecked.

It’s neither calamitous
or calamity
that lays its weary head
down to rest assure
the only things worth knowing.

As it turns out,
there isn’t any worth in knowing,
only things intangible abound,
bound to hell
in broken down baskets,
because the irony
is murderous.

Poem-A-Day: Day 87

Viral

struck down in cold blood
once more stinging deep into the core,
central processing shit through a goose
onto hard driven vehicles
passing by and out of key.
stroked out,
from some internal clot in the netting
of the sinewy veins
connecting stifling memories
and plunging diatribes on whitewashed
scribble switches
drifting sad, and lifeless
into the dark raping quiet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 86

Juke Box Quizzical

Stop motion reverie
and the sweeping salivation
of salvation wrapped coy
in plastic cocoa dreams.

She sings as if trifle 
moments make her think
it makes the bigger difference
in song choice,

and it turns out it has happened to matter
on the one chance once
thought to be the time she’d
least likely regret…

because in the land of the blind
the one eyed man is forced
to recount the memories
of the past 1000 years.

Poem-A-Day: Day 85

Doodle Brigade

Stork-like fingers doodle nightmare
creatures in crescent shapes
on chalkboard fantasy.

I watch in some dumbfounded mastery
of the craft I have yet to examine
in its full demonics.

It is no less evil than the stork-like fingers
that do the doodling in the first place,
but it is far more entrancing.

So with nothing left to give or gain,
the best thing I could do was get,
and forget I ever saw it.

But the stork-like fingers continue with wizardry
so frantic that it becomes a whirlwind
of flailing tips on stony meadows.

They are the meadows I have grown fond of,
dusty and yellowed with lavish words
that makes it hard to notice
the nightmares coming.

Poem-A-Day: Day 84

Stormy Waters

so still that even though it was going to rain,
sombre clouds were rolling with
sinister intention from the west:
sullen, threatening roar.

shrimps, fond, retumed to perch on the keg and
sat
stolidly holding while the storm burst,
shook the wood and
seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field.

safety  sat at a side window
sewing furiously on a sewing machine
storm felt very warm and often
stopped to mop the perspiration gathered in beads.

small front gallery had hung to dry and
stepped at the gate,
stood there in the big rain
shelter of a side projection,
startled as if from a trance,
seized and
snatched, about to be carried away by a
sudden gust of wind.

soon apparent out in the open:
sheets, and something beneath the water
still retained their melting quality; and yellow
stubborn  temples
stood disturbed and clouded with moisture.

stiflingly hot and looking distant
struck at the edge of the field a
space with a blinding glare,
staggered backward
spasmodically releasing from retreating
seated, the warm, palpitating body drawn
     aroused for her flesh.

taken from Kate Chopin’s short story, The Storm

Poem-A-Day: Day 83

Nothing Brains Can’t Cure

Feet are roots bound to berber bed
that pulse failures to ceiling sky
through a system of cellular inactivity;
marred and broken tree
swaying forthcoming like a dog
drunk on its own filth,
a garbage scented sweet with sweat,
pain,
anger,
nothing…

A blank canvas waiting paint
for a picture more vivid
than capture can presume
instead gets a fist through the middle
exploding constructed guts to the floor:
wood,
staples,
brains…

The wood a dam,
damning the flow that tries to pass through,
stopping the tide despite the moon’s calling
glow that fleshes it towards the sea,
because it finally saw,
that there isn’t,
wasn’t,
won’t,
can’t…

The water seeps in crevices carpeted,
wastelands in a wasted land
that seeks the sword for solemn release
but finds the pen much stronger
as liberation within the wooded battlefield,
bleeding,
broken,
cure.

Poem-A-Day: Day 82

One Train Departs from Detroit at 2pm Traveling at 45mph, While Another Leaves Chicago at 3pm Traveling at 35mph, Where Do They Collide?

Trains blurt out their last lonely call
and move on into their nightly courtship
of singularity across the rails.
The clack and rattle of metal on metal
shoots sparks into the cold dry air;
going unnoticed
in the stagnant hours of closure.
Despite their best effort to light
the surrounding darkness,
the sparks pop and fizzle to nothingness
before dancing together on chilly afterthoughts.

Trains move slowly,
cutting their way through the night sky
on gilded steely dreams,
shimmering like the best disaster
captured on film.
Smoke billows in cloudlike imitation,
dancing softly into the firmament
chiding silly sparks
in a way the makes mockery blush.
The smoke relies heavily
on some idea captured in time
and set to motion on antiquity.

Trains bound in opposite directions
happily into the darkness of the night’s laughter,
swimming through the cold
like torpedoes fulfilling a message
of acceptance.
Smoke and sparks banter in coy conversational
miscommunication:
piteous attempts
at one-upping
one another.
Whistles blurt
before the sound of metal on metal
turns a crushing afterthought
to the sound of solemn silence.

And among the smoke’s best efforts,
the sparks dance happily
in the carnage.

Poem-A-Day: Day 81

Bland, I’m Bland

Double oh nothing but trouble
for one plus live and let lost.
Give and get up, so I got to get it
before twice tomorrow’s another disaster
in the making majesty in secret
saucy living triple daylights.
Golden guns, fingers, eyes,
and four score and doctor not
going to happen again and again.
But it does, like five fingers slapping
in a fist-like way, leaving moons raking
across the sky like diamonds lasting forever.
Sweet deep sixing and thunder balling eyes,
weeping never say never, not ever,
not again…

So I double oh seven eleven,
get the big gulp,
and shoot that fucker down
in my, I sexy way.