Poem-A-Day: Day 139

Stimulatedly Transmitted Disease

She’s looking at me cautiously
through a windowed pain,
like she wants to speak words
gone incredibly somehow silent.

I listen intently, as if I hear
every word in dissonant bastion
stepping twice, before retreating
back to cherished hallowed halls.

She motions with one finger
inciting distant shadow dances,
deep within her prison cell
of shackles trapped wistful wishing.

I oblige her, in godlike ways
every time I see the fateful call
brimming sexually, twisting fate
as if it knew own smoldered speech.

She bows courteously
from view in a sinner’s way,
begging for some sanctuary
in some undressed uniformity.

I follow completely, damning gods
to follow suit in the same
beguiling mystery, the woman
that has become infectious infatuation.

Poem-A-Day: Day 138

What Just Happened?

A taste of madness,
and someone stabs a steak
directly into my heart,
letting the grease
and bovine, mobile sloth
sluice its way through my bloodstream,
slowing down my breathing,
and weakening my normal putrescence
down to an almost tolerable level.
Some claim death begets me
in mere moments before eternal clarity,
but it’s inconsequential
compared to the wheezing shriek
that steams from the whole of my chest.
Calm, release of lunacy
and a blizzard of flavor flurry,
in the instants I am eating

I often forget what I am talking about.

Poem-A-Day: Day 137

Final Notice

I can’t help but notice
that I’ve lost my feet,
or maybe footing,
in a bizarre ritual of self-sacrifice.
I haven’t actually sacrificed anything
except my listlessness,
my profound ability
to be completely at rest
and restless
at times concurrently cohabitating
parallel plains of existence.
For this reason alone,
I can no longer figure
where my feet have gone.
I walk upright,
no better than Cro-Magnon man,
often dragging,
with deep-set, troubled eyes,
loincloth,
and spear in hand
stabbing sadly at the sun
as it is overwhelmed
by eclipsing egomaniacal shadows.
I’m so caught up
in my own skullduggery
that I can’t even tell
the shadow is my own,
being cast up
skyward lightning from the ground.
I can’t help but notice,
because my gaze is falsely skewed,
by the undermining lie
of my own greatness.

Poem-A-Day: Day 136

I Am

I am Apathetic
mostly, caring about what I want to,
and not about what I should.

I am Bored
with what usually happens,
though I do nothing to change that.

I am Charming,
bewildering mostly myself,
I am able to entice most everyone.

I am a Dreamer,
constantly looking forward,
but never knowing how to get there.

I am Endearing
to a point, leaving marks that all remember
before slipping into anonymity.

I am a Fucker
in every sense of the word,
though it takes a lot to cross me.

I am Generous
somehow, because I really have nothing,
but manage to give everything in return.

I am Hated
because I am confident in my abilities,
and I use that as a weapon against others.

I am Inferred,
like a forgotten memory,
or something that doesn’t quite make sense.

I am a Joke
with no punch-line,
not really funny, but people keep telling me.

I am a Killer
of time, watching it slip idly by,
as I sip coffee from dream stained mugs.

I am Laughable
because I choose to be,
life hasn’t been what it should, but when is it?

I am a Man,
there is no denying or hiding it,
I love to worship the female form.

I am Nothing
and that is sadly true,
not ironic, I am what hasn’t been.

I am Open
with my life, keeping no secrets,
and showing myself off with swagger.

I am Proud
of what I have and haven’t been.
Show me your dreams, and mine will be bigger.

I am Quiet
when I need to be,
a silent observer of operations.

I am Rowdy
and I will steal the show,
because I have the ability to move mountains.

I am Self-Destructive
and self critical, my own worst enemy
has been my ability to over-think the situation.

I am Trivial,
a puzzle that has yet to be fully assembled
or the last remaining pie piece of your pursuit.

I am Unhinged,
and can or will break at any moment
as tension is palpable in the air I breathe.

I am Voracious,
tenacious, persistent,
however it is phrased, I will follow.

I am Wild
and uncontrollable, a complete spazz
from the dance-floor to your concept of reality.

I am Xenomorphic,
or I am formless, a shape that seems to be,
simply because it has and always will.

I am Youthful
in thoughts and appearance,
despite what years would have you believe.

I am a Zealot,
and I will fight for what I want
and even more for what I cannot have.

I am an alphabetically defined nightmare
of statistically speaking amorphic parts
sewn together by sinewy threads of ignorance,
and all that I am has nothing left to do,
but chronicle time chronologically
in some bastardized way,
because as it stands,

I am.

Poem-A-Day: Day 135

Soul Pump

Shouting blister burns
through teeth,
green with envy
and stained black,
the bitter coffee blood
that pumps the soul.

Breathing silent gasps
through teeth,
smiling subtly,
and shrouded gates,
the hurdle to a heart
that pumps the soul.

Poem-A-Day: Day 134

Poison Face

Scowling down
at the poison not doing a thing.
It sweeps the dry façade
bumbling like a it has special needs,
when all it seems to need
is nothing more than work.
No, not work,
something other,
playing foolishly with balance,
the temporal order of things
shuffled in a way
that blissfully stops time
in nothing more catastrophic
than dropping a mug
into shattering molds
scolding bare feet madness.

Scowling down,
at the ants
nurturing their own poisonous means,
acting as people,
as people will.

Poem-A-Day: Day 133

Met Apocalypse

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse is standing
with feet turned slightly away  from each other,
clockwise
and counter-clockwise
respectively,
watching us from under a dark brown fedora,
lurched forward slightly
with arms crossed,
stoically exercising the demons
that tiptoe through crazy gardens
leaving thoughts for pennies;
cents for sense.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse watches
from the corner of a mine,
dwarfing everything else in a subtle way,
and dreaming
the floating white horse,
a pale horse,
beholding death,
who merely laughs
and high-fives apocalypse so thunderous,
that underwear everywhere is collectively soiled,
plowed,
and cultivated for crops.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse moves slowly,
the amorphous minutes ticking riddle
that kills life slowly
every magical day,
laughing monotone sounds
that barely penetrate contextual Cerberus
howling sunset majesty down rivers
gone yellow around the edges;
time methodically disappearing
drifting away into destruction,
because as it stands,
apocalypse doesn’t seem to know any better.

Poem-A-Day: Day 132

Potted Plants

Pots stop spots patting
tabs that stab at bats, rats,
and bars barring bards’ drab dabbling
babble, bubbles bobble baubles
around rotund and tender runs,
yet, not a tonic contra to a cent, or coin
debited, bits deterred red dead retarded,
sounding songs sung; sang sundered
in passings sapped, sassing gasped
for air, rare a rarity of fare
at bars, that barring bards
belittle little belts, still titles let
songsters stir strange gingers gone
to rest, resorting to resist…
at least, less tasteful sets
became macabre remembrance,
stopping spots, pots patted.

Poem-A-Day: Day 131

Poem-A-Day: Day 130

G’night

“G’night”

was the last thing he said
before vanishing to lonely absolution
in the dark cauldron mouth of the horizon.

Not two words,
not quite one,
just some simple amalgamation
representing thoughts of well wishes.

He was a stranger,
always stranger than the last,
never, always more normal than he seemed,
as he walked silently into the night
with doting backpack dragging by his side.

The backpack carried feelings
too heavy to bear on shouldered burdens,
so it followed closely,
picking up the gathering filth of the day…

The weight of time,
stuffed neatly into a bag,
that leaves no more than the dusty word,

“G’night.”

Poem-A-Day: Day 129

Waving Goodbye (to Life in General)

I wait for tidal waves
to pull me out to sea
and kill the thoughts
that stare back at me
through ragged lines.

The waves pulling
and dragging listless
miles of weights
through a dark curtain
and out of chalky windows.


The tidal current pulls

like the finest ideas

set to motion in the sky,

disastrous for a minute

that turns into days at sea.



The tidal waves are fantasy


stripping notion of reality


and throwing back phantoms


dressed as angels in the devil guise


to stab at black hearted dreams.




The waves are mere titles,



stones cast aside like dreams



skipping at sharp angles



over the torrent looking maniacal



and peering in my direction…
as I lay on the beach in stupid glory.

Poem-A-Day: Day 128

Classical Gasp

Listening to classical
and enjoying the cold days of spring
waiting for nothing to happen,
not that it would
or ever could,
but always does in some strange way.
No calls to call,
no calls, not a hint or peep
from unconcerned voices
never checking up
on the simple act in walking,
one,
two,
three,
four…
one right after the other,
lest a stumble,
and not a soul to help
pick up the pieces,
just a pair of eyes
not even watching.
Yet, there’s nothing disconcerting,
not any one thing
to mar the simplicity
of listening to classical,
and enjoying the cold days of spring.

Poem-A-Day: Day 127

Sonnet #45 (Faulty Tower Deconstructed)

Some faulty tower deemed to self-destruct
is fallen dead upon the filthy ground
before it had a chance to deconstruct,
yet hovers still, a shambled structure bound
by tragedy to never fall, and all
ways stand crippled, never looking broken,
but somehow captured deep within the thrall
of some shadow casting lights and spoken
nothings; spoken contextualized hands
reaching up from a grassy covered knoll
to mimic faulty tower’s mocking stands,
and bring it back to tragedy’s control.
 The tower shrugs and looks to waiting gates
 that call for nothing more that he creates.

Poem-A-Day: Day 126

Somewhere Over the Rains

Somewhere over the rains bows

something I’ve never seen before,
looking at me cockeyed,
smirking mischievously
over the shoulder
in some less than contemptuous way.

I don’t quite understand it,
but I crave it
more than the rain falling,
quenching the earth, my heart,
in its slow subtle drops.

Somewhere over the rains bows

a queen of hearts,
because the queen diamonds
will hurt me if she’s able,
at least that’s what I’m informed
in tear-jerk anthems.

Although I’ve never been anthemic,
or academic,
in any traditional sort,
whether it’s made up or not,
I just can’t seem to care.

Somewhere over the rains bows

rain still coming down
in sheets of liquid diamonds,
dropping hints and allegations
of some historical
event that never happened.

Though what never happened
seems to have happened
when the rain came streaming down,
plummeting down the skies
with wicked chutes.

Somewhere over the rain, bowed.

Poem-A-Day: Day 125

Shit Shooters

Old men talk to each other
in scat-like gibberish,
and I, the outsider, am left to pontificate
on their alien language
somewhere between jive and banter.

I’m no better,
saying nothing in silent observance
of some mythic act
that happens every morning,
or so I believe.

They look on me,
and wonder what my problem is,
and why I never say a word,
why I merely smile,
and nod like I approve of nothing.

They obviously know something
that I do not,
otherwise, what point would there be
in gathering at a gas station coffee machine
to shoot the shit for hours.

Poem-A-Day: Day 124

Complacent to Failure

Tenuous.

The easiest descriptor
for the single greatest definition of failure
since the first game show
gloriously debuted human fault
like original sin, cast to the waves
that occupy space in time.

No sign, or cosign needed for this claim,
because there is nothing left
of broken, hollowed out shells,
lost like scribbled out notes
to less than avid eyes
watching blown out tires spin reluctantly.

Erector sets have modeled stronger will,
and surely stronger spines
with gravel scraping mad bee sounds,
stinging the back in slow whips
alluding to slavery,
but eluding to nothing more than collapsing.

Tenuous,
time reluctantly collapsing.

Around, there are flowers to be seen
stabbing wistfully at blue skies moaning
blank songs down
on false clay earth,
robbing the holy notions
of the sunlight that callow light brings.

Slow descending down,
spiraling like the worst shit taken
on any given day,
in any given town,
gone down, to the watery heavens
that make life seem almost viable.

Laughable happens, to be more
for something else than it usually is,
but there really isn’t anything
that it actually does,
outside of the cold, jarring copacetic moments
that make life seem like complacency.

Tenuous,
time reluctantly collapsing,
brings viable complacency.

Poem-A-Day: Day 123

Balancing Axe

My chemical imbalance
is caused duly
by my own self medication,
and some lack
in hibernation,
sending senses somewhere down,
down to the doldrums
to mine for ore, or
nothing more
than boredom on his lips
exhaling air in some sudden gust.

The wind passing through tulips,
bending them slightly,
though as not to break them,
merely force them into
some understanding
that they’ll never sleep,
no, not while blooming,
the sun is too harsh a simmering heat
that radiates caution
in every direction
except the one most needed.

There is no direction,
only distraction
caused by something lacking,
cerebral madness from the mind,
mined thoughts crippled
by some strange requirement,
forethought or afterthought,
that has left little left to do
but dote
and wait to fall
from being poor in balance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 122

Kansas

Something tells me
I’m not in Kansas anymore,
or that I never was.

I don’t know,
it seems so hard to tell these days
where I have and haven’t been,
or what just happened
not fifteen minutes ago.

I’d like to think that I know,
but it’s painfully obvious
that I don’t have any clue.

Sometimes I wonder
if Mark Twain was right,
or if I’m wrong,
should I have optioned
for the mustache?

It doesn’t seem to be the priority,
or I never was,
always being the option,
never the opted.

Maybe I’ll slow down,
find Kansas in a stack of pins
and throw it straight to the sky
to see where I can stick it,
because it has been lost
where the sun don’t shine for years.

Poem-A-Day: Day 121

On the House

“Another sad shot of depravity please.”

“Drink is on the house.”

always is,
at the bars around my padded cell
singing lonesome songs
about the fish
and how they get away.
not without toying the line first,
they always take the worm,
and leave nothing but a thought,
at how it would look mounted
up against the wall.

another sad shot,
slammed down,
blamed for,
and revels in the pit
I love to wallow.

at least the drink was on the house.

Poem-A-Day: Day 120

Autobiography of Nobody in Particular

autobiographical anonymous
man with two eyes
just the same as everyman
killing time with ironic murderous hands
ticking, tickling, talking
about what was
and has to be,
“come and take a walk on the wild side”
he says blandly to himself
as if some misbegotten shred of dignity
gave a damn, fuck, or shit,
because it didn’t seem to materialize
until he finally let it sink in,
slowly…
in a counterclockwise motion
circling down through iris, pupils
looking on in blank amazement
at the washed out face
staring in infinity,
taken canonically
down lucidity lane.

Poem-A-Day: Day 119

Soma Dings Off

Con descending freed a stair-well
lead to mar dens gist some dents off,
butt, tits butter thane are cueing
with him ill eat icky son a bout Poe eatery.

Eye gust err is noting reeling sighing
dings ah boat peepholes hat youth ink
donut no hoot hay our due ink,
beak house decants peak under bee halves.

Sits ease ire two below heart
lean-to main op too urine fowl tees,
hats whine ever dough tan otter pear sons
able deities. Day nom art oni dew.

Poem-A-Day: Day 118

Jiving

give in

and

collapse within the gapless,
masterpiece beguiling
transient thoughts
on the sailing
sea winds
blowing

never.

give up.

never

following
tragic falls
of the wording
that errs erroneous
in vindictive insulting
attempts that always calls

and

gives in.

Poem-A-Day: Day 117

Zomboni

Dreams of violence
and humans dripping steel arrow arms,
walking strangely
as if they were looking over their shoulders
moving backwards,
staggering in some slow pacing orchestra
towards the notion
of some outlandish damaged majesty.

I see them walking
towards me slowly swaying back and forth,
not any way human,
but more mutants with cold bladed limbs
resolute to murder
me in some twisted warm-blooded fantasy,
smiling savage smiles,
and winking stitches deep into my soul.

Each mutant step rouses
the Earth to change its soiled stolid heart,
while each move is minor
compared to the faltering diffident strides
I take towards waking,
the danger presses like some strange disease
poised to kill
in the slowest sociopathic way possible.

However, it’s not that I don’t like it,
I follow the moments
as they creep towards me like bitter zombies
looking for release.

Poem-A-Day: Day 116

Jubilations

the jubilation disgusted them both
in two completely separate
and tiring ways.

somewhere between the clatter,
the clamor,
and the fancy dreams
is some sort of standard…

a banner held high,
waving admonished
to a crowd in jubilation…

sans one.

but the jubilation disgusted them both.

Poem-A-Day: Day 115

Scared Squared

S C A R E D
C There’s E
A nothing R
R  to be  A
Eafraid ofC
D E R A C S

Poem-A-Day: Day 114

Creature Feature

Hummingbirds drop hints
like napalm,
laying waste to the entirety
of a mind already barren,
scorched in more ways than one…

lacking things essential,
thoughtful,
insightful,
but not terrifying.

The whole mess is a field
of nightmare creatures,
tearing every living thing to pieces,
so that they,
in some godlike way,
can find peace among themselves.

Poem-A-Day: Day 113

Sparrow Doesn’t Get It

Sparrow calls the silver-backed wings
something unheard of in this day and ageless gimmick.

Silver-backed wings respond contrite
that they have a name somewhere near simplicity.

Sparrow never knowing, never heard
of simplicity, not once in trying things like flight
and being verbose, talking overhead, over heads,
spasmodically sundering thunder clouds to chirp
away at the voices in its very narrow minded
absence of thought; the train that stopped short
of greatness.

Silver-backed wings fly simple, over
heard, if something happens to catch another’s
fancy, but nothing’s fancy, because the flight
is soft and slow, mellow, dramatic, but eloquent
to notwithstanding underneath the eyes gazing
in chapped glory towards the sun and clouded
blue heavens.

Sparrow calls the silver-backed wings
contemptuous names, faltering over each word blankly.

Silver-backed wings respond contrite
that they have been called worse things than simplicity.

Poem-A-Day: Day 112

Light Slaps

Raggedy slaps in the face
from the light that breaks
through the blinds in silence.

Mute, unsightly mess on the floor,
watching the ceiling come to life
and reach down to help
clean up the pile that’s wasting away
the day, dreaming
of what happened the night before,
and the night before,
and the night before…
before…
before…
before boredom sets in like mosaic tiles
creating a fragmented picture
that seems to make sense
the further away it’s viewed.

The bed a partner in crime,
insomuch as it left a deathbed wish
to be left alone.

It hates to stink.

It hates to see the same mess
on the same floor
day in and out,
unless it’s the in and out
that makes the mess.

It has a twisted sense of morality,
that laughs circles around
the quiet pale, quite failing bedlam
that mars the carpet floor
morning to morning,
mourning the slaps that never cease
from the ragged blinds
come calling.

Poem-A-Day: Day 111

Binary Connections

one binary connection lacking
zero thought towards the many things
one needs to understand.
zero chance at the systematic,
zero possibilities at comprehension,
zero leads to exasperate the
one situation that needs more than
zero standards of development.
zero stands in for
zero, leaving nothing but a
zero to represent the
one piece of information that lends itself to the
one thing plus the only other
one thing that just happens to make any sense.
zero just happens to be easier than following
one simple subject for the sake of
zero recognition, or being able to seek out that
one part that has been lost, and left a
zero to take the part of lucky 7.

Poem-A-Day: Day 110

Tales of Voluntary Madness

Darkness, aside from a false sea
churning silent waves of fluorescents
into squared majesty
that just happens to be permeated
with envious greens, and a familiar scent
moving slowly over wood, carpeted
in silver, strange and silent gaze
locked on mildly glowing heaven sent
that seems to always subtly amaze.

Poem-A-Day: Day 109

Jelly

A person I’ve known many years
Has become more than what she appears
My friend’s little sister
Was once quite the blister
But now she’s just one of the peers.