Poem-A-Day: Day 200 (Bi-Centennial)

Swirling Tornado Moments

I couldn’t figure it out,
the heat,
the blinding, oppressive heat;
swirling tornadoes
massaging the cerebral moments
that I spend crouched
and huddled over those same moments,
the heat,
the blinding, cerebral moments
that I spend crouched
with the oppressive heat,
the swirling tornadoes massaging
the moments that I spend huddled,
crouching over the oppressive moments,
the heat swirling cerebral,
blinding moments,
blinding cerebral heat
that is huddled over,
crouched oppressive over,
massaging the heat I couldn’t figure out,
the heat,
with the oppressive heat,
I couldn’t figure it out,
but as it turns out,
the heat,
the oppressive blinding heat,
was just a lack of swirling tornadoes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 199

Failing to Succeed

The failure in success
is that the successfully powerful
fail to fully comprehend
the absolute failure
that they’ve probably come from,
and there is no success in that.

The success in failure
is that those failures lead to power,
successfully comprehended
to the absolute successes
that they’ve finally turned around,
and there is no failure in that.

Failure and success
are the right and left hands
slapping each cheek in succession
equally distributing the pain
across the entire body,
and leaving the brain paralyzed.

Poem-A-Day: Day 198

Memorial

The hot summer sun
And brats with the family
Makes for a weekend

Poem-A-Day: Day 197

Sonnet #47 (Kaiju Popularity Contest)

Anguirus, Gorosaurus, Gezora,
Jet Jaguar, Kamakiras, Destroyah,
King Ghidorah, Orga, Varan, Mothra,
Barugon, Zigra, Viras, Megalon,
Gamera, Gorgo, Guiron, Gabara,
Biollante, King Seesar, Ebirah,
Mecha Godzilla, Legion, Hedorah,
Titanosaurus, Jiger, Baragon,
Kameba, Gyaos, Guilala, Mogera,
Yongary, King Kong, Rodan, Kumonga,
Oodako, Orochi, Gappa, Manda,
Millennian, Battra, Irys, Gigan.
  Yet, Godzilla is the king of all known
  monsters, a fact that kaiju will bemoan.

Poem-A-Day: Day 196

Sonnet #46 (Sun, Sin, Salvation)

The sun blazes hot hands down, a strangling
noose that tugs in jarring motions skyward
and leaves me like a crippled leaf dangling
in the blistering wind, a wave absurd
that closely resembles the ticking sway
of the pendulous swing. One single drop
of sweat rolls down the spine as if to say
the words oppressive heat has failed to swap.
And as the single bead proceeds to toe,
I’m reminded of just why I’m hanging
and not doing what it was I should. So
now instead, I’m left here heat haranguing.
  The sun, forever bully beating down
  seems nothing but annoying as a clown.

Poem-A-Day: Day 195

Old Bones

The sun sets on the settled bones
and I can’t bring myself to believe
the actions that have transpired,
yet, I can feel things crawling
all over my skin, under it,
and I can’t bring myself to cut them away,
to plunge the knife deep into the muscle
and fish the problems out individually,
so I lay in the thickening grass that grows
high over my body,
and I watch the sun setting
as it casts colors in every direction
except down on my settling bones
that have ceased, and turned to dust.

Poem-A-Day: Day 194

The Woodsman’s Plight

The sun at the woodsman’s back
as he stood determined on the cusp
of the trees expanding deep,
millions of soldiers
giving their praise to the sun god,
millions of soldiers
marching motionless into the horizon,
millions of soldiers
awaiting the fell of destruction.
The sun at the woodsman’s back
as he donned the devil’s guise
and stood as divine executioner.

Poem-A-Day: Day 193

Choosing Battles

Poem-A-Day: Day 192

Crying Over Spilt Brandy

Suddenly the world stopped
and I dropped my drink on the floor,
spilling brandy all over the new carpet.
That’s all I could think about
as the heavens opened up
and showered the world with meteors
and floods and fires and earthquakes.
The world was ending
and all I cared about was a stain
on my new white carpet,
and the brandy that had just been wasted.

Poem-A-Day: Day 191

Hurricane

Her sly angle changed obtuse
in the different light of the sun
setting in a hurricane,
purplish blues and high speed winds
tussling hairs,
tying knots and have me knots
out of the thick strands
while I watch from the shore
and admire the water jets
ascending to the heavens,
and taking all the hell with them,
I watch,
and light a moment of clarity
with windproof thoughts,
spitting the silt on the sand
and stomping it with rubber soul.

Poem-A-Day: Day 190

Charles and I

Charles spoke to me in a dull grumble,
and I could smell the booze on his breath
wafting out deathlike
in a puff of cigarette smoke.
Charles spoke to me,
and he told me about humanity,
what it means to be human
and our horrible, shitty condition.
Charles spit sometimes when he spoke to me,
and sometimes he was so drunk,
I could barely understand him,
but he somehow gave me the best advice
on the tail end
of the last vapors snuffed out of a wine bottle.
Charles spoke softly,
and his protests,
belied by his pockmarked skin
and unsightly appearance,
taught me to do something more
than I was used to.
Charles was the dead mentor,
reaching out and strangling me
with stumpy hands,
slapping me, and force-feeding me filth,
the human nature casually fucking itself
and then throwing up in the toilet afterwards.
Charles spoke to me
and gave me nightmares
that I committed to memory,
and honored him later with
in the bath of fine winery.

Poem-A-Day: Day 189

Most Days

It has been an awfully long day
when your balls smell
like year old salsa
that’s been baking in the sun,
and your back aches;
a sharp pain dulling the senses,
it feels like a hippo,
or some obese beast rolling around,
up and down your spine,
wailing for food, or scraps,
or whatever they crave,
and your hands twisted claws,
crippled bird’s feet
rough with the anguish of time,
and you’ve spent the day
among the fools and the retards
watching their money part with them,
they kiss it goodbye so eagerly,
and bid it “godspeed”
on its journey to find their enlightenment.
It has been an awfully long day
most days,
these days.

Poem-A-Day: Day 188

Goodnight Air

We spoke briefly of masturbation
before I turned one last time
and walked in the house.
The chill of the night air had started to settle
despite the warmth of the day,
but I trusted that the air wouldn’t lie,
it would keep its promise,
like it always did,
and return to warmth again,
even if it wouldn’t be tomorrow.
The air was always kind that way,
moving freely around;
an omniscient godlike praetor
that I trusted
would not sentence me to death
or loneliness.
The air and I spoke briefly
of hands and forearms
before I turned one last time
and waved to it from a distance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 187

Font Styles, 2007

Normal, no spacing
between the being and the been
heading where,
or heading to from the where,
where once has been the being
being gone,
and title titular to that,
those subtitle means
making subtle emphasis
out of emphasis
in such a way
that somehow, from the where,
where being was and now has been
becomes the intense emphasis
of being strong,
or in other words,
the quote of being been,
or having the being of having been
normal, some intense quote;
subtle reference to,
but not lacking the density
that references to the intense reference,
referencing a book title
that shares the same meaning of being,
having been, normal,
no intensity, a having emphasis
list paragraph not that it matters,
but being gone
where once had been the being
between the being and having no space,
no normalcy, not being,
but headed to the where,
where being normal has been.

Poem-A-Day: Day 186

The Buzzing Sounds

The sound,
like buzzing…the sound
buzzing loud in only one ear,
the sound buzzing, humming
what sounds like hymns;
buzzing static sounds
mixed with some level of hypocrisy
understated by the buzzing sound.
The sound,
buzzing loud in only one ear,
while the other ear gets a break
from the sound, buzzing, humming away.
The buzzing sound,
absent from the other ear,
and only in the one,
while the other ear hears the world
ticking away; a clock with many gears,
many cogs motioning to one another,
grinding metal machine humming.
The sound,
buzzing different hymns;
shock and awe, humanity,
adorning the head
in a way befitting genius.

Poem-A-Day: Day 185

Expert Sentimental

in some experimental film
I’ve been cast as the lead, wait,
no, not the lead, but the burden
dragging down the seine
through rough waters looking
for that moment
that turns films to masterpieces;
baited masterfully on the hook
and cast out to the sea
so that all patrons will see
the film in its experimental way,
fishing for compliments and quotes:

“Pure drivel.”
– Square Jones, Newspaper Weekly

“I’m not quite sure what just happened.”
– Trip Bullets, Daily Daily Paper

“Absolutely!”
– Peter Journalist, The Paper Edition

the waters scraped for the slurry,
the things that set time in motion
are the tombstones, momentum,
momentous moments on screens
and nets passing through the tides,
and dragging the lake
picking up the quick and dead alike
in the fascination of what it is
to be, and not to be involved;
all involved somehow
or another, cast stones
in something flimsy, expert sentimental.

Poem-A-Day: Day 184

Sonnet #? (What's the Answer)

What the question is, I often wonder.
Though I’m left with nothing more to ponder
than my own tremendous failing blunder,
the question is, and always will be blunt.
The answer should be equally as frank
with sound and fury resonating blank,
that resembles closest to a child’s prank,
or lesser to some form of public stunt.
There seems to be no way to find the form
and resonate somewhere within the norm,
and so, instead, it seems best to conform
and put up something like a shadowed front.
The answer to the question is quite clear,
there can be nothing gained from petty fear.

Poem-A-Day: Day 183

Head Cold

Wheezing out gasps of air
and embryonic slug trails
under yellow rain
dripping slowly from the clouds,
caves; echoes from the bellows,
a tickling sound that can be heard,
and reheard a thousand times in a row,
reheard a thousand times in a row,
a thousand times in a row,
thousand times in a row,
times in a row,
in a row,
a row,
rowing softly through the canyon river
pledging to take only pictures,
and leave only whatever was left to begin with:
the gusts of air that pass through the valley,
and the clouds that gather in the mountains.

Poem-A-Day: Day 182

What Would You Like on Your Tombstone?

it seemed like a grave
situation, something set
in stone; granite bastions
locked in dead enthrall with
something groundlike; soft
wet earth fresh from the digging
done. it seemed like a grave sense
of struggle, sometime between
now and the after; life becoming
transitional, a paradoxical situation;
a grave meeting between two selves.
it seemed like a grave stone resting
on a square base, jutting perpendicular
from the clawing blades of grass, straight
up to the skies as they transition from
blue to grey within the passing of seasons,
thought, time, and caring. it seemed like
a grave sense of urgency surrounding,
a choking air, two foggy claws wrapping 
blissful, airy fingers around a waiting neck.
The graves spell out what the lives couldn’t,
a cheapening sense of permanence, that will one day
be nothing more than broken words on chipped blocks.

Poem-A-Day: Day 181

The Sky, I Know…

The sky, I know, opens up
and vomits out past regrets
on the cold, unwavering concrete;
hands planted firmly
on the cold, unwavering concrete,
and the sky’s knees bloody,
from weakness and stumbling,
busting open
on the cold, unwavering concrete.

The sky, I know, opens up
and weeps down past regrets
after firmly taking a stance,
planted firmly;
an oak growing from the concrete,
absorbing the sand and rocks
deep within the roots,
feeding the veins of the sky,
and weeping down.

The sky, I know, opens up,
and is not that different from I.
The sky calls out, wails,
and vomits out past regrets,
and weeps down
onto the cold, unwavering concrete;
the concrete holds up the sky, I know,
the concrete holds up the feet pushing down,
the concrete and the sky are two in the same.

Poem-A-Day: Day 180

Wind Wires

There wasn’t anything left
when I had finished with whatever it was,
my memory is fleeting;
a bird flying backward on the highway,
so I can’t remember what it was
when it first started out
as whatever it originally had been.
Whatever it was, I obliterated it,
left nothing to be salvaged
except for a length of wire
and some hunks of fat
that no doubt fell from my mouth
as I chewed like an animal over
the remains of the mystery
that haunts me to this very day.
There wasn’t anything of it worth noting though.
As far as I know, it was nothing to begin with,
and what I ate was merely the air
shaped by my own fleeting memory flying backwards,
dodging the wires that adorn the highway.
The wires are connected by wooded poles
and metal structures
that vaguely resemble the Eiffel Tower.
Whatever it was, it has ceased to be
at the hands of someone who didn’t care,
or just can’t remember that he did.
All I remember is the bird’s backwards flight,
and the wires in the wind.

Poem-A-Day: Day 179

Medicated Compress

The dizzying sweat of not catching reality,
passing it up for the next train;
candy coated medicated swagger
swimming downstream to spawn
within the baking heat of cavernous hells,
wet with acidic bliss and bits of past
that have been chewed and inhaled;
plankton strained through baleen dreams
and dropped headfirst into the storm.

The dizzying sweat of lifeless living
in some state of undeath,
watching moments melt off digital faces
frowning maniacally as the seconds tick away,
dripping one by one into cool, red metal pools
spilling through the shag of carpet wool,
and burning holes within the matter
that seems to matter least
between the times of pure transcendence.

The dizzying lifeless reality
being sweated deep through marrow
sending nows into tomorrows;
a blitzkrieg assaulting the Maginot mind
that has been established to protect,
but so easily forgets where it was
and what was happening, having happened
all at once, that everything sets in
like sticks of dynamite set to blow at any moment.

Poem-A-Day: Day 178

Somewhere, Dandelion Wine is Made

Somewhere,
not far from here
sipping dandelion wine,
or at least imagining what
if anything
it could actually taste like.
Somewhere,
not far from here,
sitting in a field of dandelions,
wondering what they would taste like
if somehow they were made into wine,
they’ve been made into wine.
Somewhere,
not far from here
sifting through delightful dandelions
to turn into wine,
they’ve been turned into wine,
though never before by my hands.
Somewhere,
not far from here
someone remembers dandelions
and the profound effect
they can have
over the flavor of wine.

Poem-A-Day: Day 177

Sheets

plastic sheets
plastic sheets
plastic sheets coming down
and covering
tinkling
tinkering
snickering behind a turned back
broken twice
and baked brown
cold
cold
shivering cold
shivering in some wind
some god damn wind
some fucking wind
that just won’t stop
the wind is a sheet
plastic sheet
the wind is a plastic sheet
winding down
winding up the cold
into springs
boards
bored.

Poem-A-Day: Day 176

Yeoman Hands

sharp pain resonates under the skin
with screwdriver tips growing up and out
turning slowly as the move toward the light
retracting fingers to the palm in a fist
so the screwdriver tips can bond the skin
weighing down the hands like two globs of clay
heavy with metal skeletal barbs protruding
in all directions like the rays of a sun
ready to go full supernova
and spray shards of metal everywhere
and the flesh of what used to be hands

Poem-A-Day: Day 175

Mow the Lawn, Asshole

The grass magnified to a million times
barks cold green shots of false resolve
callously into every direction that isn’t up.
The grass does this because it has to,
it senses the immediate danger of being large,
being something that it has never been.
The grass magnified is nothing more than blades
sharpening themselves in the wind
with some effort to not fall under their own waiting.
The grass does what it can in this situation,
a situation that seems ridiculously preposterous,
but happens naturally under years of neglect.
The grass magnified is not really magnified
because it simply was forgotten
by the omnipotence that promised it care.
The grass understands the soundtrack
whistling through the membership,
a membership of forgotten valor
that calls to the sky for something better,
something other than the false resolve
that manages the greenery of envious thoughts.

Poem-A-Day: Day 174

Thunderesis Statement

There, among the clouds,
dangling like the finest pair
of gilded tests in culling thoughts,
hangs the threat of another day
looming dark and ominous,
and flashing blitzkrieg waves;
hail that blisters brains
like fair fire slow burning holes
and olfactory scents of melted hair.

Yet, sheepishly
I do nothing but lounge
on cotton paths drenched in linen,
and wonder what happened,
where was the deafening sound
that was supposed to knock me to my feet?

It was nowhere to be found,
hiding, childlike, behind the clouds
that wave hideous fickle fingers down,
quenching my thirst for knowledge
and breaking my understanding of it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 173

It's Ok, I had Subway Today

I look at people contemptuously.
Usually because I can't stand them.
They constantly ask questions
that border the realms of the retarded,
and they get angry
when they're not helped to their liking,
despite their best attempts to fool me
with as little information as possible.

So I stand,
shocked and filled with rage;
a ball of titanic, hate mongering power
set to explode
at the next short-sighted inquiry,
and unleash fists full of bullets
into the blank faces of the half-wit nation.

Poem-A-Day: Day 172

Sorry for my absence. The weather and photography has kept me busy the past two days. So today I'll be posting three poems throughout the day.

Says Her

She said she was proud of me,
exhaustingly so.
Though I'm used to only being exhausting
for being a pain in the ass.

I guess I'm not used to pride,
just busting my ass
to get somewhere other than here.
I'm glad someone noticed.

Poem-A-Day: Day 171

Transpirate

Surreptitiously I wander
leaving silent, printless footsteps,
and stop periodically to check the time.

     It is time.

Though I know not for what,
or why the clocks always appear
the way they do, casting shadows down.

     It is time.

I tend to downplay the events
that typically lead up to the checking.
My watch, as I watch, moves slowly, ticking.

     It is time.

I time the seconds just to see
if they, for some strange anomaly,
are moving slower or faster than normal.

     It is time.

So I pack my things and go,
leaving behind my misplaced wonder,
and the last great thing that I ever watched

     transpire.

Poem-A-Day: Day 170

Mr. Boersma's Opus

My brilliant opus
Is reduced to nothing more
Than trifle lyrics