Poem-A-Day: Day 230

Curtisy

I knew a man willing to please
He could help you with grace and with ease
A quick photo op
And take leave of his shop
As he offers up peps with some cheese.

Poem-A-Day: Day 229

Self Consultations

In the shocked scene of my open wounds
I see banners waving from slowly moving corpses;
crawling slug-like apparitions
haunting the world I’ve grown,
the world I’ve fostered since youth
to become the world
that I would someday reside within.

Yet, I see that world
teeming with the dead of a million faces,
screaming in unison under the banner of heaven
that tries in a desperate attempt
to cloud a soul so black with oil and tar,
that light has given up all hope,
and merely waits for an opportune time
to one day breach the gates of hell
and finally abscond the fellowship
that has lost its way among the lifelike.

The shock and awe at such horrible glory
pumps the blood cold, and violent,
in churning waves through the canals
that adorn a childlike innocence,
sinful and mischievous in a simple way,
and the world spills quiet maniacal
up from the scene that mocks,
bursting red blues into my hollow waiting fingers
cupped in the shape of a bowl,
begging for more than my own ideas think of me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 228

Cunning Vision

I met a fine woman of style
Whose looks and wits did beguile
With a smirk and a wink
She could hurt you with ink
And you’d still come back with a smile.

Poem-A-Day: Day 227

The Power of the Glow

gold wisps flicker in the lack of light
and the silence is overshadowed
by the roar of the only glow near
blemishes everywhere
and they seem normal
but it’s abnormally so
and the world doesn’t seem to notice
let alone care that anything hasn’t
never mind never will
so forget and forget
because there is no forgiving
only the act of penance
in an atheist world
where god is nothing more
than a sweaty bottle
crying for humanity’s weakness.

Poem-A-Day: Day 226

The Heat is On

the oppressive heat is maddening
and I spend my days walking it
breathing it into my cerebellum
it burns holes deep
holes that I can’t comprehend
the holes allow the cold
the bitter cold of my brain
to escape into the night air
when the air turns to night
I see the cold escape
in small lonely clouds
they escape like ghostly vapors
running silently from my ears
I can’t hear them
I can’t hear anything
when the heat strangles me
digs its claws deep into my throat
so I collapse into myself
like a black hole deep into my brain
and I think about what happened
what my brain used to think
in those holes that were once real
and it reminds me of the heat
and how it can be oppressive at times

Poem-A-Day: Day 225

The Weight

The apparent weight
Crushing everything around
Has left me behind

Poem-A-Day: Day 224

Sonnet #52 (I Often Repeat Myself)

I find I repeat my mind to complete
my unfinished thoughts. I repeat my mind,
my unfinished thoughts. I find I repeat
to complete my unfinished thoughts, I find.
There’s something about the ring of doubt
that sounds in alarm. That sound, there’s something
that sounds in alarm. There’s something about
the doubt that sounds in alarm, about the ring.
The clear thoughts vanish from here, I banish
them to history. I banish the clear
thoughts to history, from here they vanish.
Clear thoughts banished to history from here.
  I find I repeat my mind to forget
  that my thoughts, my mind, are meant to regret.

Poem-A-Day: Day 223

Sonnet #51 (Rape and Squall)

Once again the impending siren sounds
as the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes
like clashing titans. In the sky abounds
supernatural, swirling nightmare pikes
reaching from the heavens to the landscape
covering earthen soil and sea the same.
The fingers probe, and terrifying rape
the land of all its beauty and acclaim.
As if the rapist cares, it seems to weep
throughout the concupiscent act of theft,
and clever, calm destruction while asleep,
the land feels nothing but deceit bereft.
  The heavens open up and squeeze the land
  of all the love that seemed to shout command.

Poem-A-Day: Day 222

Dark Night of the Soul

The world gives its praise
To the dark night of the soul
Benefitting me

Poem-A-Day: Day 221

Childhood Dreams

The Chia watch sits on the deck of cards
slightly above my view,
it ticks softly; barely audible,
but when I’m listening,
I can hear it.

It reminds me of mortality,
and how horrible the sense of knowing is;
the sense that death
is creeping around every corner,
and death doesn’t have to do anything
but wait, and watch.

Still, there are worse things
than waiting patiently for death,
waiting with each tick
of a silently, deafening watch
barely heard.

Watching childhood being destroyed,
knowing that there’s nothing that can stop it,
unless you refuse to believe it’s gone…
which is the only reassuring part,
because no matter what happens,
there’s nothing that death can do about it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 220

Priapetic

if you suffer an erection
lasting more than four hours,
it’s probably best to use it or lose it.

I didn’t think too much of it,
not at first,
because I’ve never actually believed it as true.

but, all fairy tales have a happy ending,
and it’s a matter of the ends and the means,
so I just manage with what I have,

bury my pride,
and wonder what the outcome will be.
It’s usually desirable.

Poem-A-Day: Day 219

Sorry, I worked, and then was at the DSO all day yesterday.

Space Cadet

Outer space seems so cold,
but I’m out,
floating about the stars
and it doesn’t seem so bad.
It’s quiet,
and I am told that nobody can hear you scream,
but I have no reason to scream,
no reason at all,
as I pass the amorphous clouds
of stars and gaseous forms,
and it seems almost perfect.

But,
it’s far from perfect
as I notice my quietly flailing limbs
and blood depressurizing in the vacuum
of the great beyond,
being pulled in every direction,
but not any direction in  specific:
there seems to be no up, or down,
just the black that has enveloped
and taken my soul.

Poem-A-Day: Day 218

Finn'd

a prisoner of fate
and old man powder
sifting down through the narrows;
sand and winding streams
headed for the storm to end all
life as it is known
somewhere at the mouth of the river,
a gaping, screaming, passionate expulsion;
vomitous and wretched,
and tied to fate,
bound by shackles thick
and uncontrollable.

still,
it seems apropos.

Poem-A-Day: Day 217

Enter the Lampyridae Coleoptera

It's on those whiskey stained, summer nights
that I look longingly
out the window from the confines
that I willingly place my captivity.
I look out past the blinds;
small horizontal jail cell bars
that I am strong enough to bend,
but not break.
There is no escape,
simply because I will it to be.
Those nights, that I spend regretting every day
more than the day that came before,
because the people around me
assure me that my life has meant nothing
every single day up to that point,
they are probably right in believing so,
so I confine myself to a space
that I can do the least amount of harm
to myself or others.
On those nights, I look out past the bars,
and watch the lights dancing,
the lightning bugs dancing on the night sky.
I watch the fireflies living happily
as their bioluminescent selves light the world;
blinking attractive, much unlike myself.
The nights are dark, black and terrifying
except for the bemusing dance of the firefly.
On those whiskey soaked, summer nights
erased night after night,
I dream of being the fireflies,
dancing majestically for the wonderment of all,
two months before oblivion.

Poem-A-Day: Day 216

Moments of Incidentals

Brain is somehow a scar trapped lover
of all things incidental
mistakenly living in Cincinnati;
though to say it’s fond of Cincidentalati
would be outright facetious.

So do not,
avoid all costs
the mocking
that has become
so mesmerizing,
an infatuation
bordering the belt
of all things sane
and not so sane,
but somewhere
deep inside
the middle.

Because the brain responsible for clever gain
loves all things incidental
and painstakingly living in insanity;
though to say it resides in insandentalanity
would be downright correct.

Poem-A-Day: Day 215

Mark My Words

Apparently, I have
broken some sort of
code that people live by.

Does it bother me?

Emphatically, no.

Forgive me for sounding rude, but,
“Go to
Hell.”

I haven’t so much as
jeered, without garnering some
kind of contempt from
lousy, tea drinking assholes
mulling about in their
newest fashions, all purchased
on the idea that they make them more
predominant than those around them.

Queens and Kings of their petulant
realms, know-nothing braggarts and
shitheads.

They are the people that should
understand their own shortcomings, and
vow to make some changes to
whatever the hell they do, hopped up on
Xanax to ease their callous lives.

You are the bastard
zealots of opulent times.

Poem-A-Day: Day 214

Johnny Mnemonic

I denote thee,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac,
except for when the sea
shows its horrid FACE:
wrecks die delight
and sail, or free flight,
but wrecks die are mourning,
and sail, or fate warming
when founding the day,
as in dates or today.
Every great Bivouac warrants
some form that makes memories,
so please enthuse might,
and get ants allied,
and think of their HOMES!
Think
of
their
HOMES!
I denote thee,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac.
Your subservience to King Phillip
culls over flying great soars,
and mind values earning more
than justice salutations
under never thinking about palpitations,
not ever again.
So haute,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac,
callous haute
to allegations
searching for the angles.
I, Jonathan, denote thee.

Poem-A-Day: Day 213

Roadkilled

Dead squirrel flattened
By crushing realities
That I face daily

Poem-A-Day: Day 212

The Glass is All Full

I've seen horrible things,
reflections in the mirror
that look stunningly lifelike
and make me want to punch the glass,
punch it repeatedly
until my fists are red and bloody,
red with rage,
all the rage awkwardly apparent
in every single molecule,
every rage filled molecule.
I hate the mirror,
and its horrible reflections,
I want to puke when I see it,
I want to punch myself,
my whole wretched face
staring back at me.
I have seen my horrible self
in the deformed reflections I portray.

Poem-A-Day: Day 211

Natural Wealth

Somewhere where the willows weep,
the cats tell tall tales,
and Queen Anne dons her finest lace linens
to hear their herald howls
among the oak and pine walled rooms
leaning in, and listening
as the walls often do.
The storied past is read aloud
for the denizens of the glen,
and much like the fabled framework,
the morels seem to bud from the dirt
in their own strange and truffling way.

I walked in on this queer spectacle,
stunned, and piss drunk,
but it was some natural beauty
I have never witnessed since;
the world working harmoniously
to tell me some story that more than likely
I forgot until this point.

Poem-A-Day: Day 210

Sonnet #50 (Golden Anniversary)

Years spent doing the needed things in life,
and nothing spent on the remaining parts,
yields little more than an existence rife
with no appreciation of the arts.
Yet, somewhere lost within there something starts
to boil over, to seize the momentum
and from the moment willfully departs
a roar that leaves the moment pleasantly numb,
awaiting flashing ardor that should come;
instead releases quiet to the sky
leaving not more than sour tastes succumbed
by the searing rage to give up and die.
  The years are nothing more than what is made
  with skillful hands of those that cease to fade.

Poem-A-Day: Day 209

Sonnet #49 (Pet Shackles)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
and scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye?
Though to itself, it only live and die;
nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
and beauty's waste hath in the world an end.
The basest weed outbraves his dignity,
shall reasons find of settled gravity:
look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
for having traffic with thy self alone
that thou consum'st thy self in single life.
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
then how when nature calls thee to be gone?
  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
  Since why to love I can allege no cause.

Lines taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets: 4, 9, 49, and 94

Poem-A-Day: Day 208

Sonnet #48 (Punching Bag)

Where, and what happened to the smelling salts?
I’m here, fumbling around the blood-soaked rags,
trying to pick the pieces of  my faults
off the ground, and place them into bags
that have been meticulously labeled
with two and twenty more than what I know
has been left for naught, but less disabled
than I, that has contracted final blow;
scribed with the pen that writes in bloodied ink
a fist clenched fingers daring what’s not said,
and hearing nothing more before the blink
that missed the moments gone before my dread.
  And crippled, wrought with nothing more but pain,
  I lay, a wreck, diminished in my brain.

Poem-A-Day: Day 207

The Greatest

I’ve threatened
the greatest men in history,
only for them to fail at my feet
with the same dumbstruck look
that I live everyday life with.
I’ve seduced
the greatest women in history,
only to realize that their beauty
is only less comparable
than my own beguiling nature.
I’ve punched
the greatest villains in history,
only to watch them weep silently
as they realize my own disgust
is far mightier than theirs.
I’ve proclaimed
myself to be the greatest man to ever live,
only to realize my proclamations
are the truth beset deep
within the annals of history.

Poem-A-Day: Day 206

Blogger was down last night, so I apologize for this being late.

There, Eating

There,
the reading,
they are eating
the year red thin;
the you, real dine thing,
their used ready dinged think gear.
Though you really didn’t think,
though usurers readily do,
thought your reeling
thrower rings,
there.

Eating
fleeting moments
fleeing no part;
weaning? Nope, pent up
seating scope a party dropping
neat wings, cope ratting drop sling
pleats sing dope scatting hop
heap hits, hip clapping
beat drops snapping
heaps not
eating.

Poem-A-Day: Day 205

Down Feathers

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...and a shot rang
across the azure sky,
echoing through distant fields,
and ushering forth
a gush of fresh crimson river
and tragic uneasy laughter...

...and sweet collapse
under the azure sky,
slumping like a silhouette
to the damp earth
red with crimson river run-off
and tragic uneasy laughter...

...and standing down
under the azure sky,
a soldier pluming his bright feathers
in the aftermath of a pistol's smoke,
spurting crimson river majesty
and tragic uneasy laughter.

Poem-A-Day: Day 204

The Bird is the Word

The word on the street
Happens to be unyielding
So I stare skyward

Poem-A-Day: Day 203

Every Direction

There is a definite lack of order
looking down on the cold compress
sagging in every direction;
chaos,
and chasms spreading as far
as the I can see,
but I don’t think I can,
as a see becomes the sea
spreading in every direction;
surging inward;
a waterfall pouring down emotion
in some wavelike motion
down the cliff façade,
sheer brilliance
and bright ideas
shooting in every direction,
except into the water
reflecting a compass
always pointing north,
should it pass the south
lost somewhere between
the east and west,
but the magnetism radiates
in every direction
creating chaos,
and some infinite balk at disorder.

Poem-A-Day: Day 202

1000 Little Ideas

1000 little men riding
1000 little bees

that are simultaneously
stinging and shoving

1000 little stingers, and
1000 little fingers

deep into my skin,
burning and scarring it.

1000 little wounds bleeding
1000 little tears

down  the curvature
of a slender body that is

1000 times removed from
1000 different places;

nowhere to really go,
but up into the clouds.

1000 little balloons inflated by
1000 little men

riding dangerously close
atop buzzing little steeds;

1000 little bees setting
1000 little ideas free

from the balloon shackles
that tether them to this world.

Poem-A-Day: Day 201

Mothballs

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it fly around the room
as if it was lost,
or had some sort of agenda,
but it just flew around
avoiding the fan that spun;
a circling guillotine
waiting to take the head of the moth
and drop it in a tiny basket;
a waste basket.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it as it landed on the ceiling
after spending the previous twenty minutes
exploring a miniature landscape,
after it ventured close to the sun,
and avoided the spinning death
that wailed its siren call,
after it had spent the moments before demise
cheating death, scamming death,
watching me, as I had watched it.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I approached it slowly
and watched as it scurried
over the white painted setting in reverse,
and the moth watched me
as I approached slowly
with the vessel of death in my hand;
a coffin in the shape of a shoe.
My hand was the arm of the devil
wailing down in upward strokes.

There was a moth that was kneeling to pray.