Poem-A-Day: Day 261

Old Man and the Sea of Faces

I’m not usually moved by the kindness of strangers,
because everyone is either a stranger to me,
or stranger than I can perceive them,
so their motives seemed skewed,
and I do my best to eschew their movements,
their attempts to interact with my life.
I find the strangers to be off,
some disavowed concept
that I can’t seem to shake from my memory.
But whatever happens, they’re there,
and they hover around me
like terrible ghosts.
I see their eyes penetrating my callous face,
trying to discover some hidden motive,
but my only motive is ignorance,
so that I may be ignored.
It has worked for years,
until today, when an old man,
a stranger, decided to give me a penny.
He told me that now we’ll both have good luck.

Poem-A-Day: Day 260

Slow Breeze Blows

I saw happiness
fluttering away like a wounded butterfly
piloted against its will.
It was being flown to a boiler,
presumably to be incinerated
deep within the sweaty hells inside,
possibly to emerge from the fires,
burning in agony,
dead and soulless.

I saw happiness
and we locked gazes in passing.
It appeared to be completely genuine
aside from the look of dread,
the knowing certainty that death was there
driving the fate into the metallic clutches
of the biggest shit storm man has ever witnessed.
There would be a mess,
but still nothing to clean.

And as I saw happiness,
I smiled and turned away
knowing that the dead and the soulless
have nothing to prove,
and the metallic structure
that has erected monuments at my feet
is nothing more than the next wave of nothing
that I will knock down
with my passing breeze.

Poem-A-Day: Day 259

Night Photography

Under the sweet smell of night
eyes capture the long draw,
the long measure
of a small arrow of light screaming
in tiny explosions across the sky.
Under the sweaty draw of black,
back-dropping the gray architecture
representing a mind
lost somewhere in the shadows
of night skies silhouetted.
Under the jet black architecture skies
the records are made and kept
in tiny notebooks,
a single page repeating
over, and over, and over, and over.
Under the repetition of kept messages,
the night sky fades from grays to whites
and the memory recedes
somewhere into the annals of time
where it will be remembered tomorrow.

Poem-A-Day: Day 258

Hermetic

Red light beacon beach
And the circling fence of glass
Like some dark island

Poem-A-Day: Day 257

It Burns When I Think

no feeling in the brain
and remaining meandering souls
have left their mark,
some questionable,
albeit indelible mark
that is burned in.

and there is still no feeling
amidst the burning,
the smell is awful;
seared hair and matter,
but it hasn’t mattered much
up until this point.

and there is still no point
to all the meandering spirits,
but they’ve left their mark,
and it has smelled awful
up to this point,
and it feels like it matters.

the brain is feeling the point
of the tortuous burning,
a brain branding smolder
that is red, brooding
and not unlike the sweet call
of hearing for the first time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 256

Life vs. Death

Brass knuckle punch
square in the jaw.

Life can be a prick sometimes.

So I look Life in the eye,
and I say,
“Stay out of my way,
or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Life, condescending as always,
smirks, and gets in my face.

I do the most logical thing,
and I knock Life to the ground
and start punching.
I punch until there’s nothing left,
no flesh,
no bone,
no blood,
only the memory of a shrouded figure,
some piece of shit
dressed in all black
like a debonair mystery of the night.

I beat on the memory until I saw nothing,
nothing but my own hands clapping.

The brass knuckles were my own,
and I’ve been punching at cement for years,
just bloodying my own hands
and breaking my wrists.

Life isn’t the problem.

It has just been an excuse
and a metaphor for death.

Poem-A-Day: Day 255

A Marsh

A green sweaty mess
Of hot dubious moisture
Eroding my soul

Poem-A-Day: Day 254

Jerks

a bird looked at me,
it told me to drop dead
then immediately fell from its perch.

I laughed for a moment,
thought about what it had  said
then went about my normal activities.

months later,
at that very same location
a dog laughed at the way I walked.

I wasn’t appalled,
I didn’t really even care,
I just chalked it up to poor manners.

but it was obvious,
my obnoxiousness was so revolting
that only animals had the guts to tell me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 253

Silence and Raindrops

as I sit quietly at a desk
listening to the sound of rain
clamoring, and dancing
on the roof above my head
a picture of a mustachioed gent
yells silent wonders into a microphone.

I try and understand what he’s saying,
but the silence of his voice
is muffled even more
by the constant of the rain.

It’s hard to ignore the rain
among all the other silences,
the whisper of the computer,
the dull hum of the air conditioning;
all this blissful silence, yet,
somehow the rain is far more energetic than I.

Poem-A-Day: Day 252

Paper Coughs

Paper-cuts on every finger;
a sad reminder
of working the doldrums of a bookstore,
or the fire pits of a post office.
Paper cuts everything;
the sharp stab as it tears flesh,
but only minimally
despite the indescribable pain.
Papers cut fine lines through fingertips,
and then the blood,
king crimson river flowing
is nothing but a shake off, and get moving.
Papers, caught in the act of malicious intent,
though it seems nigh impossible
it has happened, if only to serve
as a sad reminder.
The papers caught more than ever intended;
sound, fury, a resilient nature to breed
and be hungry for something unspoken,
some piece of life.
The papers cut free the thoughts,
release the bonds of servitude,
as the blood, the oily blood,
becomes a sign of liberation.
The paper cuts attempt deliverance
in a misguided art form,
the blood serves as a reminder
that life somehow has occurred.
The paper-cuts are nothing more,
than sad reminders on ever finger,
sad reminders that life is moving
and the only moving part are adorning cuts
on blood soaked hands.

Poem-A-Day: Day 251

Citizen Cain

I grind my toes into the berber,
it reminds me nothing of grass,
or sand, or dirt,
or anything that seems wholly natural,
yet it only seems natural
to be in the place where I am,
seated slouched over
in some possibly leather chair,
with the backlit screens
creating an infinite mirror,
but I am no Citizen Kane,
instead I have stabbed that man blindly,
leaving him slouched over a desk
bleeding natural thoughts
all over the sand and dirt
that has been ground into the carpet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 250

The Penitent Workforce

The crackle and pop
of the joints settling in place
marks yet another day deservedly over.
The day is nothing
but a routine maintenance
of a sad endeavor at trying to be something.
That something is never,
and will never fully manifest
until the actual routine of the day is changed.
The routine is mechanical
and emotionless in its methods,
and it becomes a set of gears grinding away.
The gears grind the soul
into nothing, the dead inside
is the mark of a routine spent toiling faithfully.
The faithful pursuit
of the never meant something
is reminiscent of the crackle and pop of joints
as they settle in place,
and mark the end of a day;
the only time that the soul returns to fervor.

Poem-A-Day: Day 249

The Top of the Stairs

Standing at the top of the stairs
like a demented god looking out,
observing the populace,
and rocking back and forth on his feet.
Ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball…
the repetitive motion inciting desire,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
and then the sudden rush of emotion,
driving madness down the stairs,
and washing the populace in sprays
and cries of agony.

The bookman looks around
like a demented god at the top of the stairs,
observing the customers,
ruining, when they should be shopping.
Piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles…
the repetitive nature inciting anger,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
and the sudden dream of destruction,
an act of frenzied cleansing the floors,
seems nothing but a daydream,
among the cries of children.

Poem-A-Day: Day 248

Deception

The world doubles over on itself,
wraps itself tightly
and drowns the sun away,
washes the sun away
drowns it under the ocean
erecting monuments and skyscrapers
left to shadow the world,
eclipse the world in a way contrived,
some spectral emergence
that takes over the world,
and recreates it on a whim,
dreaming up majesty
and the dark, seedy belly
of what just may have occurred.
I’ve seen this world,
or some visible facsimile of it,
wrapped conveniently
around the lattice of my mind,
my neurons firing off warning shots
that are squelched under the rush
of emotion, or else…
and I watch the creations
and recreations,
wondering what is and ever was,
and if it has ever been, or ever will again.

Poem-A-Day: Day 247

Sorry, I missed yesterday. Out of town wedding.

Floodgates Floor

The night sweaty with lust…
lust and dancing,
and the sweet ambrosia of life
pouring out of every direction
past every tent post,
and centralizing
on a fourteen by fourteen square,
and writhing in some uncontrollable manner.

It probably smells to outside noses,
but the smell of delight is overwhelming,
the smell of burning energy exuding hot and wet,
like a factory toiling away,
manufacturing dissonant bliss
and cranking it out by the fistful,
leaving nothing behind
but unadulterated joy.

Poem-A-Day: Day 246

One to Delve

Pound one, two, twelve,
out, right out of mind
into a transcendent journey
capped with experiences most audible;
don’t stop believin’.
The cape a flannel robe,
maybe terrycloth
draped around shoulders and arms,
but full frontal opened
like a butterfly spreading wings,
ready to fly,
ready to take off
and leave the cape flapping in the skies.
Despite the grandeur,
the transcendence ends abruptly
under the calm resolve of cleansing rain
and bitter reflection;
forcing the day to move forward,
for time to slip by
sheltered in metal coffins,
tombs spewing exhaust,
exhaustion by the end of the day,
and then pound one, two, twelve,
out, right out of mind
into a journey of inferiority,
a complex clockwork movement
spinning out of control,
and crashing into the death of sleep
before hopelessly waking.

Poem-A-Day: Day 245

Tornado Innards

Clouds spiraling like drunken ballerinas
spinning,
mixing up dirt salads
with millions of little fingers
twisting perfectly on point,
and throwing everything in a fit of rage,
the unequivocal fury
of a woman scorned
and the frenzy of longwinded wrath
as it blasts half knocked posts through glass,
cement,
and anything else that can be made of sand.

To be at the center of such an event,
to watch the dancers interacting
and creating their own Danube
out of the sweat of grays and greens,
the atmospherical, global majesty
and natural movements
bringing swathes of death,
destruction pocked landscapes
full of the remnants of weeping shallows,
and the promise of nothing
but bearing witness
to the finest detonation of color imaginable.

Poem-A-Day: Day 244

I’m No Man

I’m no man of the word,
I’m a man of the people.

A man struck down,
beat down and soulless,
reckless and dead on the inside
that watches over the world
with his only regret
being that he won’t be there
to watch it end,
is the type of man
that stands over, hovering the world
and governing with his word,
his standards…
they’re standards.

So I sit calmly, quietly,
while life works its way out
and I repeat to myself
that I am no man of the word,
I am a man of the people.

Poem-A-Day: Day 243

Internet Rapture

At some juncture
where self-proclaimed, great men fall to their knees
weeping,
and women are the goddesses of nothing more
than piles of shoes,
and the children are slaughtered in record numbers
while quietly seated,
there is the calm of reality.
At some intersection
I stand in the middle of two roads converging
in the woods,
and I don’t question the path not taken,
the paths seem to come to the same point,
and I’ve neither been, nor will,
so I watch the cars pass by on either side,
in front, and behind.
At some moment,
when the world stops spinning
because God is too drunk to pull,
I’ll look up, and see the eyes of Satan,
and it will all make sense,
the whole damn plot written by fools,
and believed by even bigger ones,
a place I’d never bother stepping foot.
At some juncture,
where people look for forgiveness,
I’ll be there laughing at the believers
and the doubters, the fanatics and fools,
and anyone else that I happen to see.
I’ll be standing in the middle of the road,
the most dangerous place to be,
tempting the world to crumble.

Poem-A-Day: Day 242

Show, Don’t Tell

“Don't tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
Shower me in shards of little beams
that break on the dawn of man,
and sweat disaster from the inside gone down,
wild and desperate,
akin to life in the big mood lighted grass.
Show and tell the new life in a slobbering fashion
that will best assert that I, not knowing, will
tear down the walls and mirror stars,
leaving broken lights,
shimmering on the earth.

Quote from Anton Chekhov

Poem-A-Day: Day 241

Sonnet #53 (Science Project)

I spent ten pent years tented, pinned down
like some visceral bug tacked to corkboard
with a card underneath that reads: “renown”.
As if some sort of lie was false reward
for having stabbed me straight through beating heart,
and laughed at the vision of flailing arms
making sad attempts at pulling apart
the needles buried deep with no disarm.
Ten pent up years, tragically spent sifting
through the sands that are wet, caked red with blood,
my blood, drying as my soul is drifting
like the sands washed away in rapid flood.
  And with my body pinned, I’m tore to shreds,
  left floating down the river stained with reds.

Poem-A-Day: Day 240

Warming Up to Me

Sweet sweaty masterpiece,
some strange work of art
laughing directly at my face.
If this piece is fictitious
I shall destroy it.
I shall tear down the wall,
the world,
and all undesirable notions
that have somehow come
to stand before me
like tin soldiers
wielding axes
instead of flying
on trophied wings.
The hot, hot heat
hitting hard from where I hear,
but not noting what it is,
I soon forget to think
and I begin to wonder
if it was for the best...
for some hot and sweaty disaster
that has become the me
in my place of lacking movement.
The heat is less than the unbearable,
and I have reached acceptance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 239

Afterthought, Math

Thoughts explode through the skin
like shrapnel;
tiny bits of greener pastures,
metal, tearing moments
and measures of clarity away
as they travel far faster
than human capabilities seem.

The shrapnel screams
with possibilities and passing abilities,
transpiring against the expiration dates
of good ideas,
bad ideas,
and the idea of having them in the first place,
which, coincidentally, always seems to be in last.

Poem-A-Day: Day 238

Deprivation

Weights crushing
and pulling,
pulling down,
grabbing, and pulling, and crushing.
The weights are hands,
tempting fingers gesturing,
and pushing at the eyes,
pulling the lids,
crushing weights,
pulling down.
The eyes are weights,
heavy with burden.
The eyes are pulling,
shutting, and crushing thoughts,
listening to tempting gestures,
and the cold maniacal laugh
of a lost gesture.
The gestures are tempting.
and the eyes have it
in their best interest to oblige.
But the weights crushing,
pulling down,
have proven to be too strong today.
The tempting fingers
lost the bet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 237

Mailbox Dilemma

Second guess two steps past
and drop the envelope
into sea green fingers from a hand
reaching out from within itself.

There, the hand moves
and becomes hands, sprouting fingers
each more elaborate than the first,
and almost twice as long.

The envelope swoops in strides
and trickles water dreams
into the teardrop moments 
and fearful brainless billowing.

Handsome, the brainless cold
walks through doorway moments,
slamming each next, right before the first
before retreating to the dark.

The fingers reaching out are memories,
not just everyone’s, but all have lost track
of the time passing down within the envelope,
as it rests on the ground, forgotten.

Poem-A-Day: Day 236

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

I’m torn somewhere between
being a philanthropist and a misanthropist.
I try to convince myself
that the terms are made up,
fictitious amalgamations of my own mind,
manifested by my own self pity at being one,
and my own malign indifference at the other.
I thought that aspirin,
or some other pill shaped format would help
alleviate the pressure ever building in the brain,
slow it, before it bursts,
showering the world in apathetic letters,
words, and sentences
that border the bizarre and contrite.
It’s no mystery,
that the rain I see
has a particular aftertaste of champagne,
proving destruction
one

drop

at

a

time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 235

Rush Hours

I pass shadows on the freeway,
they scamper from the center lane
and head off in each direction
as I drive by.

The steady drone of 
Rush Limbaugh
mires my eardrums.

I would scamper if I could,
because his satanic words
look to draw me down
some path of bigotry,
a path I'd rather not venture.

And while salvation is a knob away,
the shadows seem to haunt me
in ways that are inescapable.

Poem-A-Day: Day 234

Scrump

It's hot today,
hotter than normal,
and my back is sweating,
swearing up and down
like a longshoreman.

Sometimes I hate the heat so much,
it makes me want to throw up,
just so I can feel some sense of relief.

Maybe I'm too much a grump,
or some other assassin of happiness,
but either way,
I fucking hate the heat
on days like this.

Poem-A-Day: Day 233

Sunlie

The sun lies to moon
And promises the same blues
But welcomes the stars

Poem-A-Day: Day 232

Chateau le Douche

Hipsters to the left
And homeless begging the right
welcome to "A Squared"

Poem-A-Day: Day 231

Dog Commune

Community,
and the sweating blocks
enunciate words
that I’d swear
were shadowed
by the heaving stones
that hang;
tired weights
and championing
daydream nightmares.
Shame on you,
fooled
by once over thoughts
and stained jeans,
wet with the tense mange
that Dog imposes on man
on daily basic fours;
feuding, fuming, foaming
at the mouth,
just thinking
of communists.