Poem-A-Day: Day 322

To the Sea

so strange the mist horizon skies
and shattered embankments
that the sun seems bioluminescent
reflecting off glass-like pillars
lightning tubes and carbon rods
standing side by side
little soldiers at attention
at ease with stranding nothing
to the sea, to the sea
dipping bottle bottomless down
and hoping for flotation
with the amber laden dandelions
and foam that comes in ripples
the distant froth of land eroding
thoughts that have mustered more
suffered less than what is zero
divided half upon horizon lines

Poem-A-Day: Day 321

Sonnet #61 (Collapsing)

A satellite orbits descending arcs
until the descent permanently marks
some odd crater of statement’s remarks
and leads to remarkable respite.
Strange beasts call for god and savior
but lack nothing but behavior
that ends in misbehavior
but no real aim to commit.
And though we’ve falling out
from those whom have no doubt;
the depressed devout,
whose will can’t submit
leave nothing more
than cold adore.

Poem-A-Day: Day 320

Questions and...Answers?

Excerpts from an interview with David Shields
as he quotes entirely out of context.

Q: Is genre a minimum security prison?

A: Everything I write,
I believe instinctively,
is to some extent a collage.
Meaning, ultimately,
is a matter of adjacent data.

Q: Are all our stories the same?

A: Soul is the music people understand.
Sure, it’s basic and it’s simple,
but it’s something else
cause it’s honest.
There’s no fuckin’ bullshit.
It sticks its neck out
and says it straight from the heart.
It grabs you by the balls.

Q: Are the creators of characters,
in the traditional sense,
no longer managing to offer us anything more
than puppets in which they themselves
have ceased to believe?

A: I can see
why you’re a Miss Nude USA regional finalist.
You have beautiful,
long,
silky,
blue-black hair,
a perfect pout,
and a gorgeous body.
Please send me
the color photos you mentioned of yourself
in fur,
leather,
lingerie,
garter belt,
and heels.
Thank You. Payment enclosed.

Q: Is the novel dead?

A: Something can be true
and untrue at the same time.

Q: Do any artists tolerate reality?

A: Shortly after 9/11,
the Defense Department hired Renny Harlin,
the writer-director of Die Hard 2,
to game-plan potential doomsday scenarios;
in other words,
fiction got called to the official aid,
reinforcement,
and rescue of real life,
as if real life
weren’t always fiction in the first place.

Q: Is there nothing to say
that hasn’t been said before?

A: Truth,
uncompromisingly told,
will always have its ragged edges.

Poem-A-Day: Day 319

Ape House Frenzy

The glorious woes
And terrible mysteries
Make life livable

Poem-A-Day: Day 318

On Blues

Sapphire spires jutting at angles
not normal to natural way,
cutting cobalt wounds
in an otherwise gray-skinned animal,
bleeding blue blood,
slowly pooling in small pockets,
slowly turning azure angles acute
from obtuse concepts hanging low,
dreaming cyan concepts from the wounds,
the pooling blood on gray skin,
making cerulean concepts create color
from the small pockets of cloying angles,
spears jutting from navy notions,
jutting at all angles and dropping from the sky.
In one din go, the indigo sky shows through gray,
leaving only no din aims from image notions.

Poem-A-Day: Day 317

Jealousy, As Far As I Can Tell

Damn demanding man,
damn the man that dings off
the random damning scoffs
and demeaning damning awful falling things.
The faulty awful things damning men,
dings off, causing man to doff,
all while scoffing at the random damning things.
Damn the scoffing random doffs,
hats full and awful on fat men
falling off the faulty awful random walls.
The walls are awful dams,
damming men doffing and scoffing,
demeaning things jerking off and damning things.
Faulty dams dinging ringers off the hook,
scoffing at the jerking men,
and damning the demeaning things,
demanding men be things they’re not.
Damn the damn demeaning demanding man,
the random man that random scoffs
and damns the things that haven’t gone off,
haven’t become random walls,
random walks in the park with doffing men.
Damn demanding things,
damn the damn dam, damming damns
and causing awful faulty dams
to fall for awful walls,
and scoff at walking men
doffing and scoffing,
demeaning jerking off.
Men scoff at jerking off,
and awful fat men demanding faulty walls
can park or walk damn jerking dingers off the hook.
It’s jealousy, as far as I can tell.

Poem-A-Day: Day 316

All the Beautiful Colors

Fly the brightness by the light,
a kite soaring so touchingly close,
so close, that worlds blend together properly;
soaring skies, small blades of grass, waves,
water blue whipping grays and greens
against the red wall yellow leaves,
canvas and oil backdrop dripping leaves,
running wild down silent barking greens
and the canyon scented sun in waves
so close, that entirety falls apart properly;
breaking down glass piece diamonds close
to knowing, refract prismatic light.

Poem-A-Day: Day 315

Enjoy the Silence

The moment before
Silence reflects on itself
Is agonizing

Poem-A-Day: Day 314

Slices of Pie

A piece of pie,
a piece of apple pie,
of pumpkin pie,
of apple pumpkin pie,
a piece of pizza pie,
some rhubarb pie,
a piece of pizza rhubarb pie,
a slice of cherry pie,
the blueberry pie,
slice of cherry blueberry pie,
have peach cobbler,
have pot pie,
try some pot peach cobbler pie,
key lime pie,
and pecan pie,
one slice of key lime pecan pie.

Of all the pies,
the miles of pies
lined end to end
to end to end,
the meringues and custards,
flans and tarts,
there remains just one inedible,
yet strangely circular.

Each slice of pi
seems to go nowhere,
just unending filling,
filling the void
and circuitous thought.

Poem-A-Day: Day 313

Sonnet #60 (Area Codes)

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee,
which I by lacking have supposed dead.
Die single, and thine image dies with thee
and all those friends which I thought buried.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be
as interest of the dead which now appear.
Their images I lov'd. I view in thee
how many a holy and obsequious tear
disdains the tillage of thy husbandry.
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me,
that thereby beauty's rose might never die?
     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
     Pity the world, or else this glutton be.

Taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets I, III, and XXXI

Poem-A-Day: Day 312

Sensically

Severity, in every sense,
but not lacking sincerity,
or in certain circumstances,
dignity. Having none,
or having nothing truly interesting
to say, but infinitely more to show,
some bleak sunset shadowed cloudy,
red creeping through enigmatically
causing sailor delight, lacking warning
and the scent of morning swimmingly
surfacing in rising tides, bewilderment,
and the strange sense of urgency,
circling the rim of martini glasses
held two high, in cheer formation,
and looking up from the bottom,
looking through
for intrinsically sewn memories,
but seeing only olive suns orbiting,
trapped in concave pyramids
reversely erected in erroneous ways,
but somehow calling for more,
morally delving dilemmas
over smiles, handshakes and clapping,
but noting on napkin backs,
nothing but cracks slipping idly by,
as some black shoes shuffling,
some wobble feverishly shaking,
calling for sincerity of others,
while lacking severity
in every sense.

Poem-A-Day: Day 311

Some Things Stay With You

Writhing twisted metal, motionless
in some scrap heap heaven
breathing cold extinction to the air;
the moment one second is eternal,
when screaming steel looks to do wrong,
when glass and steel and flesh fuse
and burn away the life that was.

Hundreds pass and wonder what was,
and what caused such emotional spill;
slippage under reddening cloth concrete,
uniforms uniformly circling like lights
that simply indicate the lack of laughter,
or some scene the screeches at the squeamish,
begging for not one helping hand.

Poem-A-Day: Day 310

54, 40, or Fight

Fifty years too late
but not one more than never
having gotten anything in the first place.

I remember the years as days and days
sequentially lined up marching
bloodied soldiers ready.

The days blend easily
insipid transitions forgettable
from the same that’s been the last one.

A straight white line bright as the day
or some twisted beam of light
refracted and reflected.

It almost goes on forever
but meets an end at the horizon
falling down to completely disappear.

I’ve yet to see the reappearance of it
of nature bringing it back
returning the light.

But the days go by
transitioning from light to dark
and back to light and dark once more.

Once more remembering the last time
the last fifty years or forty gone
but not forever past.

Poem-A-Day: Day 309

Forget It, and Call Off

some days
the last best idea
is giving up
and forgetting
what just happened

what just happened
is the worst day
since the last
day remembered
from yesterday

from yesterday
nothing has added up
it has piled up
equaling the regret
for ever having got up

for ever having got up
this morning
the punishment lasts
eternities past
the last thing worth forgetting

the last thing worth forgetting
is the first best idea of the day
the first inclination to phone it in
to hang up and forget about work
and just sit idle sipping life in

Poem-A-Day: Day 308

Conversation Stopper

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How are you?”

“Good, you?”

“Ssshh…”

   Somewhere the earth shakes loose
   the limber arms and tears back the skin
   revealing horrors unlike any ever seen,
   unlike anything ever witnessed,
   but deep beneath the horror, beauty shines,
   deep beneath the horror, whispers
   wafting through the windswept willows
   weeping nothing more than smiles,
   and laughing cold maniacal, emotionless,
   beautiful in the twisted blistered glory,
   and as the sun melts away
   to some smoldering celestial briquette
   and the earth darkens and shakes loose bondage,
   life will have found a way.

“…did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Not anything?”

“Nope.”

“Ok then.”

Poem-A-Day: Day 307

Wednesday Night Madness

The stresses mounting
To attain true perfection
Nailing interview

Poem-A-Day: Day 306

Darkness Rains

Darkness reigns over empty streets
silhouettes under dimly lit lights
lowly illuminating the streets
empty until cars pass over
one at a time passing over singular.
The reigning darkness gives no sign
aside from street signs
peering through dimly lit silhouettes
rain is coming to give faction to the reign.
Clouds race into the reigning darkness
slowly passing over single cars
creeping slowly over dimly lit streets
masking silhouettes of signs
sighing deeply under gentle illumination
and the clouds bring rain in tiny droplets
reflecting the scenery reversely.
Droplets reversely reflecting scenery
brings two dimly lit streets
and silhouettes of street signs
street lights dimly lit
crashing two worlds together
crashing slowly moving cars
creeping under reigning darkness
under rain the two worlds clash.
Clouds race from the reigning darkness
slowly moving over cars
creeping cars slowly moving under darkness
moving by silhouettes and dim lights
leaving nothing but the color of darkness.

Poem-A-Day: Day 305

Leave Nothing

The cream of the crop,
the esteemed and deemed necessary,
the unfaltering wealth
that stares down from up high,
stares down through glass ceilings,
gazes down causing fear,
petrifaction, a million Medusa gazes
stopping dreams like heart attacks,
leaving nothing but a flutter.

I take my coffee without cream,
and I deem nothing more necessary
than tenacity, and the will
to stare down the evils,
stare straight, unwavering,
able to hold the mirror in the face of evil
and behead the ideas that look to stop me,
eviscerate the reverse aim to stop me,
leaving nothing but my existence.

Poem-A-Day: Day 304

Watchman’s Call

There’s no adventure
More glorious than watching
The change of nature

Poem-A-Day: Day 303

Small Fires

Small fires soon grow if left unattended,
pulling in the air,
plucking it like flower petals
and letting it smolder under its own weight.
Small fires soon become monsters,
rampaging beasts bent on trampling,
and decimating what was what
that has become nothing but notations
in the margins
for the purpose of insuring well being.
Small fires soon take over,
if there are things left to conquer,
madly grabbing everything around,
in flailing childlike tantrums.
Small fires soon die
the same way that most die,
expiring, having lost interest,
or being smothered by some external force,
some omniscient presences judging,
examining the fire and its worth,
deciding when and how.

Poem-A-Day: Day 302

Subtle Love Under Scrutiny

Show me something beautiful,
and I’ll show you the person that hates it:
the warm saturated splendor spilling chills
of cool air dancing under the sun
reflecting off blinding snow,
the flower that pushed itself through
the oppressive weight and suffocation
of the drab slab of concrete jungle unaccustomed,
the fish mounted and deadpan
smiling for no reason as it’s perched on mantle,
warming itself over crackling fire,
quietly watching lovers battle over champagne,
the compliment that comes backhanded
from the smug coworker that’s managed nothing
but the mismanagement of toiletries
stuck presumptuously under shoe, on show,
the snake engorged on mice, eggs, birds,
fat and sassy stretched on a rock, warming,
waiting for the chance to strike again,
for the chance to go unnoticed,
to be the sinner in a world that’s cast judgment.
Show me something you hate,
and I’ll show you the person that loves it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 301

The Coming

The crisp smell of cold
And crackling browns under toe
Signaling sweet change

Poem-A-Day: Day 300

He Stood There

He stood there,
oafishly,
and I stared through him
with cold eyes gone obsidian
from the heat of stress,
blood vessel lava streaming
through what’s left of the whites.
He stood there,
waiting for an answer,
a response,
anything to satisfy his curious nature,
and I thought of the wreck that’s become.
The ships dashing bows to pieces
on fist shaped rocks jutting from air oceans,
filth cover landscapes barren,
gone uninhabitable except for humanity:
the last worst thing to have graced it,
and the remnants of one man in slacks,
waiting idly for some grim repose.
He stood there,
expecting acknowledgment,
and I turned and walked away,
quitting what was left of my past.

Poem-A-Day: Day 299

Sonnet #59 (Repeat To Yourself)

When I see her, she reminds me of days.
When I see her, she reminds me of praise.
When I see her, she reminds me of gaze.
When I see her, she reminds me to stop
and think of the one thing she told me: write,
and think of the one thing she told me: fright,
and think of the one thing she told me: fight,
and think of the one thing she told to stop.
When we’re together I can’t think of blame.
When we’re together I can’t think of shame.
When we’re together I can’t think of claim.
When we’re together I can’t think to stop,
     because the goal is to fight to the end,
     despite the bullshit to still comprehend.

Poem-A-Day: Day 298

\[]-[]/

I’ve spent years looking
but never really noticing much.
The world has been a blurry mess
with small dimples of clarity,
pooling fragile glass
that lets the light cut through the fog.
The light burns the retina,
but the scars are clairvoyant
they release the eye to believe,
understand what it wants
instead of what things look like.
The whole situation is a spectacle,
a goddamned spectacle
that I can’t seem to pick up or put on
in the effort to attain permanence.

Poem-A-Day: Day 297

Modern Bard

Some bard-like challenge
To come up with the poesy
That will change the world

Poem-A-Day: Day 296

God’s Curious Wandering

Curiously walking on the green grass
and shouting obscenities towards the sky;
damning the stars for not being visible,
damning the earth for spinning,
damning the collapse again.
There’s no devil, only god when he’s drunk,
and he loves to walk among the men
created in his image,
and the woman, an image of lust
and heaving bliss; rolling clouds.
Dripping sweat at the edge of the day
and looking down from the cliff into the darkness,
hoping that the world has ended,
hoping that things have been the mirror,
hoping that the mirror has been a dream.

Poem-A-Day: Day 295

I'll be camping again, you know the rhyme.

Something Missing

the water batters the back of my head
and I do nothing but stare down at the white,
the stark polished finish of the tub
glaring at me
I swear I can see my distorted reflection
so I avert my eyes and start to notice things
I look past the water slowly dripping
from the head of my dick
and I see some Lovecraftian beast
tentacles and claws moving in the flow
the remnants of her last stay
a balled up wad of hair at the end of the tub
and I think of what she’s doing without me

Poem-A-Day: Day 294

To Be Announced

The smell of bacon
Butter on toasted bread
And some hot coffee

Poem-A-Day: Day 293

Sonnet #58 (Fill in the Blanks)

Stop… …dead.
Drop… …letters
into… …red
slots… …better
construe… …things;
nots… …those
words… …brings
unsaid… …prose.
Herds… …crowds
ahead… …scorning
life… …shrouds,
hate… …mourning
strife… …and praise,
fate… …and days.