Poem-A-Day: Day 353

Sans Mercy

some remembered few,
barren and savage,
tear across space
looking for sanctuary.
she holds them in her
magnanimous grasp,
a wicked critter,
some dame sans mercy.
the symbiotic reaction
of two lossless eyes
staring oblique
at the same synonyms
mirrored by antonyms
and the anonymity
that makes love
seem more or less worth it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 352

Sanity

Millions now living
Celebrate warming peace
And the rational

Poem-A-Day: Day 351

Rally to Restore

one part restoration
whatever peace is left,
and the understanding
that there might be
something left,
if only a guess,
that there might be
something worth taking,
or an idea striving to be
reckoned with.

whatever happened
to the verbosity of history?
was it lost somewhere
perhaps in the past
where people
once spoke
with incredulous
tonality, and monotony
reigning down from lips
troubled with the future?

there’s no denying
that something is happening,
some uncontrollable sense
of impending dissertations
on living life
and pursuits
of something resembling
a happiness that’s crumbling
into bitter cinders of blood
stained with historical facts.

Poem-A-Day: Day 350

Wonder

The wonder was lost along the way,
and no wonder nobody could find it.
There’s no doubt that nobody cared,
and though the results were doubtful,
the resulting effects manifested somewhere
between effectual and perfect.
The prefecture of in-betweens led nowhere,
as if by bicycle or some other means,
but, regardless of the brevity,
the multinational uniformity called for others
to be some other something, or nobody.
Nothing that could stand without doubt
or the lack of wonder that had been missing.
It’s no wonder it wasn’t where it was left.

Poem-A-Day: Day 349

Lifting, Waits

the world waits
for the next great distraction
to wander from gravity,
for the next sacrificial goat
to goad the sin and sanctity
from what the world wants.
the world lifts
the shale and pumps it hard,
throwing the shit to the sky
to float high among the heavens
and bask in glory's hate,
of what the world likes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 348

Wind Blows Art Shows

the clouds were fake today.
dabs of stratus sporadic painted
on gray and blue altostratus wash
gentle floating cotton dabs
wistful movements of artistic beauty.
periodically the wash gives way
to white ink cirrus streaks
and some curious nimbus numbers
a staged and cumulus masterpiece.
albeit some creation of artifice.

Poem-A-Day: Day 347

Other Days, Other Dollars

Eyes blazing crystal stones
scathing wasted dreams at the sun,
and the screams ring sorrowed
solar flares; Osiris scheming dead.
The bottles draft fathoms
braising fated wings in silver,
and the things gleam borrowed
ion pairs; neutral charging knives.
Bodies writhing nature springs
washing vexed flesh to the bone,
and the sunders rain tattered
sinew tears; flagrant dreaming dread.
Nights flashing classic tones
sending animated nectar at the sky,
and the pains thunder scattered
shallow cries; beauty taking lives.

Poem-A-Day: Day 346

Four Directions

Poem-A-Day: Day 345

Scrimmage

Questionable acts
And some terrifying jest
At becoming god

Poem-A-Day: Day 344

Ecstatic Motions

Dark hair cascading
Down alabaster shoulders
Mapping ecstasy

Poem-A-Day: Day 343

Hot Coldfalling

Windfall rain screaming
Blizzard suns and pale cinders
Spark reversible

Poem-A-Day: Day 342

AEIOU

Are sins your
facetious
answering to puns;
pale inkblot suns
fastening our
place in no fun?
Say the intro plumps
a weird growth lump,
and then, it pops pus;
hard, tedious
spatterings of funk?
Sad nettings sour
a wet ichor skunk;
a smell, shit on glum
madness scissor cuts,
and then in no stunt,
sad bells ding-dong drum
awe in songs sung.
Bad news is not dumb,
tragedious,
sadly yes, info crumby
and bled viscous.

Poem-A-Day: Day 341

C.H.U.D.S.

Cannibalistic
Humanoid Under-terrain
Dwelling Survivors

Poem-A-Day: Day 340

Night Watch: Day Watch

Days blend with nights
and sadly back again,
and somewhere in the midst
some intermittent sleep,
a nap reclassified,
manages to self-sustain
one more day
that blends to nights.

Loss and gains seem similar,
but one always outweighs
the weight of the other,
and then one another
together the two walk,
holding hands and smirking
at the loss
and the gains that seem similar.

And the nights shift to daze,
and the daze becomes similar
the fog that never lifts,
but instead perpetuates,
disseminates itself from clouds
the somehow eclipse
the darkness of the nights
that shift to similar daze.

Poem-A-Day: Day 339

Trioptics

iodine night cap
showering final brevity
and magnetic splinters

splendor blinding chill
quiet and magnanimous
bold curvature flattened

attacking sounds resonate
and connective tissue
loses what was

Poem-A-Day: Day 338

Twin Cities

Supple bubbles
The dangling angler angels
Heaving heavy breathes

Poem-A-Day: Day 337

The Paranoia Set In Again

The paranoia sets in again
penning ten aging sins
against tin sign posts.
Parisian songs in not one note:
saps panning in the raging rains,
aging paintings, pale sangria,
goners past tense once gone.
Testing the pair on proper par,
no noise gains sages panting;
rappers taping tan pan rape songs,
singing eerie opera sets,
eating grapes on stage.
The paranoia spans eons,
the spinning ions start sane,
penning again, penning again,
against era on era, stepping to,
resisting stress set ages ago.

Poem-A-Day: Day 336

Dog Looks

A dog looked at me today
through the window of a moving car.
The dog was far happier than I was,
but the dog wasn’t behind the wheel,
the dog was sitting in the passenger seat.
There’s no anxiety in being a passenger,
not like the driver, and the dog sat there.
The dog sat there godlike,
godless, peering through a window,
looking at me from a moving car.
I was behind the wheel, the dog was not.
But the dog’s expression told me things,
it told me of conspicuous pains unheard of,
and the questions of life, not telling me why
a dog looked at me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 335

Missing Personals

Medical Assistant at Crooks 59 Clinic

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Date: 2010-10-12, 6:29PM EDT
Reply To This Post 
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I used to come visit you on my lunch hour
at the medical clinic you worked at.
 
Then they started to tear up the street, 
and I think that’s when we began to get torn apart. 

I sure miss you.
Can you believe we both smoked back then?!!!

Wow...I went out of my way for you-
that is for sure,

because back then you went out of your way for me.
It’s a shame you probably don’t remember

the first time i showed up 
and brought you lunch

and I gave you a big hug, and a kiss, 
and all the chatter in the office was,

"Now there is a guy who loves his woman." 
you always forgot so quickly

how bad ass and kick ass 
I really am.

No other man would have bothered,
because he would have already known

that you never really cared 
to begin with.

a subtle reconstruction of a surprisingly touching Craigslist ad.

Poem-A-Day: Day 334

Long Shots

base places
face ably
wayward planes
scraping angels
lately fake
weeping screams
screech evilly
pleasing cheats
scheming beasts
cheeky creeps
lively wise
either pining
shining skies
jive dryly
by Fridays
scoping dopes
roped blows
jokes solely
over wrote
bloated toads
using blue
tubes nubile
human chutes
bruised fruits
ruled useless

Poem-A-Day: Day 333

Sonnet# 62 (The Face of Sun's Destructor)

Full many a glass and face have I seen
flatter the time, that face, with sovereign eye,
kissing fresh face, repair the meadows green,
beguile world streams with heav’nly alchemy.
Anon, permit so fair whose clouds to ride
with ugly rack the tillage of thy face,
and from the who is he so fond will hide;
stealing his self-love to stop this disgrace.
Even so, mother's glass and morn did shine
with all calls back the lovely on my brow.
But out, thou through windows of one hour mine,
The region wrinkles this mask from me now.
Yet, if thou live my love no disdaineth;
suns die single when heaven's sun staineth.

Taken from Shakespeare's sonnets III and XXXIII

Poem-A-Day: Day 332

Quellish

Some lacking angel
Fast approaching the center
Of sad disaster

Poem-A-Day: Day 331

Fear Monger

Fear being sick
Fear being over prescribed
Fear terrorism
Fear the war on terror
Fear the economy
Fear losing your job
Fear the youth
Fear drugs
Fear politicians
Fear your neighbor
Fear other people
Fear death
Fear living
Fear the road
Fear accidents
Fear auto insurance
Fear losing your home
Fear hurricanes
Fear liberals
Fear republicans
Fear moderates
Fear oil
Fear big business
Fear everything

but most of all,
don’t give up on it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 330

Broken Spaces

Go alarm Ed and Dan, Gero, Us.
You the gal. It; aria not hers,
no talon, ether, ole in spires.
There! Collection beat them id.
Cent, rally locate din hum, an he art.

Poem-A-Day: Day 329

Scorned and the Damned

The scorned and the damned
have to be.
There’s no other choice,
no literal translation of the language
that has become accustomed.
Of the hundreds of things known,
little more than none have left marks,
they’ve made makers of them:
the scorned and the damned.
Have to be
somewhere, some final destination,
the layers, upon layers, adding up
but never coming to equation.
The hands, hot heat and burning oil;
scarring slaps familiar scented,
and the strange idea that they
have to be
the scorned and the damned.

Poem-A-Day: Day 328

Omega

The weight strangles the eyes
without abiding to constraint,
and giggles in the background
echo off red light reflections.
Goldfish dance dirty through the fog
as clocks tell different stories,
and closet doors wheeze skeletons
onto stainy carpet floors.
There’s a hum,
trying to hum sleep in deaf ears,
but the damnable things keep happening.
A rustle is nothing more than sounds;
deep resonation through possible,
or what may be tub or toilet.
The tugging is too much in the end,
and it becomes the end to means,
the coming to terms with grip.

Poem-A-Day: Day 327

The Future of Progress

The future supplies business application,
complex event processing,
and infrastructure responsiveness,
providing progress through lighting:
the largest single source for energy,
more than 21000 megawatts of generation capacity.
The future tells local news,
sports,
entertainment,
and classifieds.
The future is a progressive think tank
offering policy proposals,
talking points,
events,
news and columns,
a royal journey marked by pomp and pageantry,
a liberal blog on the science,
solutions,
and politics of climate change,
a think tank
devoted to the study of the digital revolution
that generally supports deregulation
and movement,
as in, toward a goal,
to advance,
development or grow.
The future is the source of news and information;
crashing two cars from 1959
and two from 2009 and comparing the results.
The progress is the goal to protect everyone:
causes and symptoms of postpartum depression,
postpartum anxiety,
postpartum psychosis & other mental illnesses
is a scientifically based practice
that is used to assess student academic performance
and evaluate the effectiveness of instruction.
Future is time
that is to be or come hereafter.
Progress is something that will exist
or happen in time to come,
representing the result of an asynchronous computation,
and the methods are provided.
The future is a light-hearted examination of our ideas,
and is for everyone who'd like to visit space.
Progress bases everything we do around clusters
of like-minded individuals
who are passionate about their interests;
network promoting conferences and discussions.
There are three kinds of people:
those who let it happen,
those who make it happen,
and those who wonder what happened.
They are the future,
the next alternative
to the internal combustion engine and oil
Progress is an ongoing study of their behaviors,
attitudes,
and values of American young adults.
The future is a commentary on human genetics and evolution,
progress in direct-to-consumer genetic testing,
and the personal genomics industry:
promoting a cleaner and healthier world
by improving the human gene pool.

Poem-A-Day: Day 326

Confetti

The cold seeps in,
in ways not understood,
but understood nonetheless,
making little and more sense,
more or less,
with each passing click,
clatter, destruction
of the known sense of reality,
destruction of the classical;
Beethoven stealing Brahms,
all for the sake of saying:
“I wanted to thank you for finding
Grover Cleveland's presidential time machine for me.
I'll give him your regards.”
It’s all stolen,
all a sham, or shambles,
the stumbling madness of dear death,
under the breath of not understanding
one or the other.
It has been gotten,
and grabbed off the shelf,
spilling words in a trail
of rat mince salivation letters.
And to the editor,
thank you for not smoking.

Poem-A-Day: Day 325

Miles Ago

Each time the drive is suicide:
stepping into the chamber
and pushing the trigger to the floor,
blowing my heart
all over the inside of my chest,
and leaving me a little less
than when I arrived.

I know I’ll do it again,
over and over
until I can finally stop the charade,
the cyclical life I lead
between two worlds
that’s both damning and amazing,
the pull of parallel universe.

Poem-A-Day: Day 324

Technophelia

Technology moves so fast
like a hundred slaps to the face
every day
for the rest of your life.

But you don't just like it,
you love it.

And it provides the perfect conundrum,
the perfect exploration
of the worst best thing,
technological dominance.

Poem-A-Day: Day 323

Clouds

The clouds appeared animated
as they transcended space and time,
letting loose the monsters
that bore a similar resemblance to humanity.

The clouds moved slow
through the bluish sky,
and the monsters went around their business
as I stood horrified.

The clouds did everything for me,
while they danced methodically,
and the monsters took it all away…
I could not see past it.