Poem-A-Day: Day 595

The Sub Missive

I’ve swung from here to there
and the only constant is some spying notion,
some mail-order indoctrination
gathering portfolio thoughts
in this weird world.

So I willingly let it.
I let the rolling stone gather moss,
I let it get randy and full of false bravado,
so when the time comes
the crippling crash will be inevitable.

The history is as long
as it appears to be short,
but mostly because the missive is submissive,
whether there’s help or not
or a ring to solve the problem.

Poem-A-Day: Day 594

Whatever

I don’t know if I can do it.
But after trying for the past
the idea of time travel
seems like a necessity.

The rather is the more
than what could have been,
especially in the expected here
but not more than now.

Poem-A-Day: Day 593

Old Fashioned

The bitter scoring
Left between pen and paper
Is a line of ink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 592

Dreaming Somewhere Else

counterpunch
and there’s nothing left
but the scattered remains
and a few smatterings of wood
and cheap thrills;
the thirst of other things
and the regret of nothing more.

it’s addition
and the forgotten subtraction
of things not as unfortunate
as the other wasted dreams
that people soon forget about
in the waning moments
of inspiration.

but it’s gone,
whatever inspiration was had
and the leftover filth
is an overwhelming masterpiece
left to build on it’s own devices
and replicate into infinity,
or what’s left.

Poem-A-Day: Day 591

In This World

The uncommon
has all but left a bitter taste
and understanding
has become unconscionable
in this world.

I’d give it up
if there were some gift bag,
some consolation
that would provide brevity
or feverish joy.

But it’s all garbage,
and I’ve known it forever.
I know nothing
and it’s an acceptable loss
in this world.

Poem-A-Day: Day 590

Sonnet #78 (Growing Pains)

Inglorious
this judgment night
notorious
for waning blight,
and something more cast from
the furthest reaches to
grasp at villainous numb;
pains akin to tattoo
moments that are permanent inked,
entwined within the skin and so
are left to rot and age unblinked
from the precious scraps  to forgo.
And nothing but the knowledge left to think
while death commands the folly left in drink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 589

Commonality

I’ve never noticed numerous spelling mistakes,
but that’s humanly possible I suppose.

However, I suppose I don’t as often.
Though I never did as much to begin with.

The revelation is lacking revolution
or some other catharsis that I’ve awaited.

The smell is deafening to my senses,
and I’ve never given much thought to it.

I guess that’s life as they see it these days,
a mess of drifting simply over backwards.

Poem-A-Day: Day 588

Thoughts on a Rack

Amnesiac brain spiral
as far as the eyes can see.
Godlike, naïve angst,
Then…
fly or die
in search of sand in the Vaseline.
Lock & load,
it’s fun to steal spare parts.
Public warning, unsupervised,
a spectrum of infinite scale
made from technetium.
Adios, boys and girls in America,
I’m sorry I’m leaving.

Poem-A-Day: Day 587

Mary Jane’s Last Dance (Greatest Hits)

American breakdown,
Girl, I need to know.
Even the losers won’t back down.

I don’t come around here no more,
don’t do something in the air.
Listen to her heart free fallin’,
learning to fly
into the great wide open.

The refugee me, waiting like that.
Here comes my girl.
You got lucky runnin’ down a dream.

Poem-A-Day: Day 586

Big Waves

somewhere I wondered
but then that fell away
in the illiteration
the salty brine
of killing moons
and the bastard tripe
that I’ve long since past

but there she is
as per the normalcy
plagued by self writeous
and slipping doubts further to
the simplistic frankness
of the unquestionable
fathoms deep

Poem-A-Day: Day 585

Impossibilities

There’s an uncontrollable urge
on my part
to exacerbate any situation.
I want to push boundaries
and see hatred
in the eyes of the oppressors.

The savage reality can be blissful
but typically blows
compared to the unconventional
ideals of simplistic perfection
that are lost within
their own terrible notion of being.

Poem-A-Day: Day 584

Absolution

The suspect of giving
is an immediate cultural wound
bleeding heresy and shit
from the cankerous living.

And if the killing moon
were less than murderous plague
bridging past and future
the information would oblige.

Poem-A-Day: Day 583

Fifth Notions

The silver box lost the commonality
and the crimson punch of hate
put things into bitter reflection.
I could afford the caustic behavior,
the others were less than fortunate.

Poem-A-Day: Day 582

The Ex Hall of Famer

somewhere a champion rises
that place is not here
here a champ leans on risers
and drinks scotch
and drinks vodka
and drinks wine
and remembers the champion

somewhere there’s a champion
that upset the former champ
on a different stage than here
and he stopped
and he left
and he gave up
and he’s no longer the champion.

somewhere a former champion
drinks the remains of the day
from the understanding
that he was
that he is
that he always will be
that he is the champion of kings.

Poem-A-Day: Day 581

Derp Derp Derp

Common idiots
Cannot understand real life
When they don’t see it.

Poem-A-Day: Day 580

Cockroaches

There’s some queer familiarity I share
with the idiot assholes that follow
my every movement.

I follow them close
as they follow me, and the truism
is oddly suspect in the nature of dance.

I cared before, but now the waste is gone
and I can’t bring myself to value
the inferiority of the complex.

Because it’s no more complex
than wasting time in an effort to waste time,
there is no point aside from being problematic.

Poem-A-Day: Day 579

The Constant Pain

Those same two feet stepping on my toes
in idiotic, uncontrollable movements
looking out curtailed concepts of reality.
The convoluted overblown shift
is a constant punch-card blowing it out
and leaving the workday uninhibited.

The two feet are always at my heels
like the back of broken shoes digging deep
and bleeding skin away slowly.
It’s an unending pain that’s worthy
of ignoring until it dies a painful death:
stoicism will be the only word left.

Poem-A-Day: Day 578

Eradico

The business end of nothing
left more than the worst taste
in the mouths gasping at air:

whispering spirit drugs
and the snapping next emotion
pollinating trusted beginnings.

Poem-A-Day: Day 577

The Human Race is Lost

We have seen the human race
capture all its dreams,
all except peace.

We have seen humans rape this planet,
and sex-starved evil devils
scrape all that remains.

The earth has dreamed of less
than human happiness
and mere survival.

I’ve misplaced happiness
in the idea that peace
is realistic.

I have learned the reverse,
peace is the vacant idea
that humans care.

Poem-A-Day: Day 576

Endeavors

A shredded salvo
in the otherworldly heat wave,
and bodies looking shattered
like remains of golden,
green, clear, and brown bottles.

Broken glass spastically placed
as a haphazard puzzle solution,
gripping piece to piece
in crimson sliver tendrils
slowing moving between each other.

The mud pocked scars
gurgling wretched chrome
and oddly chromatic gore
through each sift and seine
of broken tract and flashy retort.

Each shout a minstrel call
whispering vagrant death
and the shallow buried given
of wasted cannibalism
as the snake consumes the tail.

Poem-A-Day: Day 575

The Evil Apparitions Talk Slyly

The incredulous puzzling phantasm
masquerading as a petulant sight
within the fogs of mistaken chasm.
Insensitivity aside, it still didn’t care
for the wraiths or wrath that followed.
The bellowing smoke choking fumes
and those other trumped up scumbags
filtering thought through sewage eyes.
Screaming silent dangle ample laughs
and beckon call to savage phantom grasp.

Poem-A-Day: Day 574

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Poem-A-Day: Day 573

Cycle 1

The whole idea, the whole project
conceived accidentally;
marring vision of disaster
breathing subtle fuck the worlds and excuses
into the cellular core of greatness
with growing steam,
steam built on a grain of salt
wedged between the oops and don’t worries. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 572

Cycle 2

The whole idea, the whole project
was discovered on the brink of madness,
destruction historically recorded
in green skies of falling trees,
broken glass memories,
and one simple brilliance
that shares the same disastrous omen:
nature knew better than to let it slip idly by. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 571

Cycle 3

The whole idea, the whole project
grew, as things will do given chance;
chance marking spots of indiscretion,
of marring jolts dripping electric bolts
smashing wave after wave
of portents, poor chance,
and the sweet aroma of resilience
given circumstantial evidence to convict. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 570

Cycle 4

The whole idea, the whole project
was a concept in the making,
surpassing tense to see the world
as it seems from one minute location
shooting blaze and rage in all direction;
stopping to scoop the earth
among the desperate faces yellowed
with damnation petals and withered hearts. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 569

Cycle 5

The whole idea, the whole project
was never fully understood,
or truly realized,
given electric dreams of electric sheep
and some computation adding;
replicating through the past
straight past the future gone back again
before returning to a point left vacant. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 568

Cycle 6

The whole project, the whole concept
was never meant to be anything
but a sore scraping through the meadow
drenched in one dollar crapulence;
muttering repetitive shits
left to sink to the clouds
and racing forever higher to inevitable splash:
the distinctive beauty of a soaring bird. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 567

Cycle 7

The whole project, the whole concept
fashioned historics from hysterics
and spit down from the ground
somehow leaving the sun sizzling
and dreaming of black days passed;
black rays balking at basking divers
able to take the plunge,
not wallow deep down in shallows. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 566

Cycle 8

The whole project, the whole concept
was beginning to move in ways not understood,
not easily understood by time;
no essence of thought or deliberation,
reflections bouncing signals off screams
and the jealous panic of what will,
but not the what hasn’t, not has it,
what was hasn’t always been so forgiving.