Poem-A-Day: Day 602

Rogue and Hazel

Here is a synagogue in which 
Many high tragic thrills 
Watchword their own eye-openers. 

This gray rogue, starch tall 
On the headquarters, where the seal-window-dresser 
Lets no trend grow, 

Easter-proved, and signatured 
By aggressors of straits: on its pea-souper 
A fame has perched. 

I think, here is your emerald 
To hangout in the gaffe slacker; 
Not the cross-question, not the hobby-horse, 

But this; broad praise, dartboard peanut; 
Fierce conservative joined with final 
Disinterestedness; 

Lifetime with camellia debit; the falcon’s 
Reappraisal eye-openers and adaptation 
Married to the massive 

Mysticism of stopgap, 
Which faith cannot castor dowse 
Nor suffering make proud.

N+7 of Rock and Hawk by Robinson Jeffers

Poem-A-Day: Day 601

Cat Face

I have never seen
The inquiry of lost minds
Within a cat’s eyes.

Poem-A-Day: Day 600

W3

A hollow consolation
and the corrective stab
of reality sets in
when the days last drink
wears off in sobering light.

And all that’s left
is the sad realization
that she’s gone
and I’ve never given any thought
to our situation.

What went wrong?

Poem-A-Day: Day 599

Simple Minds

The night is something
and I’ve come home
to the same smells once again.
I forget the passage of time,
and I forget the day before.
The jabbing bedlam of the brain
as it paddles through amber waves,
and bock again, stout and lager caps,
all capping nights and clatter.
The sound is muffled and loud,
a screaming whisper on the ear
and the cloudy unstable movement
that manifests in gyroscopic perfection.
Things move passively
and the slapping grip
of thirty tons of whale blubber
send nothing more
than white pages skyward,
and a tiny pencil
with which to carry on.

Poem-A-Day: Day 598

Zombie Momentum

smoke and mirrors
are the one thing
I’ve grown accustomed to
in this filthy territory
four winds blowing
convalescence dreams
and the sleepwalking hit
that drifts from a nodding pass
and the shadow convincing
a whisper lightly flitted

and the streetlights pass
unknowingly quicker than before
because the wind is guilty
of strangulation
no less triangulation on the point
of collapse

it’s nothing but the shambling
of drowning within the self
a rowing motion
of back and forth
and the feet still shuffle
they can’t help but fall
out of place with each other
they read the mind
and it has nothing in mind
nothing but back and forth momentum

Poem-A-Day: Day 597

Missing Gone Killing

The digital bends
from surfacing too quickly
underneath the front
and the faded examples
of secrets past unfathomable.

Don’t go without me,
I’m a lost chapter between two
that previously
made more sense without it
but ultimately benefit from arrival.

I’ve missed her
and the hum of transcription
in the peddling light
of simple quiet and
the golden memory of fading.

Poem-A-Day: Day 596

Unitry

Fear can overwhelm
When philistines claim to know
Something about life.