Poem-A-Day: Day 63

Gangland

Surfing plowshare tides
of irrefutably futile systems
and warring tribulations
amongst the kings, counts and barons.
The banners, held high,
and left like the mark of the beast
on white castle wall
in an act so territorial,
that god himself has had favor in it.
But when the blunderbuss
and canonical smoke
recedes in hairline fractures,
the banner colored red reflects
the royalty that past proceeds to future.

Poem-A-Day: Day 62

Anagrammar

"Genius might be the ability to say
a profound thing in a simple way."
Wasting away the human genome in libation
and drowning thoughts in sinister mastery.
It’s the siren song smudging the mighty profound,
as wise as it is asinine
saying goodbye to the palm frond life,
and balling fists with tender fragility.

Poem-A-Day: Day 61

The Old Saloon

A heretic of the modern age
as I sit listening to myself debasing
the fore fathers , four fathers,
four horsemen of my apocalypse.
They provide a calypso tune
for my ears to prune,
sprucing up the hum drum room
of a brain I call disaster.
It’s not so much a transport
as it is the sporting transfer
from bus to bus,
subway to subway,
sent packing on byways and highways,
driving down parkways,
and parking in driveways.

But if I had it my way,
it would all be beat box dreams
in western saloons,
dropping rhymes like saliva
in dusty spittoons.

Poem-A-Day: Day 60

Oblivion

Oblivion,
watch it grow
in the hands of the wild-eyed
poet come to town,
as he scrawls dangerous whimsy
on the stalls of bathroom walls,
and crawls from fantasy floors to cheaper whores
than most have grown accustomed.
He stokes the fire,
burning blatant free on broken branches,
choked down bottles, and a loss of equilibrium
passing judgment on a night of violent visions to behold.
The blaze it burns and dances on his tongue
under jealous notions
passing glassy eyes, and steamed yellowed words
on sallow paper folds that crisp
in ashen madness, popping no less than three times
before emitting deathly embers to the sky
for slowly dropped release.
The poet rolls from town to town
stomping fires he himself has grown,
and punishing the faithfully renowned.
With each passing footstep
flames fall remiss,
and oblivion
has nothing more
to kiss.

Poem-A-Day: Day 59

Mountain Climbing

Looking up
from hardwood mountaintops
climbed with crampon bottles
and blurry talc powdered hands,
the summit stands
as a shadowy peak of blinding splendor.

Pure beauty
wrapped in terry cloth clouds
and beautifully scented dripping rain,
that turns to swirling snowflakes
touching my skin
like smooth, groping butter tendrils.

Helped up
by something other than here,
a glamorous glowing lack of gravity
that tears from slumber the one thing
left remembered
in a life spent mountain climbing.

Poem-A-Day: Day 58

Seraph

wild seraphim emblazoned
in sun scorched reverie
dances idly behind the backdrop
housing stolid cold reminders.

the haunting depiction
of a true self reverse
lost and wind kissed lips
chapped in puckered stance.

and under spreading wings
the light is cast in all directions
purging my known world
and spreading it on time.

Poem-A-Day: Day 57

Here Come the Bombs

The drugs take effect
and wrap me in their tender
god-like fingers,
melting away
drowning cinder block sadness
and the discursive
felt-tip madness
that makes me aware of my
immediate surrounding danger.
My halcyon daze
piling air upon clouds
giving weight to weightlessness
with bittersweet strangling bliss
released in twenty below gravity.

And here come the bombs,
 here come the bombs

dropping atomic, somnambulistic
dripping magic down my spine
in retribution
for my shallow winding crimes;
a flaming arrow
aromatic crime of new scents
tracking snowy footsteps
through grey matter wastelands.
Predictability is the greatest statistic
in whirlpool winter dreams,
spilling violent afterbirth
in sadist tide pools
like spools of swimming 
threaded fingers dancing on my body.

And here come the bombs,
 here come the bombs.