Poem-A-Day: Day 153

It Helps

Early 80s,
and I’d like to think I was conceived
to at least one of Journey’s albums.
Life,
the great journey,
or just THE journey,
there have been peaks of greatness,
but they seem to be overshadowed
by Himalayan feats of disgust:
childhood—13 years of what?
Early 90s
soundtrack plays over lousy school speakers,
and I dance to myself,
a shaky two-step shuffle
along the green painted cinderblock wall.
I’m almost certain I wore a blue Haggar shirt,
some khaki slacks,
and a Marvin the Martian tie.
No wonder I was alone
crowded with the rest of the nerds.
Early 00s,
What’s to be said?
Awkward as ever,
yet somehow more confident
for no reason.
Stylistically, no more different
than the previous me,
only more amazing, why?
I managed to turn failure
and uncomfortable wandering
into a marketable commodity.
Poetry helped.

Poem-A-Day: Day 152

Bang, Fuck, I’m Dead

I watched from afar,
not speaking,
but watching as the eagle swept down,
proud,
with wings of steely silk,
maybe brass or bronze,
but gilded,
beguiling,
swooping,
and I saw it,
I saw the eagle from afar,
I watched it swoop down,
it snatched up,
with its claws,
successes,
perfection,
I watched the eagle,
I saw it from afar,
do what I could not,
what I could never do,
and so I shot it down,
with my own pride,
the smoking barrel,
high-fiving me,
in our moment of singularity,
happiness was a warm gun,
breathing for me,
as I stood silent,
over the eagle,
watching it stare back,
it couldn’t understand,
it could never understand,
my reasons.

Poem-A-Day: Day 151

A Dog Eat Idiot World

bit by a dog
deep down
and watched the blood flow
without a care in the world
laughing
gritting teeth through the pain
no pain
just gritted teeth
clenched hard
swelling cheeks
hard as iron
stern
the blood flowing
not a single care
just a scarlet brook
running down the mountains
and the valleys
that call themselves the arm
running down
to fingertips
dangling cherry stalactites
leaving a trail
failure
at not being able to bite back

Poem-A-Day: Day 150

Skip to My Lose

Skip it,
they say.
It’s not important right now
because there is something else
that I could be doing:
busting my face open with a brick
for instance,
or shaving my flesh off
one layer at a time
until I have a pound;
the most common unit
in weights and measures.

Desert it,
they say.
There is nothing worse,
than doting on failure,
because it’s ridiculous:
failing consistently, constantly,
at least there is some constant,
or flailing majestically over the edge
of a waterfall,
falling into some white-capped madness
that envelopes the soul;
the most common unity
in waits and pleasures.

Fuck it,
they say.
Don’t bother with it
because there isn’t anything in it,
and there may have never been
anything worth doing:
laughing hysterically, historically
speaking to the ghosts and ghasts
of past and present,
or palling around with the ghouls
of my underbelly,
undressing my self,
the most common untying
in hates and pressures.

Poem-A-Day: Day 149

Claim Jumper

The only trophies I can claim
are the ones handed out for just showing up,
and one for having the best allergy to peanuts.
I could feign interest in anything
and claim that I am the world’s best actor,
or try to not be sarcastic
and claim I have become a miracle man
casting miraculous acts of interest;
a regular 21st Century Jesus.
I could claim more than I know,
which isn’t far from the truth,
since I know more than nothing
but much less than most things.
Mostly I proclaim
to nobody in general;
some mass of feigning interest
in something that has wore out a welcome,
like a mat, caked dry with the mud
of a million shoes that have tread thoughts
through fields of blown out dreams.
I have made that claim day after day,
after relentless day, after soul crushing,
soul crushed, sold, gone, nothing.
I can claim crushing defeat,
but there isn’t anything that has won.
One claim, a proclamation to the world:
Sit back, relax, it’ll only hurt for a second.

Poem-A-Day: Day 148

By One Hour

Pardon the lateness
Of inexcusable me
T'was at the movies.

Poem-A-Day: Day 147

A Series of Tubes

A hole in the shape of a brain,
where a brain used to be
playing violin thoughts
out through cavernous ears,
ocular cavities,
nostrils, mouth with teeth,
face shaped like any other;
a present in an empty yard…
connected…
the gaping madness is connected
through some brittle tubing,
plastic medical tubing limp and flexible,
meeting other tubes in consortium,
in the middle, a bowl of rubber spaghetti
moving like snakes over one another,
moving in a slow tumultuous rumble
over one another, sexual and boring
fleshy wants and needs groaning
and bellowing like smoke from tubes,
cylinder cement tubes that cough smoke
into blue skies, clouding blue skies,
and darkening the blue skies with smoke,
billowing, churning like cement
in a twirling bulbous mixing bowl,
wet ebbs before being able to dry hard,
rock hard, cement hard, tubes,
cement cylinder tubes that stretch
down to the earth from the heart,
the earth and heart
are not so different,
the earth and heart
are only switched
by a one letter mistake,
the one letter leaves
but comes back,
in the end it comes back,
the letters
always come back,
forming tubes
and similar shapes,
snakes and noodles,
human features
and silhouettes
rumbling across
horizons of the earth,
rumbling across
verandas of the heart
till the words can’t stand,
the words can’t stand
unless they have a solid foot,
a foot that stands as the foundation
dug deep, deep within the peat moss.