Poem-A-Day: Day 207

The Greatest

I’ve threatened
the greatest men in history,
only for them to fail at my feet
with the same dumbstruck look
that I live everyday life with.
I’ve seduced
the greatest women in history,
only to realize that their beauty
is only less comparable
than my own beguiling nature.
I’ve punched
the greatest villains in history,
only to watch them weep silently
as they realize my own disgust
is far mightier than theirs.
I’ve proclaimed
myself to be the greatest man to ever live,
only to realize my proclamations
are the truth beset deep
within the annals of history.

Poem-A-Day: Day 206

Blogger was down last night, so I apologize for this being late.

There, Eating

There,
the reading,
they are eating
the year red thin;
the you, real dine thing,
their used ready dinged think gear.
Though you really didn’t think,
though usurers readily do,
thought your reeling
thrower rings,
there.

Eating
fleeting moments
fleeing no part;
weaning? Nope, pent up
seating scope a party dropping
neat wings, cope ratting drop sling
pleats sing dope scatting hop
heap hits, hip clapping
beat drops snapping
heaps not
eating.

Poem-A-Day: Day 205

Down Feathers

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...but nothing happened...

"Stand Down!"

...and a shot rang
across the azure sky,
echoing through distant fields,
and ushering forth
a gush of fresh crimson river
and tragic uneasy laughter...

...and sweet collapse
under the azure sky,
slumping like a silhouette
to the damp earth
red with crimson river run-off
and tragic uneasy laughter...

...and standing down
under the azure sky,
a soldier pluming his bright feathers
in the aftermath of a pistol's smoke,
spurting crimson river majesty
and tragic uneasy laughter.

Poem-A-Day: Day 204

The Bird is the Word

The word on the street
Happens to be unyielding
So I stare skyward

Poem-A-Day: Day 203

Every Direction

There is a definite lack of order
looking down on the cold compress
sagging in every direction;
chaos,
and chasms spreading as far
as the I can see,
but I don’t think I can,
as a see becomes the sea
spreading in every direction;
surging inward;
a waterfall pouring down emotion
in some wavelike motion
down the cliff façade,
sheer brilliance
and bright ideas
shooting in every direction,
except into the water
reflecting a compass
always pointing north,
should it pass the south
lost somewhere between
the east and west,
but the magnetism radiates
in every direction
creating chaos,
and some infinite balk at disorder.

Poem-A-Day: Day 202

1000 Little Ideas

1000 little men riding
1000 little bees

that are simultaneously
stinging and shoving

1000 little stingers, and
1000 little fingers

deep into my skin,
burning and scarring it.

1000 little wounds bleeding
1000 little tears

down  the curvature
of a slender body that is

1000 times removed from
1000 different places;

nowhere to really go,
but up into the clouds.

1000 little balloons inflated by
1000 little men

riding dangerously close
atop buzzing little steeds;

1000 little bees setting
1000 little ideas free

from the balloon shackles
that tether them to this world.

Poem-A-Day: Day 201

Mothballs

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it fly around the room
as if it was lost,
or had some sort of agenda,
but it just flew around
avoiding the fan that spun;
a circling guillotine
waiting to take the head of the moth
and drop it in a tiny basket;
a waste basket.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it as it landed on the ceiling
after spending the previous twenty minutes
exploring a miniature landscape,
after it ventured close to the sun,
and avoided the spinning death
that wailed its siren call,
after it had spent the moments before demise
cheating death, scamming death,
watching me, as I had watched it.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I approached it slowly
and watched as it scurried
over the white painted setting in reverse,
and the moth watched me
as I approached slowly
with the vessel of death in my hand;
a coffin in the shape of a shoe.
My hand was the arm of the devil
wailing down in upward strokes.

There was a moth that was kneeling to pray.