Poem-A-Day: Day 255

A Marsh

A green sweaty mess
Of hot dubious moisture
Eroding my soul

Poem-A-Day: Day 254

Jerks

a bird looked at me,
it told me to drop dead
then immediately fell from its perch.

I laughed for a moment,
thought about what it had  said
then went about my normal activities.

months later,
at that very same location
a dog laughed at the way I walked.

I wasn’t appalled,
I didn’t really even care,
I just chalked it up to poor manners.

but it was obvious,
my obnoxiousness was so revolting
that only animals had the guts to tell me.

Poem-A-Day: Day 253

Silence and Raindrops

as I sit quietly at a desk
listening to the sound of rain
clamoring, and dancing
on the roof above my head
a picture of a mustachioed gent
yells silent wonders into a microphone.

I try and understand what he’s saying,
but the silence of his voice
is muffled even more
by the constant of the rain.

It’s hard to ignore the rain
among all the other silences,
the whisper of the computer,
the dull hum of the air conditioning;
all this blissful silence, yet,
somehow the rain is far more energetic than I.

Poem-A-Day: Day 252

Paper Coughs

Paper-cuts on every finger;
a sad reminder
of working the doldrums of a bookstore,
or the fire pits of a post office.
Paper cuts everything;
the sharp stab as it tears flesh,
but only minimally
despite the indescribable pain.
Papers cut fine lines through fingertips,
and then the blood,
king crimson river flowing
is nothing but a shake off, and get moving.
Papers, caught in the act of malicious intent,
though it seems nigh impossible
it has happened, if only to serve
as a sad reminder.
The papers caught more than ever intended;
sound, fury, a resilient nature to breed
and be hungry for something unspoken,
some piece of life.
The papers cut free the thoughts,
release the bonds of servitude,
as the blood, the oily blood,
becomes a sign of liberation.
The paper cuts attempt deliverance
in a misguided art form,
the blood serves as a reminder
that life somehow has occurred.
The paper-cuts are nothing more,
than sad reminders on ever finger,
sad reminders that life is moving
and the only moving part are adorning cuts
on blood soaked hands.

Poem-A-Day: Day 251

Citizen Cain

I grind my toes into the berber,
it reminds me nothing of grass,
or sand, or dirt,
or anything that seems wholly natural,
yet it only seems natural
to be in the place where I am,
seated slouched over
in some possibly leather chair,
with the backlit screens
creating an infinite mirror,
but I am no Citizen Kane,
instead I have stabbed that man blindly,
leaving him slouched over a desk
bleeding natural thoughts
all over the sand and dirt
that has been ground into the carpet.

Poem-A-Day: Day 250

The Penitent Workforce

The crackle and pop
of the joints settling in place
marks yet another day deservedly over.
The day is nothing
but a routine maintenance
of a sad endeavor at trying to be something.
That something is never,
and will never fully manifest
until the actual routine of the day is changed.
The routine is mechanical
and emotionless in its methods,
and it becomes a set of gears grinding away.
The gears grind the soul
into nothing, the dead inside
is the mark of a routine spent toiling faithfully.
The faithful pursuit
of the never meant something
is reminiscent of the crackle and pop of joints
as they settle in place,
and mark the end of a day;
the only time that the soul returns to fervor.

Poem-A-Day: Day 249

The Top of the Stairs

Standing at the top of the stairs
like a demented god looking out,
observing the populace,
and rocking back and forth on his feet.
Ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball…
the repetitive motion inciting desire,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
ball to heel,
heel to ball,
and then the sudden rush of emotion,
driving madness down the stairs,
and washing the populace in sprays
and cries of agony.

The bookman looks around
like a demented god at the top of the stairs,
observing the customers,
ruining, when they should be shopping.
Piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles…
the repetitive nature inciting anger,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
piles and loafers,
loafers and piles,
and the sudden dream of destruction,
an act of frenzied cleansing the floors,
seems nothing but a daydream,
among the cries of children.