Poem-A-Day: Day 248

Deception

The world doubles over on itself,
wraps itself tightly
and drowns the sun away,
washes the sun away
drowns it under the ocean
erecting monuments and skyscrapers
left to shadow the world,
eclipse the world in a way contrived,
some spectral emergence
that takes over the world,
and recreates it on a whim,
dreaming up majesty
and the dark, seedy belly
of what just may have occurred.
I’ve seen this world,
or some visible facsimile of it,
wrapped conveniently
around the lattice of my mind,
my neurons firing off warning shots
that are squelched under the rush
of emotion, or else…
and I watch the creations
and recreations,
wondering what is and ever was,
and if it has ever been, or ever will again.

Poem-A-Day: Day 247

Sorry, I missed yesterday. Out of town wedding.

Floodgates Floor

The night sweaty with lust…
lust and dancing,
and the sweet ambrosia of life
pouring out of every direction
past every tent post,
and centralizing
on a fourteen by fourteen square,
and writhing in some uncontrollable manner.

It probably smells to outside noses,
but the smell of delight is overwhelming,
the smell of burning energy exuding hot and wet,
like a factory toiling away,
manufacturing dissonant bliss
and cranking it out by the fistful,
leaving nothing behind
but unadulterated joy.

Poem-A-Day: Day 246

One to Delve

Pound one, two, twelve,
out, right out of mind
into a transcendent journey
capped with experiences most audible;
don’t stop believin’.
The cape a flannel robe,
maybe terrycloth
draped around shoulders and arms,
but full frontal opened
like a butterfly spreading wings,
ready to fly,
ready to take off
and leave the cape flapping in the skies.
Despite the grandeur,
the transcendence ends abruptly
under the calm resolve of cleansing rain
and bitter reflection;
forcing the day to move forward,
for time to slip by
sheltered in metal coffins,
tombs spewing exhaust,
exhaustion by the end of the day,
and then pound one, two, twelve,
out, right out of mind
into a journey of inferiority,
a complex clockwork movement
spinning out of control,
and crashing into the death of sleep
before hopelessly waking.

Poem-A-Day: Day 245

Tornado Innards

Clouds spiraling like drunken ballerinas
spinning,
mixing up dirt salads
with millions of little fingers
twisting perfectly on point,
and throwing everything in a fit of rage,
the unequivocal fury
of a woman scorned
and the frenzy of longwinded wrath
as it blasts half knocked posts through glass,
cement,
and anything else that can be made of sand.

To be at the center of such an event,
to watch the dancers interacting
and creating their own Danube
out of the sweat of grays and greens,
the atmospherical, global majesty
and natural movements
bringing swathes of death,
destruction pocked landscapes
full of the remnants of weeping shallows,
and the promise of nothing
but bearing witness
to the finest detonation of color imaginable.

Poem-A-Day: Day 244

I’m No Man

I’m no man of the word,
I’m a man of the people.

A man struck down,
beat down and soulless,
reckless and dead on the inside
that watches over the world
with his only regret
being that he won’t be there
to watch it end,
is the type of man
that stands over, hovering the world
and governing with his word,
his standards…
they’re standards.

So I sit calmly, quietly,
while life works its way out
and I repeat to myself
that I am no man of the word,
I am a man of the people.

Poem-A-Day: Day 243

Internet Rapture

At some juncture
where self-proclaimed, great men fall to their knees
weeping,
and women are the goddesses of nothing more
than piles of shoes,
and the children are slaughtered in record numbers
while quietly seated,
there is the calm of reality.
At some intersection
I stand in the middle of two roads converging
in the woods,
and I don’t question the path not taken,
the paths seem to come to the same point,
and I’ve neither been, nor will,
so I watch the cars pass by on either side,
in front, and behind.
At some moment,
when the world stops spinning
because God is too drunk to pull,
I’ll look up, and see the eyes of Satan,
and it will all make sense,
the whole damn plot written by fools,
and believed by even bigger ones,
a place I’d never bother stepping foot.
At some juncture,
where people look for forgiveness,
I’ll be there laughing at the believers
and the doubters, the fanatics and fools,
and anyone else that I happen to see.
I’ll be standing in the middle of the road,
the most dangerous place to be,
tempting the world to crumble.

Poem-A-Day: Day 242

Show, Don’t Tell

“Don't tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
Shower me in shards of little beams
that break on the dawn of man,
and sweat disaster from the inside gone down,
wild and desperate,
akin to life in the big mood lighted grass.
Show and tell the new life in a slobbering fashion
that will best assert that I, not knowing, will
tear down the walls and mirror stars,
leaving broken lights,
shimmering on the earth.

Quote from Anton Chekhov