Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

Beach House

I regret this rain I gave you and certainly don’t want it back. I need my floor space, my advice and the attention I bled to mingle in the water of your dissatisfaction. I mean, I need my things back, I need my card board peace of mind and for fuck’s rotten sake, let me let myself go.

Using pots to catch rain water here is long term? Isn’t that lazy? Tellingly uninterested? I think you like this drip of water, like to think you know what’s best for you and have the ability to time travel to keep me forever confused about appearances. Most of the time you’re translucent. I can’t stand all this list making.

You make me sit on the blanket way too long thinking I’m there as long as I’m nearby. But it doesn’t work like that, I need my things around me as much as I need you to stop this time shifting, these appearances, the smell of a summer shower at the beach…

I’m finished spilling these many pots. No more water, no more time traveling, no more blurry intentions. I want you standing next to me, elbow cocked and feet pointed like a duck. It is time. I need to dry.

Round and round

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning
fat mama jokes at high speed and she’s stomping
again to the heartbeat of my paranoid fantasies.

She got that late night dust bunny dream sickness
on spotless floors and what’s more is that someone
needs a hug and I’m blamed for a world of emotions I cannot control.

Christ, did I create all this in a noise cancelling
headphone of evening disenchantment? I don’t
remember plugging that cord when I set to rotating

my mania with the outside world. Yes,
on high, on low, on semi-permeable membrane of dust -
in fur, in breeze, in yonder to semi-please I scream

at the sky for relief in these times.

Knock one time for absolution, twice
for restitution then set those fans to spinning to keep
the outside world at bay.

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning, still winning
as drones bone down into my marrow to cover
the fear that despite all the hell fire and smoke

she might ask me for something.

Fucking Sun Fish

Molidae is the family of the molas or ocean sunfishes

I let you catch me, you sullen bitch,
I’m half the fish I once was, wrinkled, tired,
resting on the bottom next to that old shoe and broken
bottles of pirate rum, whiskey and ipecac.

Call me Molidae little man, new tiny friend, my family
of molas are too big to fit in the family sedan so we
came to the shore on current by way of California like
everyone looking for riches, a better life; that one big

strike to leave it all behind and find true happiness
outside ourselves - the kind of happiness that comes from
flesh bereft of skin parasites and the hapless, pick-a-pocket
worms that make the life of the less fortunate a real

wretch and feckless romp. On ward expansion, farther west,
to the land of gold, to a world of rapture to capture a destiny
of mud and vertebrae evolved to a tail and guttural bump-

This is the American dream you rotten scum, you hoisted a tired
old fish to his death on shore. Be happy now you little angler,
you moldy sailor, you half pint in the rip tide of life. Bring on
your mallet, your gig and your pole to show me who is man.

I am the fucking Sun Fish whose body comes to and end too
soon, the missing vertebrae a testament to an evolution of the American dream.

Our Enemies

The barking carpenter picked a house at random
He tore up the carpet, tore down the wallpaper
He ripped off the roof, filled the structure with water,
dug out the lawn, filled it with stickers, stood on the
furniture and floated through room to room…

The baby was first, it went out with the water through
side window. Mom was next, stuffed in a bobbing oven.
Dad was last, he’s wedged in the trunk of the family
sedan now rolling into the painted desert. Onward,
westward expansion, the golden hills, the oil stained

apartment complexes, the purple mountain majesty…
Onward past nationalities, past teepees, in through
the missing hospitals, the sagging bridges, down ruined
boulevards and yellowed billboards; into the mushroom
shaped cigarette smoke of the mighty Marlboro man - tough

guys on horseback; lovers on rodent mounts for boogeymen.

The Carpenter moves on, through house, through
hovel, out of the suburbs, into cities, tearing down
scrapers and libraries, making way for the new world
full of grateful subjects, bowing to their destroying boy
and filled with the hallow majesty of pop music.

There is American Justice

John Smith aka Ga-Be-Nah-Gwey-Wence

I’m older than the rocks and my flesh
peels off at the slightest hint
of spring- this rotten colored blanket
on horseback of mold, of bloated wet underbelly-

I’m as tired as the wind that the flesh peels
off the tips of buttes; off Montana, off the Dakotas
Into the pristine waters I float through Minnesota the
home to the Mall of the Americas and the water

park to end all water parks - this is sluicing, this is
sloughing, I am a creek-er, a shaker, a translucent
image maker that makes these shimmering pictures of a
Rock Creek hillbilly, a New York Jew, a California surfer girl.

I am old and sliding, slipping that which the flesh
peels off, a skeleton man in high mountain swift - tearing
endometrium, menstruation, a dog that shakes the fleas
from its coat.

I will outlive you all.

Secret Societies

Shriners

You’re my brother from another motherland and hand in
hand we band to stop lying - we preposterous fools are
in no way connected to Islam.
We have tiny affinity of
all sports cars,
all 18-wheeler trucks,
all fire engines, taxis, all ice cream vans sent
silly in a circle, figure eight, delirium
maudlin knees cranked to touch the tiny pedals.

Whatever on Earth you’re doing, don’t stop there,
these displays aren’t to go public; these parades empty
of rhetoric and full on decorative ornament drawn from historical
sources beyond familiar classical and Gothic modes - we are Moorish
revival, borish in style, vented on and on for mile after
mile and everything that Mason’s just aren’t.

A Scottish Rite or York Rite to be sure; soured
emblem and free reign costumes of red fez allure-
You’re my brotherly love, my weekly relief,
and truth and fun and fellowship rut, you make me weep for the times
when men ruled the Earth. The time has come and
gone, my wife wants me home, the children are all phlegmy,
and colicky and cold. I’ll park my tiny taxi in the back:
This is just between you and me.

If - Rudyard Kipling

This poem is about 115 years old and gives me hope for humanity

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!

These are the Universe

Get out of that skin and get
into that freedom

strip down
nothing in my pockets

run much slicker, safer
open toed and barely strapped

Fling a thing away
I’m choking collars and belts

spitting teeth plated
enamel too heavy

I want em floating in haze

___________________________________________________

Come on Universe, meet me half way. Feels like you’re not doing your part and letting me flounder about trying to manifest in a vacuum.

And I’m so lonely in my heart, so vacant in my love. Haven’t been touched enough, touch starved.

And no one holds me out as special, out above all else. I am just as unimportant to them as I used to be to myself. I don’t understand intimacy, I don’t know love and affection.

Posh

I’m into geriatric anime, my friends are ancient beings from an ugly planet and the idea is to use me and not leave me lying there after you’ve taken me out. These cartoons play shuffleboard and bingo while looking all god-dummies and slippers made of pink rabbits - this is multi-tasking of the irate!

Just don’t leave me and don’t see me at the same time - the eyes I can’t look in or see behind. But I don’t want to be just left out over here.

That thing in the back of my mind that seem to coat everything with dread, has moved to my stomach and makes splinters. I’m not proving myself virile or pancaking my red lines; I’m a cherish and perish, fruit on the vine. I’m not allowed to make sense, these banalities give me distance.

How to: not hate yourself inside your head

Anger is roiling inside my head and it’s all a fault to steer sociopath’s eyes all over me; judgmental eyes - these robot eyes in particular are bent on straightening me up because my natural tendency is to slack and let it bend and bleed to a silly putty-chunk of flesh - myriad structural pink.

Yay, helpful robotic piston driven brace of all that’s holy isn’t about to let me lead my life. Oil driven and pummeled with looks of little-man, dummy and pork chop. These eyes are all over me when I go somewhere outside and I appreciate that, keeping me in line.

One’s trying to tell me what to do and the other just keeps me from myself. I resist as I ought to, a slave to the contrary.

I’m sore. These eyes are all over me and my helpful robotic piston self.



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