If I truly loved this poem
I would stay up all night
weeping over it
I would dig it a good grave
build it a tomb
I wouldn't give it to fire
or set a pitiful cairn over it
I would send it off with all
the honors it deserves
not nothing,
which is what I planed
for maybe dreams will
be better than this poem
(that's probably true
I wouldn't want to waste
more time than necessary)
what it needs is violence
or knights or faery
but plenty of blood
sacrifice egoless
epic story of gods and men
not another one about me
or my father or mother or wife
or death (well maybe that)
or the doom of the world
here is what I want from you, poem
something to make me respect you
I want a dozen good men
to take over the the country
with wit and sword, blood and smoke
guitar and song, gun and blade
new heros for a new age
and new poems to pronounce them
maybe that's to much to ask
it probably is
I guess i'll just go to bed
and dream
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
I embraced you like
a guitar.
I made you sing,
then
smashed you
before thousands
of screaming fans.
who knew this would happen?
between the player and the played
somebody is being used;
and I can't tell if it was me using you,
or the other way around.
picture me now,
kneeling amidst your splinters
my fingers and arms bleeding.
the stadium is empty.
the concert being long over.
and I’m
weeping
for the music
we made,
but can make
no more.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
motes of snow float listlessly by the window
rising and falling with meandering currents of air
sunlight, filtered pale through grey cloud
another moment passing
a dull refrain...
the chill clawing at walls and doors
incessantly as incomprehensible being
...
another long grey day,
arctic wind,
bodies bundled,
and the mind seeking the warmth of certainty...
not found today
...
today, I wish I was a Marxist with something worldly to believe in
something that gives utter meaning
something that displaces, with in me, the grey despair, the icy thoughts of winter
not some frigid airy faith
but the lodged certainty of mind, man, and history...
but those statues are long gone
those poets of the proletariat have been
single mindedly disgraced
the windows of future hope have been iced over
and our little fire burns the furniture of our lives
like Zhivago's
and the mice are watching us from the cupboards
and the rats fall between the walls scratching at lathe and plaster
and in the night
they scare us scuttling over our sleeping bodies
they’re everywhere
like spies saying nothing
watching, waiting for the cold to take us
unfeeling, frozen on the recliner covered
with a feeble quilt
they’ll dance then before our milky white eyes
open, staring out past the frosty sill
And the ice glaze over the pane
…
when spring comes I will cry with the ice...
melting down the window
when worldly ideology fails
I will read banned books on the soul
spin in the slushy square a sloppy dance
of liberty
when spring comes I will sing
with the crows over dead ideology
that couldn’t save a soul
but could hope to
like all the others
when spring comes
I will look no further than
naked trees promising bud
...
December 3rd 2014
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Here is the place
I start crying.
Where I kneel in false worship
Before puking, at the temple door.
Where I beckon to the ****** who run
Back to the congregation.
So, I drink to satisfy
My own unrealized faith.
I ***** mornings because no one said,
I love you.
Then it is not my fault, I say to the laughing mice
To the flies buzzing in my face
In this is the place,
Down by the culvert,
In three inches of chilly water;
Here is the place I start praying.
Knowing there will be no answer but death
Or the sun.
Knowing, I can listen because I have done it
Twelve hundred times before,
Every day of my life,
That I listen, but never learn
Like the child who
Was deaf and lived among the wolves.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
My thoughts are
Melting snow
On the war statue
Downtown
My politics
Correct when it ain’t
I’m sick of the selfish
Bodies I witness
Beating against time
Crying for love
I’m hungry for
The first drink
Of the morning
The smoke of solitude
The abandonment of babes
All I see is fog
Encompassing streetlights
And bodies and buildings
My tongue is gone
My breath is shallow
The year is almost up
Better go get another
The day I die
Will be the day I say
Goodbye once and for all
I say goodbye
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
there will not be a better time to write
in the night
than that hour
the closed flower looses all it held of light
and despairs…
or when the moon, shadow worn, hence unseen
beckons keen
passing eyes
that have no ties but time to beam
into the gloom.
the hour that the wolf sings over ****
and the thrill
of that borne
back to the dark of morn, so ever till
Nature ceases.
the pitch of the dark, the doom of the day,
the wasting away
in tombs,
while dreaming of worries
and forgiving death,
when all comforts pass and a chill comes down
like frost found
in the heart
of a flower that knows its gone it’s last round...
there will not be a better time to write
April 4th-5th 2011
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC