I’ve sewn together a thousand moments
of nothing (butifandorthis) Outis of
sorts and ends
depressed
enough to make your head swim
your wrist spit
to drown in your own thinking
grasp breath drench and saturate
obsequious regurgitation
prolix asphyxiation
words worlds whirled
LOGOS
spew forth and I choke on
what I can never get out
the
emptiness within
a
few
secondsleftoverstepsout line
of
curfews ensue
more or less and less is more
of the same (few cures for futures)
of late
a puddle reflecting and shallow
sole-stomped-n-splattered
I
Can not help but mis
s
the piece( is ) of me that mattered
less than the least of my worries
and the old black boot
with a hole
the one that is always waiting to.
.
.
drop.
I Am
still
here
hoping
inre
verse
It all fits the tailor-made addendum
but it doesn't the sedentary splendor
change the worn out agenda
of yet another loop of the clock
fomenting
a grand sutuREDness rending a
torque of tendencies
to ward off the
subversive inertia
of idle thoughts—cum—wishes
the edges of that
cloud grapple
with dissolution and
the shaping of my
own periphery sic
[i]magination
The interior storm
has come and gone
replaced by a wretchedly anxious calm
I then wonder if these
tempests are what is…
or just a fallway of mirrors
I pass through in a tumble
down some hole
feeling it’s too late to know
if I will ever be whole
Alas, another looking glass
I have been
cut up too
to see the half emptiness
of ours
in the hour glass
timetumbling down
the singularity of
How are we?
Relatively bleeding
Speaking of
self
shred-
ding dingbats-in-the-belfry
A f r a y e d address of questioning
covered with
s-t-i-t-c-h-e-s
in
this
fourth dimension
saves what? 9 lives? No rhyme--no reasoning
with me
…I guess
my wounds are dressed
but only it will tell
(What is real?)
(so obviously rhetorical)
it marches on
and it can’t be stopped
but it’s of the essence
and they say it will heal
All wounds
and I say when and how and isn’t now
all I have
to be?
wound up again I see...
And then be left
to the present
tense
out of it,
Up against it.
Who the **** knows?
said the Emperor I
(in third person disguise)
Wearing nothing
(He supposes)
Nothing
But being
but...
The scars
Uncovered
for the seeing
Being what scars are
Are they something...
Symbolic? Systemic? Sympathetic?
That makes seeing is believing
Real for me,
Or, for us all?
Is Being
Beingness
Or is it
Meaningless in a...life…
S
P
A
Not evolving as fast
As semiotics
Or sentient
Robotics
For the rest
Of us
To be
Sure that we are
Individual
Beings at all?
What?
Time’s up?
At least for the
Time being…
Nothing to worry about...
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
In a city
In a room
With no thing
Save a rescued
Chair
There’s
A windowpane view
Without reflection
To the streets
Below
Sits
A man without
Purpose
With Determination
Broken
By
A Notion
You see
He thought himself
Conspicuously unusable
Sentenced
To Be
Some detached observer
Surfeited with suffering
Posing
What
Could be
Apart
From the pain
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
She swam all over me
and I was fishing in her dreams
and I was fishing in her jeans
for change and sunken treasures
with her pale skin and scales
she sang of the primordial sea
and swelled of the deep
deep inside the levis thin
this leviathan
groaned with pants and moans
and I was finishing in her dreams
and I was finishing in her jeans
So I swam away from her
into the belly of the beast
and she sank
beneath the waves
and left me
in my wake
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Mirror mirror on the floor
why am I such a *****
for bitter feud and drink
and fantasy come true
this pauper’s purse is empty in pursuits
of waggin’ tongue in cheek
and bait your hook in me
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.
I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner. The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ****** The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.
A literate piece of poetic license,
The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.
The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
This poem is green
Would you buy this poem?
This poem is do-it-yourself
backyard garden green.
This poem is save the world
give peas a chance green;
this poem is azure sky
squeezing the golden sun
all over the world green.
Could you buy this poem?
This poem is apples and oranges
farmer’s artist market green.
This poem has
leaves as pillows
and blankets as grass;
this poem is a lil’ patch of green
earth purchase me plot;
this poem is
100%
recyclable
disposable,
sustainable
(after all it has gotten this far)
You should buy this poem.
This poem is green,
its’ tyro-technics
shooting out of asphalt cracks.
This poem is a snot-nosed brat
full of SASS
(short attention span sentences)
This poem is the hope of audacity.
This poem is fumbling with bra straps
and tongue-tied techniques,
this poem isn’t old enough
to know any better, it’s wet
behind the ears green
petting zoo pellets green
willing to SCREAM green
but not part of
a gang green
this poem is all alone
with its words
Buy this poem?
This poem is green
Its envious of
solar panel studios with eyes on the price
of a venti economy
This poem is the green-eyed monster
of product placement pick-o-the profit
This poem WANTS to make
consumer obedience the easy culprit.
But really…
This poem just wishes it could sing
Won’t you buy this poem?
This poem is green.
This poem has no half-life,
shelf life or
night life.
This poem exists solely in this moment
of your imagination.
This poem has milk carton desperation.
This poem is begging for change.
This poem was stolen from all of you.
This poem is not for sale.
Buy This Poem!
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
I bought myself a gun today.
I’ll give you a moment to process the mental paper work.
Is he serious?
Is this guy for real?
Is this a metaphor? Is it loaded?
Are these questions
you might ask?
Isn’t this supposed to be a poem?
I said I bought myself a gun today.
Do you feel better?
Safer?
Do I
seem more dangerous?
Are my words more weighted now--
with violence?
with virility?
with ***********
Are you looking at my crotch
for an extra bulge?
How do you feel
about me now
knowing that I’m packing?
I bought myself a gun today,
And just like that
I’m a gangsta upholding the second amendment.
I’m a citizen of the constitution
holding up my right
to bear arms,
and raise my hand in a fist--
a fist, that’s gripped in tension
a fist that’s an extension
of man and invention
and I really should mention
I can blow your ******* head off
without the slightest intention.
I bought myself a gun today,
Are you scared:
that I don’t know how to use it?
That it might want to use me?
That I might become
overwrought with emotions,
and respond to an argument
“Arnold” style with, an,
“I’ll be back?”--
that I might settle things
once and for all
with my noisy neighbor
in a language he might finally understand?
Are you scared?
I bought myself a gun today.
Does that make you worry?
You know what the statistics say,
That I have a better chance of shooting
myself,
than some intruder,
or mugger, or ******
or therapist even.
Are you worried about my self-destruction?
that I might I might accidentally
have an
accident?
Or, maybe, you may think,
that it might be on purpose?
that I might be singing
the, “Barrel-in-the-mouth blues?”--
not just fantasizing
about ‘em,
but singing ‘em with a with my mouth wide open,
and feeling them for real for real:
feeling the cold steel ‘cross
my tongue,
choking
on the taste of cordite,
really singing, “I can’t breathe,”
and how much
this ***** and having
the means to put and end to it all--
Are you worried about that?
If you are
then don’t,
‘cause I’m not thinking about that at all.
I bought myself a gun today.
Wouldn’t it be great
if we all could say:
I bought myself a gun today.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
my subscription to America has just expired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
Oh lucky day in the shadows of this pall
this war of regrets is truly uninspired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
I’m fearful of this symmetry and the mirror on the wall
slept in stolen moments without even being tired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
I no longer need a lover I bought myself a doll
Hi-def latex silicon chip wired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
Ring tone homily I don’t want to take this call
practicing excuses and the will of being fired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
TV dreams for me and I swear that that is all
folks at home getting idols of the mired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
a spartan room
you on the futon
me on the floor
flashing lights
from the street
from the shadows
you blinked in
and out
soundlessly
your toes curled
the ceiling rippled
without words
we were
caught in between
I saw you
seeing me
not in those splashes
but in those caverns
of absence
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
I
Home
inside the house of the lording
a frenzied pumping play.
Within
the colander
pouring the mold—
an altar of fetid sacrifice
and perfumed devotion.
My personal Pentecost (conversion
out of form)
My feats are handed to me far
ahead of my own devices.
Filling it up
Faster! Filling Faster!
Draining filling faster filling!
faster faster!
Violet lids are locked open in a rose
colored stare of thorns.
Puddles form opaque
and uneasy across the floor.
Ripples flex and bend-
a taste of lavender sweat and kisses
washes across my tongue
the flavors coagulate obscenely
stirring thirsty petitions
for more
II
The sunlight slits its way through the shutter
to rest upon the floor.
It strolls languidly across the breadth of the room
defying perception with a cadence
that patiently consumes the afternoon
Within
the anxious minutes struggle to keep pace
III
Speaking with the tongues
of omens and devils
Love is nothing
and I am less
Charity is the anchor
and compassion the straight-jacket
Lies! Lies!
Memory is privy to the cure.
I am up to my ankles in defeat
Wading through my room in shackles
a supine sense of clemency
bends my knees in prayer
Mercy! Mercy!
Mercy-
for the barbarians and schemers
and those who long for sleep
for the bleeders and the healers
and the **** crowd that pays to watch
for the hidden and the hiding
the blind, the short-sighted, and the bell gatherer on a leash
for those who have never seen their own spectacle
and for those who have yet couldn’t laugh
Mercy! Mercy!
Mercy to all
Without
IV
Within
the pool rises
In genuflection I supplicate my position
Surrounded by the baptismal abyss
I contemplate immersion
into the excrement
I have poured about myself
A frivolous query of destruction complete
It’s a sprite idea
a fairy thought
flirting with my insensibilities
teasing my degrees with magic and trance
with spells that bind the curious
to moonless night visits
and the breaching
of hoary sepulchers alone
Filling! Faster! Faster!
Draining! Faster! Faster!
Filling Draining Filling
Faster! Faster! Faster!
The colander is engulfed
within
V
Afloat in the mire
of ponderous subversion
excess has risen heavy upon my heart
swelling about my neck
with rigorous aplomb
licking my lips with tar and suffrage
To my feet
I must stand!
I must keep my head above
and chin up
Gut-check drench and saturate
seeping into my passions
seething out of my skin
and into my dreams
sealing me inside myself
It is an epiphany of osmosis
Sangfroid boiled to satiety.
An emancipation?
Is this contentment I feel?
Could this be...
I AM FUFILLED
if but for this fleeting
whim of a moment
I’ll take the burden as luxury
my soul rings with ******
my body shudders with dissolve
I am without—
Time
Needs
A Home
VI
I catch the last shards
of sunlight lingering
upon the far wall
Glowing
So alive in those last few moments
bright as language
etching vivid accomplishment
fading
memory
gone
VII
Ecstasy is swallowed in desperation
a flotsam and jetsam exchange
Grasp-breath beg and flurry
for space
wallowing head-full pleading
swimming in vibrant exhaustion
I writhe back into my skin
like a womb worm foraging
for original flesh
The casket ceiling offers me
Othello’s kiss
I see the cacography on the wall
and it’s my eulogy
blind as a battering ram I am
the walls before me
the colander cloys
the cullion claws
the cauldron is full
Boiling drown the barricade
the gallowed decision
is no simmering reaction
to the pangs of entropy
The filling has ended
my effluence has trickled to a halt
A maelstrom opens
draining Draining DRAINING
Within
VII
Without
The vortex rages
a frenzied drowning dirge
my eyes scour the darkness
scrubbing the void for light
The nothingness gawks back
shadows swirl in the pit
of my stare
I close my eyes in defiance
turning my gaze to the visions
Within
My thoughts are black
my dreams are black
my mind is an obsidian landscape
of residue and remnants
purged in the strain
of the colander
within.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC