Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.
Voyage of the ******
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.
Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.
Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.
If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?
The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.
Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.
The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.
The man dies.
So,
now there are two.
Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.
What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.
Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.
Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.
Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.
Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
The lands cheer when he rises from his throne.
Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul.
He fancied wine and women,
Merlot and money.
Feasts fit for a king can always be found in his halls.
There once was fiddlers four.
That is until Old King Cole found one using his pipe and wife.
He is very protective of that pipe.
No,
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
Step out of line and you'd face the gallows.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
who ruled with an iron fist.
Old King Cole believed it was better to be feared than loved.
His garments were made of the finest textiles and jewels.
His people starved and he had more bowls.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
Indeed.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Start with an idea and go from there.
Just let it flow,
like Titan strikes back at the dawn.
Always remember that the worst a person can be,
is when they are by themselves.
Sometimes,
staring at the sky,
nostalgia forgives me.
I would like to think that I am a good person.
Momma says never lie.
A lie will lie to the liar.
A thief will steal from a thief.
Once I saw Jack the Ripper,
asking for a favor.
"Come with me", he said.
So, I did.
Clocks ticking and tocking,
rocking to the rhythm of times to come.
I remember a time when happiness was a memory.
Please,
oh please,
travel the World and see the people,
not the sites.
Okay,
maybe see the sites.
I once saw The Fog,
moving swiftly across the pond.
Engulfing everything in his path.
Why is The Fog masculine?
I don't think he even knows the answer.
Yesterday,
there was an article describing the state of the World.
It has since been taken down.
Fitting really,
the World will end with a click of the mouse,
destroyed by the comment section.
Walking down the stairs into The Underground,
figuring out all of life's questions.
All aboard.
Do you realize?
I watched the sky fall.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Ringing in our ears,
wild haymakers throw us off balance.
We are The Smoke.
Eyes jump and jive,
dancing,
to the music of earthquakes.
we stick and move
through terrain so tough,
The Devil himself gets tangled.
Feet pounding on yesterdays dreams.
Thundercats roar towards the sky.
Forgiveness is not given to the weak.
Hammering on,
always look twice before the fall.
Remember what it is like to fall and
forget the taste of strength.
The birds are hungry for their pound of flesh.
Move!
We run.
Left, left, right,
two forward,
three back and
once to the side.
The birds are closing in, watching with red eyes.
Swollen,
we run and
cross
this path,
leading us to the spit soaked floor and
broken chair.
Another round
and round we will go.
Hands cracked with every minute the clock beats down.
Forgetting the taste of victory.
Our lungs are filled with smoke.
We fall.
The wild ones smash through the Heavens,
warriors through and through.
We must forgive ourselves.
For glory,
we will shake The Smoke.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
I wrote a short story once.
The villain was standing in the end.
Waiting for the sun to rise over the mountains and
the snakes fell through holes.
I can hear the sounds of silence.
I can see colors floating through clouds of liquor.
A bottle of wine and the whole world seems
flawless.
Maybe,
I am the flaw and the world is trying
to erase me.
The blood flowing through my veins is electric.
It is strange how the world turns,
yet these walls don't break.
Staring at the ceiling and I can hear the birds chirping.
Please,
God help me through this day.
I can not forgive myself.
Only the heroes remember the past.
It is simple nostalgia.
That is the key to destruction.
Love.
Maybe,
that is the key.
One
Two
Three
the trick is over and the spark ignites.
The Earth will one day turn to gold.
One day.
Stars sparkle in the night sky and
the pieces move about the chess board.
Only through capture is there hope for escape.
One day.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Laundry spinning and the humming of
other tenants.
I am drinking wine again.
There is a pattern.
Don't let anyone tell you differently.
The world is made up of shape and sounds and colors and
clocks ticking towards the end of another day.
If this poem is depressing I am sorry.
My sincerest apology to the past and the future.
The present isn't looking for another sin.
Always genuflect before entering this house,
the owner watches.
Do what makes you happy and
watch the TV fade to another show.
Yesterday the curtains refused to open,
the weight of the world is on their shoulders.
Forget the candles burning,
hot with anxiety and
go to sleep.
Frame the world in dark wood and ask the God,
any God,
for strength.
Laundry spinning and I rock in the chair,
thinking of eternity and how mice fit through such small holes.
Flip the channel.
Pull back the sheets.
This could very well be the end.
No mints on the pillows,
no courtesy calls.
I'll let you be the judge today and remember the shapes of clouds.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
There are stains on the walls and mattress.
The linens have more holes than a cheese grater.
Spent cigs burned into the dresser and
the light is dim.
Oh, Flophouse
you are truly great.
The Holy Bible would be ashamed.
The moans and groans fill the room with one night pleasure.
The walls are cracking and the carpet is cheap.
For a couple bucks,
there is a hour of
"What just happened?"
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
I walked by a man today.
Can you spare some change?
I laughed and continued through my day,
not realizing that the wine would go down this smoothly.
This makes me a bad person or
should I be ashamed of the world?
The walls are dotted with flowers and
peacocks.
When people say they need money to survive,
do they mean food and water?
Shelter and clothing?
Wine legs crawl down the glass.
Has the world come down to paper?
I roll a quarter across the hardwood to see how far it'll go.
**** these rules!
The game will be lost if we die romantics.
Jaded individuals wishing
they could remember the song that is buzzing through their brains.
I just keep walking towards my car.
It didn't hit me then when he said,
"I'm serious."
Another day amongst the rose and tulips,
all the flower bouquets at the store.
These soaked sins will catch up to us all.
I promise this isn't always my state of mind.
When I walk amongst the flowers and drink Merlot
the wind whips up the it's best face.
Sir,
I am truly sorry.
I was on my way to another place and
forgot my humanity at the door.
The day was bleak and
clouds painted the sky with trouble.
Cheers to the sun and moon.
Cheers to good wine.
Cheers to nightmares.
I hope this poem makes me remember.
Cheers to survival.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Paralyzed by fear I sit
in this damp and draft apartment.
The hard wood floors whip into
tidal waves of displeasure.
I study the dust
flying through vacant space and wonder
about thieves and paupers.
What happen to the shining chandelier?
Broken glass and there is light falling on my face.
The Jesters are dancing in the moonlight.
The curtain whips into a frenzy and
the music tells the story of my life.
A scream flies through the air and
lands on an empty chair.
Darkness for the sake of darkness.
When do demons get their rest?
I reach for the door and the **** melts
like chocolate in the summer sun.
A scream.
I turn around and the old man is back.
His crooked smile reminds me of peeling wallpaper.
A time long before now.
This moment is not the last, but not the first.
Life is but a middle ground.
All waves cease
and the ceiling fan paints a picture of defeat.
Why does beauty need a symbol?
All doors point to more doors that point to
more apartments.
Hallways filled with creatures and empty cans.
Do demons have demons?
I lay on the floor and
let it take me.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
I lean forward and
WHAM!
A poem.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
You listen.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
You stop listening.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
It fades to black.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
I don't know how to do this anymore.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
This stops making sense.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
This poem forgets it's path.
I lean forward and
WHAM!
Unfounded anxiety.
I lean forward and
catch myself.
For it is in darkness that
we truly appreciate the darkness.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC