Trying to find the words to say but I can't
I feel like I am drowning in my own words
Let me talk let me say what I want
I can talk just give me a minute to think
Times up  no I am ready to speak

You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river.
But I, with my hooded eyes, never thought
I was soaked in sunlight or shimmering in wealth
Until I found you sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling how the sun makes me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills.
The more you boasted, the more came to see
And now I know I am that swollen western stream,
A run of water muddied by your boots,
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
Winding south with the current down to the sea.
I am that western vein because I know
I give more than I take, and I know
I could never stick around for long.
You're like the others
Who held me in a pan and
Walked away with all I could give them.

There is never nothing new
Just rearrange things

I don’t write poems
I just remove the extra words that are in the way

Hold on to the words like whispers and shadows and wings
Recklessly insert adjectives
Tie it all to your delusions of profundity

Dig down deep for pain
no matter how senseless
Pick at your emotional scabs
Bleed

No one likes poetry
Constantly remind people of that
Tell them that you make it sound good to you and **** them
(Even though their ovation means everything)

Slip, dip and weave
With ambiguous wet dreams
Full lips and thick tongue
Mouthing…
Come
to an understanding
***** is much better than clean
Make it filthy
Soil it

Make it nostalgic
People need to be reassured that you were really ******* up as a kid
and that this poetry **** doesn’t just happen to people overnight

Make it esoteric
That way, when no one knows what the hell you are talking about,
you will have a good word to explain why

Say things that are so ill mannered that they are weighty
I will give you an example
“I’m not looking for a girl that is beautiful
I'm looking for one just barely ugly enough to **** me”

Incite large groups of people to *****

Get so personal that it gives people headaches

Expose yourself until everyone is embarrassed for you

Spew it all over the bar
In a drunken stupor
flaunt it lasciviously with your genitals
Pour yourself into reckless collisions
Drink from your soul until it rots your liver

Write until you want to **** yourself
then write about that

Make it as bitter as a Wal-mart associate
Make it so sweet she will swallow it all
before looking up at you with eyes like tiny puddles
To say, “that was beautiful”
(even though it was disgusting)

It should be raw
It should make you itch
It should be like rubbing up against it spreads it
It should be like VD

Make really long
Like it’s your *****
No,
Make it really, really long
Like its my *****

Make it rhyme
I mean don’t
Don’t

Don’t ever write another ******* poem
because I assure you
if I did not write it
than it must ****

and that is how poetry works

Michael L Sutter

We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.

Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.

It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.

Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.

I wanted to stop someone

on the street

and ask them.

I wanted to stop the next random person

and say, hey

can I ask you a question.

They would think

I wanted some change

to buy a little more alcohol

but I don’t really drink

and they would say sure you don’t, buddy

and maybe hand me some coins anyway

or just walk on

without another word or turn of their head

convincing themselves that my homeless state

is my own fault

and it is

but I am not even homeless

Not the way they think.



I want to ask them,

the ones reverently typing into their phones,

excuse me but what exactly does LOL mean

because I don’t hear anything.



I wanted to ask someone

but everyone seems in such a hurry

procuring caffeine infused drinks

with names that are so long

that you couldn’t fit them on billboards

but they rattle them off

with a fine, practiced precision of the tongue

to Baristas in green aprons

wearing Verona smiles,

their eyes glinting from farther away than

the place which the precious coffee whence came

and I want to ask

if this is maybe their own illusion,

one that mimics conversation,

making the five-something they pay

so ******* worth it.



I wanted to ask someone

sitting at their desk

incessantly checking their on-line profiles

and commenting on comments

made in response to the comment

they left on the post of a picture

that has captured a small snapshot

of some life

while they pretend to be working on something else

so that they can pay the ever increasing price of access

because its important to stay connected

and I bet if I asked them to list

six things they could never live without

surely Facebook is what they would list

right after water, food and God

but they just seem too busy which

I think is their intent.



I wanted to ask someone

but everyone seemed so focused

on getting home

so they could embrace their loved ones

on the sofa

and hold each other close

while they memorize the reruns of

some reality TV show,

while they don’t talk to each other,

being so engrossed, and

I would ask them

if I were in their living rooms

while they strain to hold their heavy lidded eyes

high

shooting their television with their ray guns

chanelling their TV gods,

chanting,

there’s nothing on,
there’s nothing on,
there’s nothing on.



I wanted to ask someone,

anyone,

if that girl was right

when she told me that

I speak too passionately when expressing a point

and if it really is good

to nod in agreement

with the things people say

like a parrot

as opposed to posing an argument

because she professes to know that

beneath my façade of not caring

that I do care if they accept me or not and

I really do want to know

if she is right and

I wanted to ask someone

but instead I decided to just keep it to myself

because deep down I do know

she was as wrong as

I always was

and if there is one thing that I did learn from her

it is that

if you cant fit it

in the one-hundred and sixty character space

of a text message

no one really wants to hear it anyway



so instead of starting a random conversation

with a stranger

I spent the morning memorizing acronyms

so that I might communicate more effectively

with people farther away than my voice.


Michael L Sutter

If only


we could start off with

some horrific argument,

the emotion subsiding.

We would curse less and less.

Words would fall back into our mouths.



Nothing to be forgiven or

forgotten

because it never quite happen.

We would hold each other

comforting hurts that

would always undo themselves.



Each kiss would make us

a little more giddy and

every day

you really would look

a little more pretty.



The way we touch

would be a sort of

un-touching

that would redefine anticipation

Every ****** intensifying,

escalating into that first feel,

first taste,

first breath of breathing



and then

finally

we would

walk backwards,

away from us,

it would feel

like we were

approaching something though,

like we might

care for one another

one day.

We would go away dreaming

the parts

we hadn’t quite discovered

before losing sight of one another

without any of the hurt or

remorse.



We would still be perfect somehow.

Loving in reverse
instead of backwards.


Michael L Sutter

HANGING WITH THE GALLO(W) BROS.

Coked out
Strung out
Flipped out
Had my share of friends
Blow their brains out

But still I went back out
And hung out with the Gallo brothers
And the drunks and the druggies and the homeless and the insane
Downtown at two in the morning.

Little did I know,
The Gallo Brothers were leading me to the gallows
Dead woman walking
Hanging out with them,
I was killing myself slowly
Too cowardly to flat out pull the trigger and get it done with,
I just squeezed it a bit
With two, three, four visits a day
From the dynamic dastardly duo.

Sometimes we hung out at Sutter Home
I remember the plastic thunk of bottles
In my purse on the way there.
The glass-laden Gallo Brothers sometimes made a bit too much noise
When stealth was called for,
So no one else would catch on to what I was doing.
So no one would catch onto the feelings I tried burying,
The demons I tried to drown,
Who were squeezing the life out of me
Feeling horrible, unworthy
Always going back on my misery.

Tremors, delirious
Delirium tremens
So shaking I can’t even double-fist
A single can of soda
I reached for the only help I’ll accept
I grabbed on tight to their hands
Even though my body turned it down
Rejecting, ejecting
Spewing, spitting their help
Back in their faces

“I wish I knew how to quit you”
My body told them

But the Brothers were a violent lot
Beating me into submission
When my mind was under their influence
Sometimes I’d do the craziest ****
For friends who didn’t know better,
Didn’t have my best interests at heart
Were -bent on my personal destruction.
Talk about peer pressure!
Doing, saying things I normally wouldn’t!
They made me go against the grain of everything decent and good about me.

Some friends just aren’t worth having
I learned that lesson the hard way
Cutting ties with the Gallo Brothers...
The hardest thing I ever did!
But... the only way to keep Dead Woman Walking
From becoming Dead Woman Hanging around
at the morgue instead of the Gallo Brothers’ house.

Another night left alone to ponder my life,
Another night to dream of a life that is not mine,
The darkness thickens around me as I try and grasp what my life has lead up to,
My mind spins uncontrollably as I contemplate the decisions I made,
I sit under the one poorly lit light left in my world,
As it flickers on and off each time threatening to never come back on,
Time is continuously wasted by my obsession to figure out what it all means,
And in this chaotic time of my life,
That’s when it hits me like the bolt of a rifle slamming into a bullet,
I know who I am inside,
I have always known,
My mind has been tricked,
Weighed down by the unforgiving nature of our society,
The flickering light in which I sit under burns brighter than ever,
Now not only lighting up the small corner I sit in but the whole room,
With the path I need to take finally lit by not a flickering light but by the sun,
I am finally ready to stand up* -Jeffrey Sutter

Nobody likes vultures.
Oh, but the eagle…
People ******* love eagles.

The vultures,
they tidy things up for us.
The stench of all that rotting,
decaying road-dead flesh,
all the life crushed beneath our wheels
when we were not paying attention,
when we were moving too fast,
they take care of that.
They clean up a mess.
How nice.

The eagle…
it kills ****.  
And in that we see such nobility and
Regalness.

I propose we change
the symbol
on all our currency,
in our courthouses,
on the t-shirts of so many
Wal-mart shoppers,
to the vulture

and then maybe
act the part

and when someone mentions the eagle…
we can turn our nose up at the thought.

Michael L Sutter

Her long brown hair hung
occluding forty-seven percent of her face
and her one eye
looked a little manic.

It was slow and sweet
for a while
but she had been
gradually gaining momentum.

I am watching her
carefully and
waiting, really
for that moment.

Suddenly she stops.

She raises her hands up
clenched.
It looks like she is going to
pull her own hair
and then her right fist
slams into my ribs
followed by a left
and a right and a left.
A barrage of little hurts
pouring out
machine gun frenzied.

She digs her nails into my chest,
her mouth is twisted,
her teeth clenched,
I can see muscles
in one jaw line twitch.
More hair falls over her
Countenance.
Her hips move furious  

and then
Sensuous wails of red light,
screams of sumptuous green,
bright yellow trembling,
and electric blue rippling
like bright neon

She cools and dims
she collapses
into me
sobbing
and I can feel
salty wet
itchy dripping down my skin

I cry too
never having seen someone
this...



Michael L Sutter