"chippers" poems
Locked from the top
is a Tuesday night rockstar
cut on the weeds and steam
off of cars speeding by. Tearing off the graceful bonds
called bone sweet
carving flesh pulp
strange and the blood
candy cane ruby red
to the grass bedding below.
Fast lane puppets
caught at lights six miles later. Five year old wails
about God pimping coke addicts with
gloves on,
gloves off,
pounding on asphalt doors
hiding camel toe shots--it's raining inside. Her pants are down
in the gutter--scene on TV, reality on fire.
Living in tail lights
till the red blushes
at the cute landlord watching the gore
past the building dishes and shot glass
eyes burned out of lost friends
from staring at blown bulbs.
Mumbling nirvana crawling like beetles
from tripping lungs
taking the same bible spine
away from yesterday. The junk that tickles,
makes the moon spin,
mad women dance
in the bankrupt birth
of humid H-bombs.
Shovels scoop up gravy
for wood chippers, the springs of History
foaming at the mouth,
shredded to delicate words such as 'fault'
'blame', 'regret'.
The stoop kids play card games as the sirens wail
and another turn passes.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Somewhere underneath the rubble a century old soul lies.
Hammers pound, wood-chippers whir.
A chaotic landfill of past, present, and future.
Welcome to my mind.
The signs prohibit visitors and many don't realize the rusted metal warnings are only guises.
With palms aching and restless feet, you crawl over the shattered sky to find me.
Here,
we can pretend to care about life's many quandries together.
Dig underneath the limestone with me,
take off your coat and stay a while.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
when the cold comes
when blinking hurts
when the wind chisels
through storm windows
and cleaves the rafters
when your breath cracks
when the ground is too
hard to dig another grave
it’s time
to grab your bag of tools
picks and saws and chippers
it’s time
to find yourself
a canyon of ice
to carve yourself
a bitter monument
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I feel like an incomplete puzzle,
Clumsy waltzing in a field of wood chippers.
I don't just fall to pieces, I shred.
I tear and bleed, most importantly I hurt.
**** I hurt.
I've never been full,
I've never seen the bigger picture.
Always out of reach, lacking perspective.
As my own world is ripped apart,
I further delve into gnashing teeth of hell.
But it's not just mine, this shared damnation,
Leaves us all to rot.
I've no clever line to sum it all up,
I've lost the words which sing of hope.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
this won't be re-written,
though it'll be felt fair enough.
it'll hardly last at all,
with luck, it'll go down rough.
the paint, I'll waste on chippers,
the words, I'll waste on time.
the love, I'll serve with clippers,
my whiskey will serve your wine.
I'll knot my hands with good-ends,
"dream fingers, of skin, and spine"
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:22 AM UTC
My thoughts are running, on an unstationed path.
My mouth is cunning, , im coughing tar, terribly rough black.
I smell like a bag of ******* chippers,
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
An AI fear ifier, launched on Joe Rogan,
ALARM WOLVES LOOSE EATER ROBOTS ON FLOCK ALARM,
naw, out here, on the border, well,
watch fargo, joe, we have chippers, big chippers and
plenty of retards to run them. We use AI to foment joy juice.
Don't play been there done that with me.
Money, these guys believe, as takers have told them,
no givers have shown them grace
for grace,
you want it, get it, that's the secret,
slow and steady wins the race, to get old
you gotta live this long
that's a song,
you can humm along,
any good deed is tainted by money love lessons
learned under weight of student loans
guaranteed, student for ever or
if high school was your limit, we got sports, you can watch
and feel a weness in the strength of Sunday Gladiators,
but war is unthinkable here,
on this level of reality, mere words may **** a will,
but not an actual made way,
as in made man in the mafia movies, a way, once made
remains. Siempre phibeta or worse. Life won, that's how this was done.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
you and i've been through a lot in such a little time
but if there's one thing you and i know, that's how it goes in life
we've seen things no one should see, been places no one should go
that's how i know we're strong enough to crawl out of this hole
we've been put through wood chippers, we can handle busted knees
i'll hold onto you if you'll hold onto me
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:23 AM UTC