"clumpy" poems
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
Does anyone remember when
Baseball fields were full
When you always saw a hundred kids
When you drove by every school
Pick-up games of baseball
On every field you'd pass
But now the only scrub that's there
Is just overgrown, clumpy grass
I drove on by a park today
One that I used to play baseball on
The backstop was all broken
And the dugouts, they were gone
The field was full of garbage
Weeds and echos of the past
I remembered times between the lines
With a long forgotten cast
"HEY MISTER...MOVE...WE'RE PLAYING HERE"
"CAN'T YOU MOVE SO WE CAN PLAY?"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, SWING NOW BATTER"
"YOU'LL NOT GET A HIT TODAY"
I'd crossed into a baseball game
One from many years before
The ghosts of players long deceased
Were still playing here some more
I crossed back to the dugouts
Stepped behind and they were gone
But, as I stepped back to the old coaches box
I could hear their haunting song
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"
"HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SWING"
"WE WANT A PITCHER, NOT A BELLYITCHER"
I sat there watching the game take place
On a field not worth a ****
At least not in the present time
Then a kid hit a grand slam
He touched them all as he ran by
I saw it plain as day
The only thing I wished was that
I could join them and play
"HEY MISTER, STAND ON HOME PLATE"
"THEN COME WALK OUT TO THE MOUND"
"WE KNOW YOU WANT TO JOIN US"
"WE KNOW IT'S HALLOWED GROUND"
I did the tasks directed
I joined the players from ago
And as I ran up to the rubber
I went as fast as I could go
I could feel myself get younger
I didn't know if it was real
But, they say as you get older
You're just as young as you may feel
I pitched two good strong innings
Then the echoes chose to fade
I knew it was just imagination
Of long lost players I had made
"COME BACK AGAIN TOMORROW"
"YOU CAN THROW THAT PELLET KID!"
"WE'VE GOT TO GET ON HOME NOW"
and...go back...you know I did!
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven.
It is eight.
Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold —
a mash drowning raisins.
I pretend like I don’t see it.
But it calls my name as I start my day,
even though it looks repulsive
and I have avoided oatmeal since college.
I toast some bread.
She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention —
a reflex from my childhood.
Because as a child,
my parents said I had selective attention. —
sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t.
When they got divorced, it got worse.
I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow
and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me
separately,
What time I needed to leave?
and
If all my stuff was packed?
But all I kept thinking was:
Is that all there is?
You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids.
The thought of swallowing this is repulsive.
like leftover oatmeal, it stares me in the face.
I don't want it.
Most girls I know are raisins —
They already have their whole
wedding planned on Pinterest,
and their kids names picked out.
Everytime, I see engagements on FB,
I can't help but forsee divorce
and I wonder why people run for a
partner, kids, and a mortgage,
when in college their
ambitions were more.
I wonder when their
mid-life crisis will be,
or when they'll wake up
and want more than
9 to 5 to fulfill a lie
patriarchy put forth.
So I spread peanut butter on toast and
murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.”
My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee.
I eat my peanut butter sandwich.
I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question,
as she begins sentences like
"Once you get settled,
you'll want to look for someone..."
I tune out.
I don't have selective attention,
just the perception that
everyone is ignoring
this important question:
Is that all there is?
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
it's raining again.
It's been raining a lot lately.
I rush outside with jars usually,
tonight I sit under
and I fill myself up.
my hair clings to my neck
my face
my soul.
I close my eyes,
dipping myself in and out of
the sky's tears
in hopes that she'll never recognize
the difference if I were
to be extracting tears of my own.
There will soon be no distinction
between me and the wet.
catching a breath, I peer up
I blink so much I'm surprised I can find the clouds
They shield Gaia from the cold
I count the stars, though I mistake
the majority of raindrops for the plasma.
So I tilt down,
face to Hell
my hair curtains around me
as if a cat had torn them into nothing but
clumpy pieces of string,
and recognize the puddle of a person,
through blurry sockets,
that I can no longer hide from.
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests
Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep
Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high
Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting
Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Today she wore curlers in her hair
looking like cannons staked out ready to blare
Her lipstick and powder
like bouillabaisse chowder
And when she demanded a goodbye "peck"
I said "No way!" to the wreck
Which made her rear back and bray
"Go home then and kiss a stingray!"
She cackled and cackled
raising my hackles
Thinks she is the second Joan Rivers
but she only gives me the shivers
Soon I was fearing another fight nearing
seeing her witch's eyes evilly peering
And when she rose in those clumpy army boots
I heard an arpeggio of loud flatulent *****
Forcing me out the door needing fresh air
and away from her threatening glare
But one day I'll be back
once I can align myself on the proper son-in-law track
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
I dare you
I dare you my son
To take off that faulty mask
and show your true colors
For you are no special god
no special creature at all
You made me believe in
hope, destiney, love at first sight
But I guess believing
is not worth knowing
until that mask has been
torn upon your face;
Glowing below the moonlight
To show the world
your monstrous form
My heart has been shattered
into thousands of pieces
But you won't dare bother
to pick them up
To be that brave warrior
And clean up the horror
you have thrusted upon me
I used to look into your eyes
And see the heavens
shining from above
Giving hope to all
my weaknesses in life
But now all I see is a ***** mask
Filled with unwanted
critters and clumpy dirt
You may as well love me
But I certainly
do not love you back
Knowing that wonderous mask
appeals to your face
Silence has faded out now
Let go of my hand
And let my heart
****** to the ground
Watching me sink
in the hurricane of my wonders
Dont follow me
Don't try to come back
Because now I see your true colors;
Black and white
No life
Just a prison
Captivated by torn walls
I loved you
I will always love you
But as long as that mask
is thrown on your face
My heart will never come
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Tonight I saw the fullest
Moon, there were no
Shadows or pock marks on her
Face, beauty lune
Streaming silvery ribbons
Through the clumpy clouds
Through the night
Through my path, and me
And I was
In that moment
Fleeting and electric
Lucid and apologetic
Empty lunged and
Satisfied
In that Pompeii moment
I was not dead, or dying, but
Preserved
In that mercury, I felt tomorrow
In that quicksilver, I told
God my plans, and
Together, we
Wept
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
I walk amongst the beautiful people
hide my face within the shadows around,
with lungs of rubber and skin that's latex
they drift about our world without a sound
[so deliciously dark
twisted and vile
they grin from faces ghastly
rotting and puerile]
formerly they were perfect humans
whose selfishness strived for more,
so they re-constructed their bodies and faces
using skin harvested from the dead and poor
[bullet wounds
gunshot holes
maggots and lice thriving
between fleshy folds]
organs replaced with mechanical components
immortality sewn together with surgical stitches,
greed and jealousy bloomed inside our narrow minds
thus we began practicing the work of witches
but the stolen skin rotted upon their ancient bodies
leaving their yellowing, pestilent, bones bare -
to defy death plastic and rubber were used as replacements
but of mortality they were now forever aware
[clumpy fingers, bloodshot eyes
midnight dreams plagued with their shrieking cries]
for upon the pursuit of immortal living
we lost the people we once used to be -
now I flee their hungry gazes and grabbing fingers
living only with empty shadows for bittersweet company.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
Slowly burning it glazes my eyes
a sorrow so pitiful, quietly it cries
excitement subdued, older but not ready,
my mind exhausted as I go on twenty
I feel shattered, these past years I resent -
a chance to live life, but in mundanity they were spent
'tis only now that I can see those wasted years
older and wiser and closer to my fears
my ego blames others, alas the fault lies with myself
insecure, selfish and obsessed with wealth,
serendipity being the most lethal disease
becoming the recluse I strived so hard to appease
at times I'm angry, the fury both caustic and draining
and if it's not my hygiene it's my love that is waning
blood black, clumpy and running thicker
soul cold-hearted, callous, self-centred and bitter
I care about nothing, no one, only about how it all could've been better
oh why should looking back make my heart heavier?
March 12th 1996, the day I started my graceless fall
this Saturday I'll be 20
but I simply don't want to be older at all.
20 years wasted.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
You were uncomfortable in the car. Mentally, and then physically. Your thoughts and stomach churning, your throat tight. Your body yearning to expel what you'd consumed. But nothing more than 30 minutes of discomfort, that's all. You laughed through it, comforted a friend. You sat with discomfort and then turned the page. Onto the next...
You smiled a lot. You bounded up boulders, sure of your footing. Or rather, never unsure of your footing. You moved in a pack and then alone on your own path. The rocks were beautiful up close, swirling and sparkling, embedded with coral and shells. The people around you made you happy and the sun made you happy, in that pool of warmth on top of the rocks. You wanted music, but when it was not there, the sound of silence was beautiful too. Or the sound of the desert, which is not exactly silent but something close.
The sight of the world kept hitting you in the chest. Literally breathtaking. And each time a new wave of gratitude would hit, but also some sadness. Why would you EVER give up your lucky existence in this beautiful place? What stupid, surface-level **** would make you want to do that?
Your friends needed you at one point, and you realized how much you meant to them and they to you. Ali crying broke your heart. You couldn't stand the thought of any one of them feeling alone. You thought and said, "We're all alone together," which is a cheesy line from a song that rang especially true. As scary as it is to be alone, we're all here together, separately, but to support one another.
You sat in a huddle on the edge of the world with people you loved so dearly and laughed and hugged and cried and realized the rest is just ********
And you thought maybe all that matters is doing it all before you die and love, and maybe love is God.
Everyone reconvened and walked down a path in a big clumpy line through massive rocks and Dr. Seuss trees with music echoing through the canyon. We stopped and danced and took our shoes off in solidarity with Ruby. It was cold, but I don't think anyone was ready to leave, despite being 20 feet from the parking lot. So we danced barefoot till the sun disappeared.
Be grateful, love, and all the rest is ********
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 12:50 PM UTC
a few clumpy eye lashes glued by tears to a faded pillow
a book hanging halfway off of the dresser,
page 12
a water spotted wine glass with a faded purple stain
this is what heartbreak looks like
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
as i drive away from the cigarette town where my tattoo and blue mascara relatives stay i take off my yellow shades and sputter, blowing away the curry-clumpy feeling in my lungs that whispers you are all the same .
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
I was born with the sun shining upon my skin
I was born into a world saturated with sin
pestilence shone, through his void grinned
for the second I broke from the womb the sky above dimmed
birthed not from a mother but a sick man
my coming heralded an end, the age of apostasy began -
those I loved killed by the evil inside
cursed by a Devils backbone, there was no where to hide
[but inside their minds]
now I live with the beautiful people and their screeching cries
I avoid their clumpy fingers, their black empty eyes,
vying for flesh and choking upon lungs of rubber
floating with a ghastly gracefulness that makes the north wind shudder
[bullet wounds
gunshot holes -]
with the devil inside I know only fear
knowing nothing of love, my soul bedridden and queer -
[maggots and live thriving
between fleshy folds]
in the distance a woman cries, piercing the silence like a bell
surely that can't be -
surely that can't be the scent of *** I smell?
Alas 'twas only wishful thinking, my pretence playing unfair,
the beautiful people finally had prey and were stripping her bones bare -
ruthless, ecstatic, bodies twisted and vile
clutching strips of flesh only then did they laugh and smile.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
Suddenly, I find myself collecting my past in fist-fulls
wondering why it was all so easy to forget;
how all these memories
managed to burrow beneath
my clumpy brain and remain there,
unharmed yet harmful.
I envy you
silly boy, and your consistent emptiness--
How is it that you are free from your past
while mine begs for forgiveness?
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
breaking out of a broken home
misery makes for interesting bedfellows
the project blocks shrink in the distance
while he makes his way for parts unknown
thinkin about being full grown
odd jobs fill the lonely days
and hunger pains give the night hours life
looking out from a tattered box
understanding all his dreams are blown
wishing he was really full grown
on an oil crew just outside of Gnome
spring in Alaska so nice and mellow
attempting to make a living wage, meeting resistance
feeling like he is all alone
knowing he is not full grown
on his knees he sits and prays
to grant him happiness, to take a wife
without a key, he picks the locks
like a mighty bird already flown
he waits and waits to be full grown
through his matted hair he pulls a comb
the tangles cause him to scream and bellow
but he doesn’t give up relaying on his persistence
never realizing he is completely owned
which is the year he becomes full grown
on the soft grass he stares and lays
looking back on the years of strife
imagining himself free like the Fox
escaping his lips, a defeated moan
I may not live long enough to be full grown
in a nice wool suit sitting by the phone
looking out at the daffodils blooming yellow
a flash of realization hits him in an instance
all I do is **** and groan
waiting to be told that I am full grown
peace surrounds him and the feeling stays
rest finds him, granting and end to his life
buried now under clumpy dirt and rocks
he died as he lived without ever getting the bone
not really knowing he was always full grown
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
I add insult to injury and bleed into the glass
they've starved this world and left me 'til last,
only through alcohol and drugs can I truly escape
but now I sit here knowing it's all too little, too late,
I tried curing them with injections of compassion and remorse
alas they only mocked me with smiles that were forced,
with greedy eyes that lingered upon my untainted flesh
'twas clear their resentment was caustic, broodingly fresh
hating their bodies and all that could be seen
so precociously perfect, but with souls disgustingly unclean
infected with an obsession mutating into disease
humanity swallowed by the cravings they strived to appease
they are the Beautiful People, yes I have spoken of them before,
but I must mention their ghastly existence once forever more,
for now I have been abandoned in this world barren and dead
my body digests itself as my nose and ears drip red
I'm not well, my skin has grown pallid and lumpy
my fingers twisted, knobbly and clumpy
they scream in the night, they scream in my head
my mind polluted with the paranoia the drugs have bred //--
*[come with me, take my hand
I will lead you to the promised land]*
wind howling, breathing heavy, lazy
visions of hope going increasing hazy //--
oh please-
please-
listen to me before my conscience fully dies
whatever you do //-
DON'T LOOK INTO THEIR EYES!
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
overgrown logging road
clumpy grass hiding gravel pathways
and crushed rock culverts
soft mosses in shady patches
allow momentary peace
for worn shoes and blistered feet
hiking to the summit
seeking serenity –
silent horizon sits to the left
mocking the dust
as the evening sun dips
in a steady display of grandiose
color melding
splashing across the western Oregon skies –
pattering of fluffy rabbits in the underbrush
followed by the far off whistle of a bull elk
chickadee’s flutter and sing
as I quietly experience the forest
in all is undisturbed glory –
flash catches my eye
drawing me back to the present moment
four-point in velvet sizes me up
snorting unease
showing interest
as ears twitch
matching a wet black nose
lifetimes pass as we
caught in each other’s gaze
contemplate the moment
one with nature achieved –
in an instant
muscles coil and legs spring forth
majesty crashes
through ferns and yearling maples
covered by a canopy of hundred year old fir trees
wiping sweat from my brow
and a tear from my eye
I continue down the old mountain road
wondering who will share my space next –
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
Out of the window,
They fall like slush
White and clumpy.
They are bonded by their freezed-wet flesh.
They gather and fall
Gather and fall.
The buildings loom in winter fog
That rises and stalls
And like my mood,
I am foreboding.
I wish it could come and go
This winter-ous fog
This smog of doom
The stale flesh, the memory that
Broods.
And in my head, it a beehive,
That drills holes in two.
And like the other day,
I decided to do
The very act I did
At fourteen
Perched on my tongue
Two by two
The same time the german elder
Told the same joke of the train
That stops at the station
Two and to.
If I could die, I would have done it
Swiftly and true.
But I cower and I cower and I cower.
And like the snow out the window,
I disappear in twirling crystalline cotton
That falls into the same
abyssal, black hue.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 11:42 PM UTC