"poled" poems
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
I was lying in the dark
the floor was cold
the water pool marked
not only my clothes
but also the moment
in which this is told
the moment in wich
my small life got poled.
I was told it would burn my eyes
I was told to open them
but the gap I created
was not known to man
that liquid brought sharp pain
pain like acid tears, no like acid rain
hitting down my eye globe
whipping down my sight code
ripping down the kicking dawn
that was just my inside load.
Now I see a light tho'
I think, when I see fights, "go"
Because running away from
day to day insn't right... no...
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
There was a bug
on a rug
that they swept over.
He rolled
And he poled
To get up over
The rug
That the bug
was swept over.
Side to side
He twisted
By and and by
He had lifted
Up off of the blasted
Rug that had got him
So thwarted.
There are things
Beyond our control
Things that stifle
No matter the trifle
Things that don't make sense at all.
Just remember the bug
That was swept onto the rug
Wriggle and writhe
Don't settle, you'll die
Keep trying like the bug on the rug
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Shiva
with long poled chainsaw
demon like
he wields
havoc
reducing my Kali
to a goddess with no hands
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
At this moment, not precisely, this period in time where your entire life falls into place and simultaneously breaking into ruins at the pace that it should; you’re neither happy nor sad, nor both, nor nothing at all; that feeling as though you are that repelling force between two similar-poled magnets, that infinite void; your head is a hoarder’s home – mess; yet also in complete sobriety you’re taking figurative steps into a whole new beginning every waking moment being utterly oblivious/conscious to the idea of flawed reality; you just don’t know if this is considered life, or lack thereof.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC