From Summer/Autumn 2009

 
Blades of grass that

Must have been people whipped at the fence posts,

And standing up—a reflection of cloud in a windshield

Smiled at me.

Sitting still, shadows shaved the faces of objects,

And a downy seed glided on the breeze.  I

Dug in the dirt, and brought creatures home.

Just jotted lines in my brain—I haven’t “written”

In days.

Just tossing up a paper ball, waiting for the next

Tree to grow.

*

Life in the click of a locking door—

Cold static bliss in the bereavement of meaning,

Bidding farewell to the moment, embarking on eternity

Naked and eating potato chips,

Pushing past salt-swollen lips in blue light in one of suburbia’s

Lost rooms,

      Polished off with Spanish olives.  You’ll eat from this jar

           ‘Till you sleep.

Pimiento e n ded

                 G r e e n

*

Meet and greet and eat and drink.  Rig a

     Wish, and watch the

Sighs.

Listen laughter likes itself, hates its

     Awkward cousin

Coming out.            Stand up.            Make a

           Man.                  Take a woman

For a hand walk.                                    The wick is burning.

                 I’m spending my candle, and still

                             I ask:

     When two dynamite minds

           Collide,

                             What happens?

*

…Said the caffeine dependent obsessive compulsive
           to himself

But I don’t wanna be naked

And making my rounds in a room second floor,

Bare window blocked only by

A broadly branching tree, screaming

Children on the ground.

But this is a happily leaping demon

I allow,            so I can list my

Singing angel muse,

Though she weep a lazy day.

…Push, shove.            Give, take.

Your picture goes far beyond a mirror, but my piece is

           Merely an echo.

Just a cavey voice.                        Pfffffffff.

Where’s my knife?            Where’s my wallet?  Will a lake

                 Lap at a shore?      Sure.            Shar—share—

--What?

Soul muse?  Solid muse?  Heart muse?  Hurt muse?  Broke muse?  Clock muse?

           --FUCK muse?

Let’s take a day,

                       Mock a few.

*

Tired, open door,

Another dim, gray room.

The darkness rests there, free,

In lieu of few

     Long glances.

Rant your two cents on the street

     To those in need.

Feed them.  Clothe them.  Love them.  Move them

     Farther.

If it all comes down to flowers plucked in full bloom,

     Being stared at in a vase,

You are welcome here, to bleed your boredom out with me,

     In my dim gray rooms,

Where gray water flows

     From a tap in the kitchen,

A light is turned on

     At night,

And the darkness in the doorway is

     Well known and ignored.

*

Conscience shattered

Scrapes my brain clean

God’s

Cattle prod stabs me

Into corners

No return ‘til I am tossed

Awareness is            a rustle in leaves

And pins that clatter

Scattered grains of truth divided,

Each coming back to claim sovereignty,

After telling their stories, give way

To the next grain

“Altered”            was

The salted, spicy plate of life            Now,

*

Who writes for

Profit

Philosophy

Fun

A reason to say there is meaning?

In this gray, lentil soup season of

Nothing matters,

Every manic whim has wings.

But who will read miscellaneous lines for

Entertainment

Enlightenment

Exhaustion?

Enlightening entertainment sputtered out

Wasted—

Gutters taking rain from the heavens

Spit out reality.

When he shouted,

His nose threw a streak of blood.

Mother asked me my favorite

Comfort food,

Eating and speaking in that

“I wanna sell you something” tone

I’m never in the mood for.

“Smooth tables,”

I considered saying but knew better.

All gathered ‘round now,

Middle day, some

Social holiday meal.

Someone tells a story about

The acquisition of the food.

Someone else agrees it was

Quite a catch.

Now the who’s news is who’s—

“I just put out my seventh self-published book,

Just the other week,” I

Feel like relaying, but I—

*

My ass really

Breaks-in my chair

And my jaws really nail

My teeth deeper into my gums as

My middle finger stabs my computer’s

On switch, a little too sharply, which jabs into

The face of my desk, which gives a creaky plea for mercy.

These beatings are all unintended.  Still, I must heal all

My victims.

*

The river was tainted.

The posture was slanted.

The portrait was painted on mud-colored canvas.

The mantras that hung in the air were out of

     Tune

     Time

     And ear.

No one cared.

    They didn’t care.

They shared their selves with other shelf-lifers,

And rejoiced as they

     Stared into their futures in their toilets.

*

And the insanity
beats its bones on the
dining room floor of an
empty house.  But oh, it knows
how to attract a man and a mouse.
And even when it leaves for the day,
it keeps itself tethered by a spider silk-strong thread.
It has a hold.  But it’s not so bold.  Here in the cold, it’s just
milking the dead for the good            old            days
back again and again and      to stay            ever crazy
over again            over easy            dazed          dozing

*

Metal clanks on metal.

Water falls on ground, kissing

Concrete, swallowed by the softening soil, embraced

By happy grass—yes, grass is happy when it rains

In moderation.

Now the sun sulks against an admonished

Blue sky, having not been allowed to show itself

‘Til now,

As it turns in for an autumnal bed-time.

My head has cooled with the autumn chill,

But still feels the speed of every season.

But if I was drowning in the shallow charm of

Rippling ponds on concrete, what would you do?

I have reveled as I filled with the hollow sound of metal and wind.  What would you

Have said?            --It doesn’t matter now.

It will again.

*

Thus resigned to remain

     dead

to the world, he

     laughs in the face of the

simplicity of what he must do.

     But oh,

it’s a broad terrain, the places

     his brain has been,

with different truths for different paths—

     the pieces of his self are

scattered and elusive creatures.  He must

     hunt himself down—

thus he speaks to you now in several voices.

     Oh, he’s not searching for himself, he knows himself well.

He’s just

     hard to keep track of.

*

Go, go crap on yourself.

Crap on yourself and give me dividends.

I either can’t or won’t fix you yet,

and you’re not ready for the public eye.

“Got nothing”            again.  So someone take me

across this terrain, open or wooded, nature-wise or

city-wild, ‘cause I’m sitting here, no meaning, need a break from

nothing.  Let reality            be real            and slide by,

‘cause while I’m here, it’s still and stale.      You haven’t seen me in a while.

Am I pale—I can’t tell—from staying in so long?

Then let’s get out and on with it!  I’m a vampire for my own blood.

Take me.  Let me see the light of

night

and life.

*

They were furious moments.

Now he can stick his luxuriously dry nose up

at them.

He’s sofa-floating, on a davenport adventure,

soda-like memories bubbling up in a metal space.

He turns on the TV, bites into a sausage/peperoncini sandwich,

the spice/juice mixture crunching with excitement, then lingering

to a slumber in his mouth, and he within the cloud of light,

splashing dull happiness on the walls, and

no one else knows,      through the thick black curtains.

And in the blue/gray stream of time accompanied, he

is entertained.

*

Medicine.

Gently now.

Flowers grace the

white windowsill.

What’s within this edifice?

What’s behind its pretty face of

bricks and mortar?

Artifice.

Sincerity.

Hearts on fire.

Hearts in water.

Heads in a glass.

Hiding out.

--Hitch a ditcher’s cart.
 Let’s go.

Delusions, cheap

plays on words, transparent

illusions.      --It makes no sense.

It isn’t deep.  Just      finger painting.

     --I don’t understand.

It isn’t profound.  Just            window dressing.

It passes the time      in a locked life.      Not

lifting spirits.  Not            spiraling down

or out.            Tightly controlled.

He fell taking a leap of faith.

Tossed his crown.

Pricked his fingers.  Found

nothing.      Naked within.

Made a new man based on old clothes.

Saw his plans fall through.

Now he’s back again.

*

Empty Tupperware burps on a counter.

It eats sleep and unwant.

A man screams and beats a machine.

It listens.

Needs reminders.

The simmering cranberries are bubbly, but the

Goose bites.

*

A maybe poem, more or less…

It’s a sausage in a bag.

In a fridge.

On glass.

Plastered on a sandwich.

Chewed.

Swallowed.
     
Sat.

Shat.

     Swallowed again.

*

My muse is like

regurgitated roses.

*

She’s holding out hope that I will one day find

what makes me happy.  I’m

sitting on a toilet, clenching my hair in my fists,

quietly laughing.

She calls me a poet.  I call me a

person

who’s self-published several books

of maybe crap.

If I could leave one message for others in my predicament,

I believe it would be:

Don’t let paradise burn you.

*

Many people in the world

     do just what they want.

Step out into this massive intertwining jungle,

     never know what goes on within

everyone’s private little tree trunk.

     --Shrunk to your own mind,

           sunk into your own devices,

     never care what vices are sated,

           never worry the kindnesses punished,

carry no load

     and a load will be given.

           Within,      some vices are fine ‘til the end.  Society

                 doesn’t matter

                       would yawn.

You are fine.

     You are running

           to an end.

                 So come to the end of this

                       cum.

                             It doesn’t matter.

*

Walking through the suburb jungle,

mad for the sidewalk,

burping in obscurity,

hot for cold wire fences,

dancing along the establishment’s edge,

pushing fingers through the holes

in the mask of the field,

bearded with grass,

pimpled with mud.

Want to slide inside and slip

and skip and play and rumble with myself,

drink a can and laugh and belch and melt in the cold,

make a ruckus no one else can hear,

wreck around the place, and play the case of the man

without any care

or fear

or sadness.

*

I’m walking with a broomstick as a

walking stick

through the hallway.

Just      because.

Maybe later take a walk to the store

for some spoons.

Because

I could use them.

Whilst I stir the sty in my hole,

pour another pot of tea through the void

of my soul.

The gray void in the driveway is

lovely.

The empty faces between the trees are

sweet stares of serenity.

In the little field by the driveway, seven happy

feeding sparrows in a row, hanging by a rope

that’s sure to hold.

And I sleep and wake and sail

through cycling shades.  My bed and my head

are both unmade, but my mind’s made up

to keep sailing along until the spinning stops.

*

I’m a CrapWriter!  Yeah!

Why are you so happy?

I’ve just had a      refried      epiphany.

(Or, rather, I am reiterating—or, rather,

I have reaffirmed

my status.)

I like the title.  It grants me a freedom

many may never know.

When I write I try

I fail

I don’t cry.

If you are not proud and you

really don’t care,

you can be a crapwriter, too.

You can be prolific, friends and enemies.

*

The going-nowhere poem

is the only one I have left,

the truest form I can fit into,

and the cleanest cloth in my wardrobe, bereft of

well-meaning deceit, and designs to draw people in.

The opiate of hope

no longer in my veins,

I’ll no longer hold open the door,

knowing I can’t hide my stains.

The odor that I wear again

would drive your love away.

Just leave what you wanted to show at the door.

There’s nothing more to say.

*