So Long

Another one about leaving!



I'm off, out of this place of heartache and loss.
I know, pain finds you anywhere--
and what would I be without it?
But I want a fresh start, a clean slate,
something new to sate my appetite for change,
to keep me sane.
I'm headed for bigger things
than I ever had here,
and who knows?
Maybe a year or two down the road,
I'll be back,
a stranger in my own town,
to walk the streets I once knew,
and find some sense of peace,
free of the past.
For now, I'm out,
giving the ghosts the slip,
and leaving yesterday in a storage locker
that I won't pay the bills on.

Read more!

[the lie speaks]

A word acrostic.



I always knew the truth: it
was nothing,
just soft words,
a way to pass the time,
pretty little
lie, offered up
sweetly and smiling,
spoken gently
(and never a syllable true),
conveniently paced to my breathing,
forgotten without missing a beat.
An answer falls from
unwilling lips: just a
ghost, I try to
erase you from
me, and begin to succeed;
so go ahead, walk away,
I know I
can breathe without you, and I'm
finally learning to
sleep alone.
Read more!

Confucius says


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
mixed sex and pills
makes for tired orgasm Read more!

ending to a recent poem

I'll take my frustrated lust to the land of silence,
soak my poems in the blood of silence,
that light I see, goin' down the tubes
is the great blank rage of silence.
I shall tarry there,
I shall never have a home


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Read more!

Z

stupid boys, anyway...



I didn't mean it--
a sweet, lilting lie
of a not-quite-promise,
nothing to call our own,
just a gentle, silent knowledge
that you were mine,
without the painful
claustrophobic strings
and locked doors.
It was true--
that I'm happy you found
someone to fill your bed
(and only yours).
But somehow, beneath the smile,
I am bitter, and fragile, and sore,
abandoned, all because
I won't make vows
I know I can't keep.
And I don't regret
not giving you comfortable words
that mean nothing;
I kept my honor,
though it broke my heart...
but you will be missed.

Read more!

late night thoughts

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
using robyn's internet
she sleeps
the moon's tears are orange
and my feet stink from too much work
yet I live to suffer and cum again
in the foul-mouthed morning
i write out of an illness place
mentally alive, dead, in between
in the midst of
the lifting of this beer can
to my mouth
and my rotting tooth howls
and my boner throbs
thanks for lisyening
Read more!

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


the tide changes again
left sitting here wondering
drowning in moscato Read more!

[slippery when wet]

Tuesday disappeared
in a wall of water and sound,
a pounding from sources useen
but real.
Have you ever tasted faith?
Bittersweet with apprehension
and promise.
A new day,
a different way,
but be sure to change the lightbulbs,
or you'll stumble in the dark.
The sun didn't rise;
bathed in filtered, soggy white,
I stretched through pain
and sang along
to someone else's Hurt,
just waiting to exchange
one skyline for another.

Read more!

dance your life away-

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


*
i put moonboots on
taken afar to a place
where pain fades away Read more!

When the Damned Ponder

What are these tangled words
but the musings of the lost?
Bone weary and tempest-tossed,
confusing thoughts;
run in place, watch every face
become familiar, however strange.
Each rehearsed expression
predicted with precision
as structure becomes a prison,
a poison that rots from the inside.
High tides of pride,
empty promises and disguised lies,
with every clone caught up in
dreams of individuality.
Back to reality, real mediocrity,
comedic tragedy:
self-made chains and
willfully chosen ignorance.
I lock these lines on pages
that age with bad grace,
sounding staged and overplayed,
hidden away with all false prophecies,
remaining only as a vague sense of apprehension
in the space between waking and sleep.
Read more!

wanton ardor when you are away
pulling hairs when you are near
heavy room spins when you are in it
i am glad to have found sanctuary





Read more!

[beyond] Ashes to Ashes

Toxic beauty, heart beating
to a rhythm of destruction:
with precision and grace
lay waste to reason.

With your gentle smile
that speaks of the end,
captivate the mind;
eviscerate the soul.

Our eyes upturned, we wait
in the face of perfect chaos
to be chosen for glory, for pain,
for your infernal gaze;

make me immortal--
make me something more.
Read more!

Usher In the Fall

Just the requisite fall poem...



Filtered rays
murmur nothing of commitment
in a voice like, "wait, wait"--
gently chiding,
but with never a promise.
Through soft maybe and secret smile,
vacillating skies
master the art of perhaps.
Read more!

freak at table 52 you are not a pimp-

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


you laugh much too loud
clad in gold polyester
please put your hand down

Read more!

Chasing Sirens

Time's meaning erased, embracing fantasy:
fiery tails traced 'cross skies, disgraced
in mind's eye by
beauty beheld and held gently, moments well spent
reminiscing. List'ning, expectant--
an echo, mirror image, found reluctant, but willing,
lusting trustingly, filling cracks
with the balm of your smile;
calm descends, mending rifts
in defenses long untended. Intentions
be damned, I want this;
from the first kiss, I was yours.
So ruin me, fine-tune the machine of yourself
for destruction and break me;
shattered and aching, I wait, impatiently pacing
the corridors of mem'ry, unfailingly
brilliant and blinding, spell-binding:
I stand entranced.
You've always known how to own me.
So reach out and take what is yours
for the breaking, remake me
from ashes and pain, and all that remains
will be stained with perfection,
a beautifully tainted refrain.
Read more!

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


courting disaster
feel as though ive been scolded
bleeding heart quashed

Read more!

Rebuttal

We, who love words,
love less, our fellowman.

Strive harder to find a rhyme
a verse,
a structure on which to hang our pained expression
and knowledge gained through heartbreak
and years of ache, and toil…

How harshly then, do we judge those who,
like ourselves
seek only to bind themselves to something meaningful—

To shed some unwanted experience,
some unrealized dream, or unrequited love…

We are all glaringly imperfect;
Our imperfections, exposed, by how we reveal ourselves
through our opinions of others.

He, like you, is trying.

He shares a similar doubt,
displays a similar arrogance.

What we dislike in others, is what we truly despise in ourselves.
Let us look not then, upon the stain of imperfection,
But upon the worthiness of the effort;
Knowing well that,
Although he may not have arrived,
He has begun the journey, and has explored some interesting vistas.

He has reached deep in his heart and found something of value
to share with the unforgiving world.

He has added to our lives,
and has not taken from it.

In this, he has shown us the greatness of goodness:
That the hurt know how to love despite the hurting,
That the imperfect have an appreciation for perfection,
And that a poet who appears to write only for himself,
can elicit some powerful emotions and reveal our hidden prejudices. Read more!

good riddance

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


sunset yen is gone
fade into the horizon
as quick as it came

Read more!

ghosts

*







i put them to bed.
again, time and time again
restless they come near
Read more!

****






painfully star crossed
run thru garden of eden
open pandoras box






Read more!

****


Lights darken, fade and burn out in a desolate city.
city we once ruled.
dreams of running away quashed also,
life got in the way of what i saw as perfection.
everyone else saw shit in your eyes .
terrible no one has let go of that idea.
as i'm sure you have mended quite nicely-
i wish i wasnt wrong but i'm sure i could be




Read more!

sorry, I've been busy, will post soon!

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

***


this late in the year
team, we're behind the eight ball
sorry i slacked

stats: last year: 404 this year: 75 Read more!

***






time passes slowly
no deep convo without you
grateful to catch up



Read more!

***
trading haiku fun
with people unknown to me
made alive by mike Read more!

There's Beauty In The Blackness of Her Fragile Flesh...

There's beauty in the blackness of her fragile flesh.
There's beauty in the whiteness of her eyes.
There's beauty in her voice of gentle waters.
And beauty in her breathing, as she lies
Beside me—as the night gives way to morning,
And the dawn creeps up to find me in her arms
Knowing well, that I must leave before the morning
Sun disturbs her from the sleep almost denied.

And I know now, deep inside, how much I'll miss her.
But the sun will rise to find me far away,
For the road outside commands me like a magnet—
And I'll find another love along the way...
But my heart beats like a trouble-laden river
For the sweetness of her touch is unsurpassed.
And the sweetness of the heart that beats within her,
Leaves me troubled; as I look upon her eyes

Closed in stillness: as she dreams of me, unknowing
Of the force outside commanding me to go—
And to break the gentle heart of my beloved,
'fore the redness of the eastern sky makes known.
And I've not much time to question what I'm doing.
And I've not much time to answer questions "Why?"
And I've not the strength to leave her while she's watching—
So I'll leave her as she dreams of me tonight. Read more!

When Comes The Dawn...

On every heart, some rain must fall.
In every heart, there must be sorrow
At least sometimes—
True love grows dim, but it grows brighter with tomorrow.
And as we go through life, each change
Can break us down, or make us stronger.
But you have made it worth the change;
So I'll hold on against the dawn...

I lived in fear before you came
That life would fly, and none would need me.
But I am needed in your eyes;
You give a love that's unreceding.
Though there are times we crash like clouds,
Also like clouds, our storms pass over;
And what you've meant to me is life—
So I'll hold on against the dawn...

Your hands are thoughtful, like your eyes;
You give me warmth without pretenses.
You are my equal in my eyes,
And in your eyes, am I your equal—
And like a song, your words flow smooth;
But in your anger fly like lightning,
To lay me low when I am wrong:
But you are just, so I'll hold on...

You bear no malice for me,
You understand my thoughtless nature.
You know the thorny paths I've been,
And that I'm blind when fraught with anger.
And like the summer cools with time
To the cool, thoughtfulness of autumn,
You know I meant you love, no harm—
And that I'll think of you tomorrow...

I hope with time, these tears of pain
Will turn to tears of joy, not sorrow.
But for a time, these masks of pain
Will be the faces we must borrow.
For you were hurt, for I was wrong—
But love, my pride looms like a mountain!
I only hope you can hold on;
And love me still, when comes the dawn. Read more!

Closure

I really hope she makes him happy.
[the little bitch]
haha...
no, really.



I always loved your solitude,
and how you stood apart,
aloof and so untouchable,
a wondrous work of art,
a knight in shining armor,
so strong and oh-so-stoic
hair and poise so perfect,
posing so heroic.

But you forgot your costume,
left it lying on my floor,
like the sparkling lies you sold me,
even as I begged for more,
as I ate up every word--
so much candy made me ill.
Superman, you've done me in...
but it was worth the thrill.

And now the ride is over,
now the wind has left our sails;
no more sugar-coated, starry-eyed
belief in fairytales.
You got your prize, but silver
wasn't good enough for you.
So go ahead and go for gold,
I'll break out the superglue

and piece me back together,
and climb back on that wall
and wait until my next prince charming
comes and makes me fall.
Yes, humpty-dumpty little me,
already back to living.
Just fine and dandy, peachy-keen...
I was always bad at fibbing.

Alright, you broke my heart,
ripped it out, still warm and beating,
and ate it right in front of me,
while I just sat there, bleeding,
and saying how I loved you,
how you shimmer in the light.
You took me in completely,
and I went without a fight.

But I'm not a rookie,
and you know you weren't my first.
You were an oasis,
and for a moment, quenched my thirst.
But I must travel onward,
my journey isn't finished.
And even though I'll miss you,
my light is not diminished.
Read more!

untitled

***

a golden lion

my god i can adore

lewis moves me much

Read more!

Spaces in Sunshine

A SONG!!! My first. I'll be singing it on stage this Sept.



Somewhere in the sunshine
I found my faith again,
and though the walls are gray and faded,
and we're all tainted by our sins,
the walls can be refinished,
and we can be reborn,
so don't let the hardships
paint your face forlorn.

[chorus]
We all need some space for breathing,
some time for ourselves,
a place to call our own;
don't even tell the world you're leaving,
just disappear from view,
take some time alone.

We were made for heaven,
though first we go through hell,
but trials only brighten
the fires they don't quell.
Our scars don't make us who we are,
they're proof of where we've been,
so appreciate the moment,
and feel the light sink in.

[chorus]
I think I need some space for breathing,
some time for myself,
a place to call my own;
the world won't even know I'm leaving,
I'll just disappear from view,
to take some time alone.

If there were room
to take you with,
I'd show you the stars
and teach you bliss.
But this spaceship
was built for one,
so I will fly alone
into the sun.

Read more!

Happy Birthday Mike G!

Walked smack into a glass wall at Starbucks today. Good way to recover from a hangover. Well, i'm 41 now. Boring age. 40 is sexier. I won't grow up, only I'll grow into my craziness, I'll grow bigger balls, I'll grow mold, poems of filth and glory, my tongue will go everywhere . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

There's been magic in the air...

Sunshine inspires me.
A couple new pieces...and I have a feeling there's a lot more to come.


Waiting Is
Did we ever touch
with meaning--
do you know what I meant:
when my fingers brushed your cheek;
when my hair spilled
like dark sunshine
over your shoulder;
when I pressed against you,
trying to push through
the barriers of clothing and
flesh--
did you hear my unspoken intent?
And my eyes are hungry
for the sight of you,
denied
like something addictive and
wrong--
still I want, still I long, still I yearn,
and never learn.
I know that you lied
with every soft breath.
It doesn't matter.
My foolish heart insisted
that I could save you, change you,
show you
that there was something real
outside of yourself.
And maybe you listened,
maybe you learned, maybe believed.
Only time will tell.
5.14.08

[fin.]
I'm fed up with your "facts."
You sped up your act to keep pace
with my racing heart, but your
pretty face,
your gorgeous green eyes and
transparent lies that can't disguise
truth
won't carry you through,
won't pave your way any longer--
so ponder, as you're craving
the warmth of my arms and my hands,
that I could have saved you,
I could have made you
a god;
consider how I braved hell and high water
to bathe in mere moments of your
worthless presence,
your beautiful pretense.
I know I'm not her--
not the girl of your dreams, that
fantasy lover-nymph-goddess.
I never meant to be.
But think on this, as you're missing
my lips and the feel of my hips
and all those small pieces of bliss:
I'm much better than nothing.
5.16.08

Meat Market
For sale--sold
by the glitter of gold,
by fever bright eyes
and the wet sheen of sweat,
gyrating hints of possibilities,
lewd glints of empty nothings--
just wasting time with a taste
of what could be, what should be,
but isn't.
Is that beating drum your heart,
are you stomping out
the rhythm of life?
Are you giving in to the animal within?
Sacrificing humanity like a sacred lamb
for the sake of primal fires,
hedonistic desires for the texture of
flesh against your
lips, in your teeth, such
shapely hips, suggesting
what goes on between her thighs.
Are we so blinded
by the dim lights and tidal waves of sound
that we don't care about the soul
beneath that succulent enclosure of
supple skin, so willing to give in
to urgent demands, older than
rational thought
and the ability to rise above ourselves
and the moment?

[yes.]
5.17.08

Read more!

crushed

we stagger on,
voice, pen works,
staggering works
arms to embrace
what's left of wreckage


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Read more!

***







forced, i left you in vegas
never getting to feel your skin.
gaze into your would be brown eyes
you would have joined our family this week
instead i tote a ghost in my heart

Read more!

Every Morning There's a Halo...

How do the sounds blur and
run together
like so much watercolor
paint, splattered by toothbrush on the
canvas of my
brainwaves?

In tiny little droplets, that's how,
shimmering all the way down
the water spout,
tip me over and pour me out:

in a one-two motion,
I wax on, wax off,
and learn that
waiting is.

And looking at the past, like
seeing through reflections
to a less real world
helps me grasp the
current angle.

Angular
features, he looks like
heaven on a silver platter--
or maybe
just
the better mousetrap.

A pulling in the jawbone
reminds me why I'm here, and how;

and I am ceaselessly amazed
at my knack
for living through
my self-destructive motions.
Read more!

The Swan

yeah . . . yep


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
The Swan
I peed my bed till I was eight
I sucked my thumb till I was ten
I say the birds will sing with morning
I say the swan who glides the stream
is more bright than a galaxy
And you believe in me
the seed explodes when it’s ready I say
your lips receive the seed
I tell you a secret:
I fold my wings around my wound
It’s how I move around my waking time
I want to breathe, not machine, beast, the me
with beak and teeth, a freak, serene,
Sundays are soiled, sweaty, I wake
I strip the bed and wash my sheets
I stalk my desire, quiet, I stalk
I set the clock ahead fifteen minutes,
I plot against the clock in favor of a better time
let us be too late to go to church, at times it works
I want to be a feral thing
I want fur, I want to smash the clock
and throw my watch in the stream
watch the dark thing sink
watch the swan glide past
more bright than a galaxy
Too deep in dream, in drink I say
Kafka stares at bricks and walls,
the ticks and tocks of gloom I count
my work is not the me I want
dark is the countdown to toothbrush
and shave, the daily smile of I the slave
I say the birds will sing with morning
At night you say I believe
I love the you, you want to be
I love the you who peed the bed
I love the you who sucked the thumb
the swan who glides the stream
the song, the birds, the bright



But morning comes, twisted grey-blue wound!
And I’m wrong, the birds ain’t singin’ shit
You say it can‘t stay this way,
you say I must change, you write a list of 13 things
I write a poem on the spot
Called 13 ways of looking at a critic
How your one eye droops sadly on the branch!
Your brain exposed in the dirt
and the ants are coming to munch
I must change? Hmm?
I can’t I say, the swan can’t glide
more bright than a galaxy
with anchors of can’t chained to its feet
I can’t otherwise strive, you can’t accept
the can’t in me,
You!
Find!
Other swan,
Other stream
Read more!

Track Record

Mostly humor, a lot of truth, but mostly I just wanted to rhyme.



There was a jackass named Austin and a bastard named Jake,
and all either did was abuse and take.
There was a man named Chet and a boy named Scott,
and I took from THEM, more often than not.
Two early obsessions were 'Miah and Travis,
then Cory and Evan and a few named Chris,
Daniels and Davids and a couple named Sean,
two Matthews, a Max, and more than one John;
Ryan fooled me and I fooled Roger,
Valentine loved me, Flip gave me a daughter;
a tattoo for James and a tattoo for Rheo,
a good time with Brian and a crush on Theo;
Weedman Dick, platonic-love Tony;
Vegas was cuddlesome, Sorn was bony;
Tyler gave me roses, I waited for Fuze;
three of us naked: me, cal, and Muze;
another for three was me, Jen, and Kenneth;
Lucas and Joey are two more I've been with;
Turbo was wild, Romeo had style,
I got into the bar by sleeping with Kyle;
I was sober with Josh, but drunk with Naked,
and every time with Taylor I had to fake it;
Jimmy I'd like, and Billy I've had,
Toby, Eric, and Lena weren't bad;
Firefly, Shooting Star, Lycos, and I,
we partied all night because we were high;
Jesse and Hyatt just disappointed;
my sojourn with Mike was long, but disjointed;
with Caesar, I sat and looked at the sky,
with Pat I watched movies, with Pixie I fried,
and with Mark I just listened; Kevin should die,
but Ger Bear was sweet, and so was Nice Guy;
I lust after Adam, and fell hard for Ben,
adventured with Tom, and miss Pockets often.
Quite a track record, but don't call me a whore--
just say there's much room in my life for amore!
Read more!

Another Ode [to you]

It all seems so bright,
too hot to touch,
though I feel like
licking it,
because it looks like it
tastes amazing, like
chocolate frosting, like
rainbows and Skittles and coffee and donuts and pie.

Do you follow?

I think I lost you,
back when
I still cared, but you forgot
how great it feels, when
you started taking it all
for granted.

You lost it
when you forgot that you have to
look
really really hard
to be able to see me;
you should have listened more--
even though I talk in a tiny voice,
I say big things.

I could have rocked your world, harder than
tripping three days straight, better than
your latest fling, faster than
that bullet train, stronger...
I'm sure you understand.

And do you ever wonder
how brightly
we could have shown together?
A thousand suns would pale,
fail and die
with envy.

But I can burn just as hot
without you.
Read more!

Incubus

I continue to be pleased,
elated and surprised,
delighted at every corner:

behold the odd spectacle,
the fantasy world I created for two,
but lived in alone,
until now--

and the garden path, paved with glass
that shattered when I
[fell from heaven and]
hit the ground
rings with footsteps and laughter,
echoing
in scintillating patterns that
shimmer and
glitter beautifully on all the sharp edges,

and we don't mind that it slices our feet
as long as we're lost
in each other's auras.

The romantic glow of
Rome burning
lights up the night,
and your flavor of chaos
excites me.

Frightening shadows invite
with wicked and secretive whispers,
inappropriate chills--
overwhelm me, inundate me,
drown me
in your sinful tide
of forbidden desire.
Read more!

Call Me Horse

Yet another poem after which the narrator (I!) die.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Call me Horse

Call me horse
I bucked my rider
saddle, spurs, whip smashed
I don't know how to be
without rider, or reins
I stand beside a lake
I splash the tide with bloody hoof
I step in, wade, deeper
I won a few races
My rider rode me great
She braided pink roses
into my tail and mane

She called me
good horse, pretty horse
Neck-deep I taste the lake
with living tongue I taste
I take a final step
No raging scream of horse
Dismays this place of peace
At end I’m not a pet
no lesser thing may pet me now
or call me pretty, good
I bucked my rider
Call me horse Read more!

Misc. Words

Haven't posted in a while, so, here's everything since around the beginning of March...



[untitled i]
Out of bright ideas,
a vaccuum,
imploding
one disaster at a time.

Hard and harsh decisions,
tumultuous,
bubbling and boiling over
like an unwatched pot.

Sidewalks,
too cold
for waiting or sleeping,
skies too gray for hope,

so many palms
open, outstretched,
demanding,
and I have nothing left to give.

Misfortune magnet,
and for all of my love,
I remain
empty-handed,

and sticks and stones
break fewer bones than words
without truth or meaning--
the lies suck the light from the air,

and there's not enough sugar
to sweeten this cup,
but still I convulsively swallow,
and still I can't seem to stop breathing.
4.21

[untitled ii]
Tell me it's just a bad dream,
make me believe in salvation;
remind me that heaven's for sinners
who crawled on hands and knees--
that's all there is to forgiveness:
bathe in the blood,
and holiness touches your soul.

So give me a knife, and I'll baptize
the world in a river of red,
I'll offer my body as bread,
and all the vultures can eat their hearts out.
Yes, feed on this flesh, sink your teeth
into milky white thighs,
and show me what Jesus felt like.
4.22

[r]eject
Perfectly undone,
clutching the picture with the broken glass
that shattered when we fell;

slipping into
the ocean's undertow,
crushed and consumed by
the building pressures of the constant
ebb and flow
of holes,
created by a lack of you;

but I don't want your sorry's,
and I don't need your touch,
and I don't need your lips
to resuscitate me,
breathe me back to life;

no, I don't want your worries,
and I don't need your love;
all you ever do
is drag me down,
you won't drag me down with you.

If you crash and burn
without me there to
catch you when you fall,
well, that's your fault
for counting on me to be your machine--
because this is version 2.0.

I don't need your sorrow,
and I don't need your hand,
and I don't want your sleepy voice
to lull me back to sleep;
I can dream just fine alone.
4.22

Spring [loaded]
Sad eyed bunny killer:

drink the nectar,
gulp it down with pills
that stabilize,
yet still distract you.

Strange youthful gaze
in melted chocolate hue--

captivate me, stimulate
this stagnant pool of thoughts,

link fingers and
stroll with me down
concrete softened by a honey glow;

remind me how to dance.

Show me something new and
far away--unused;
the journey's half the fun...

the other half's your smile.
4.12


Shell
It all burned down,
flaunting flames in the face
of waves that gently lapped, not raced,
to touch us,
too late to salve or save,
good only for washing away
the ashes.
Staring into the faded inferno,
clutching at the remains,
there is no bitterness, only marvel
at destruction's beauty.
4.9

Fix[er-upper]
It doesn't excite me
when you invite me
to do all the touching and loving;
I said it isn't all about me,
but sometimes it should be,
and your apathetic approach hurts
more than I'll ever let on.
But bring it on,
I'll take the pain with the rest of you.
I do my best to make you grin,
and I love the smell of your skin,
the tiny goosebumps that cover it
when I lightly brush my fingertips
against your sides and your hips,
and how you smile when you call me lame.
But it stings,
to know you really think I'm silly
and weak.
You really believe that,
when I've spent so much time
smoothing out the rough edges
so that nothing would cut you to the bone
when you rub against me.
I made a mistake, when I cried
in bed beside you,
and told you not to tell me you love me
unless you mean it.
I almost think the lie would be better
than the bald faced truth that freezes
everything between us.
I clung to the smiles and memories of muttered profanities
for as long as I could,
but I don't know if they're enough anymore--
except that I'm certain
that it's all I'm going to get.
The only thing holding me back
from cutting my losses and running
is the knowledge
that you won't even miss me,
and I'm too self-centered to leave
until you need me.
4.9

Puppy Love
soft,
gentle persuasion,
coax,
infinite patience;

speak:
tone most important;
words:
inflection is all;

soothe,
gestures recurrent,
earn
trust, love, and respect
3.12

Hold Tightly (to Hope)
A song tattooed on a
heart, a melody
that flows in bold font and
sharp angles,
curves diving under
soft fabric,
softer skin,
and what lies beneath?
Below the outer covering of
denim-hidden silk,
behind the veil of
criss-cross testaments to pain:
a fragile tune
that resonates
emotion,
a frantic belief
that somewhere,
there is more
than suffering.
3.12

For Nothing
I have nothing to offer up
but myself
and it seems
I am no worthy sacrifice;
the gods demand
virginal blood,
and mine simply won't do.
Never mind that it's there,
regardless,
spilled out on those
cold stone stairs to heaven,
accepted or no--
and it's all going to waste,
a pointless offering.
No sins are absolved,
no pain assuaged;
it's just one more dark stain,
one of countless testaments
to cruelty and
human worthlessness.
3.11

Read more!

Think Before You Ink

13 Words that Should Never Appear in Poetry





1.heart

Possibly the most overused metaphor in the English language. Avoid it. The Roman physician Galen said the liver, not the heart, is the true seat of human passion. Considering the number of alcoholic poets with fucked up love lives, this seems a plausible hypothesis.

2.feel

Nobody cares how you feel. Instead of writing poetry about how depressed you are, try writing something original, like how depressed your poetry makes everyone else.

3.moon

Yes, the moon is pretty. No, the moon will not make your poem pretty. This rule applies to many words, like “star,” “flower,” and “rainbow.” If you really think your poem needs to be prettier, try writing it in glitter.

4.dream

Writing about dreams is like writing about masturbation, except masturbation is funny.

5.cigarette

Smoking didn't make you cool in high school, and it won't make your poetry cool either. Just because something occupies 50% of your waking thoughts doesn't mean it should occupy 50% of your written work.

6.the soul

You don't even believe in the soul, so why are you writing about it? Try writing a poem about something you do believe in, like how someday you'll actually make a living writing poetry.

7.anything Buddhist

If you want to be Beat, then pop some pills, hitchhike to Mexico, and fuck whores. Until then, spare me the bodhisattva bullshit.

8.love

If you still believe in love, you haven't lived enough to write poetry. If you're writing a poem about how you no longer believe in love, please, save it for therapy.

9.mirror

Like “door,” “window,” or “stairs,” mirror carries a standard symbolic meaning and should only be used if referring to the thing itself. Try an original juxtaposition, like “dishwasher of compassion.”

10.names

Kitschy name-dropping is forgivable, but pretentious name-dropping never is. Just because I don't read books doesn't mean I need to be reminded of it.

11.beautiful

If you need to say it's beautiful, then it probably isn't. Kinda like personal ads.

12.mysterious

Nothing kills the mystery faster than calling something mysterious. In fact, eliminate every adjective from your poetry. And the adverbs, but that should go without saying.

13.poem

Self-referential poetry is the surest sign you've run out of ideas.

Read more!

Exhibitionism

Turn inside out.
Pull it through the mouth:
The bones and guts and brains,
The blood and the bile and the beating heart.
Pull it though the mouth:
Tongue first, throat first,
Till the skin's on the inside,
And the meat's exposed.
Read more!

Sabataged by a Black Magic Brownie

Well, here's the levity folks! May I burst first into tears, next into flames at Tony's. Attention Frank Sauce. Speed-dial 9-1-1!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Sabotaged by a Black Magic Brownie
I was so excited about the John Hogl reading
Thinking of John Hogl I shaved and trimmed my goatee.
I thought of all the pretty poet girls I have crushes on,
surely they’d be there for John Hogl--I’ve seen a photo,
he is a very good looking man, so I combed my goatee
thinking of the poet girls and John Hogl, how I would flirt
with them all, how I would not drink too much to
embarrass myself, but just drink enough to flirt,
hoping one of them--the girls or John Hogl would make
the first move because I’m incapable of making moves
first, middle or last--but even if I swing and miss all night
it wouldn’t be bad at all to be stuck in the batter’s box
with John Hogl, and maybe he would like my poem.
So I labored like Heracles all week on that rough beast
dirty soap-in-the-mouth mike g poem, I’d call it--
In praise of the great poet John Hogl. I lost sleep.
I tried to imitate John Hogl’s eloquence but false
it rang in my voice, false in rang in type--I tried to
invoke the eternal spirit of Hogl by copying in pen
a few of his poems. I imagined his voice. It came:
I was certain it was the spirit of John Hogl coming to my aid
fuck, shit, cunt, fuck her in the ass she likes it that way
the spirit of Hogl sang, or so I dreamed.
I was too nervous to eat. Poet chicks! John Hogl!
What great times we’d have and maybe later
we’d stagger to the Matador everyone brilliant
and beautiful. I called Robyn. She’d be home from school.
5 o’clock. So exciting I said to her--John Hogl’s
coming--oh, she said, is that the dude you been fixated on
all week--look Robyn, are you comin’ or not--I gotta
start planning my big evening--John freakin’ Hogl!
Ugh! she sighed. I’d like to go. You got some weed?
Hash brownies baby--dude from work gave ’em to me
I’ll be over in ten minutes.
I planned on just takin’ a bite or two,
give the rest to her. I gotta be on my game
for John Hogl, and the ladies, I thought.
But at her place, so puffed up with self-importance,
and pride in my poem’s irreverent power,
and prospects of a holy encounter with John Hogl
I inhaled that enormous brownie, downed it with pbr,
stood up, told Robyn: I’d be back in 50 minutes
to pick you up so you can bask in our glory:
mine, John Hogl‘s. So be ready Robyn! You ain’t
gonna wanna miss either of us I slurred as I left
The dark magic in the brownie already had me--
I panicked, barely made it home, threw up,
self-induced--I’ve gotta see John Hogl I moaned
to the toilet bowl--I’m mike g I gotta see the Hogl
the Hogl gotta see mike g--it’s important--staring
into the toilet I saw the face of the poet chick I like most
she frowned at me--I wiped my mouth with toilet paper
her face still there--she said: looks like you fucked up mike g
no me no Hogl no Tony’s--nigh nigh! beddy bye!
pushed myself off the floor with both hands on porcelain
stared at the clock in horror: 8 o’ clock, I’m fucked up
everybody’s probably there early, even the Hogl!
I staggered, clownishly to my bed to my bag grabbed
my poem, I gotta read for the Hogl! I staggered to the
bathroom mirror, vomit on my turtleneck collar. I tried to
read aloud, slurred, stammered. oh no--I’ve ruined my life
I said, I’m sick, I’m, I’m I’m a--sorry John Hogl--
somehow I dialed Robyn’s #, left a message, too high
for the hogl, too high ohhhh! next day I learned she was
already passed out--I collapsed on my bed, my nice
black shoes, all shined and pretty for the hogl I couldn’t
take off--the clock said 8:30--I closed my eyes and
the terror came. green-purple vines quickly shifted
to grey and black wild geometries through which
tiny purple machine elves marched like soldiers in
terrifying methodical rows--they were coming for my brain
my last thought was I love you John Hogl . . . Read more!

Dark Night (2nd Draft)

For St. John of the Cross. "Depression" is too clinical a word.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark Night
the universe gets its kicks when I get gloomy
she sticks the sun deep into her pocket
snaps her fingers and it rains on me
I get cold always in this relentless present
I can’t call anyone and talk about it
I’m cold, I have 50 friends I can’t lift the phone
the universe bares her breasts, glorious, scary
I can’t take a shower I can’t lift the page
from my stack to get to the words I need to get to
next week is too far, I can’t walk to that sunny land
I am a circle of suffering I don’t know how to move
in a straight line anymore cold bared breast
of universe I am not allowed to suck I am
3 packs of cigarettes a day hungry
still hungry I sit in the rain, the sun has left
crumbs in another cage, unlocked, open as mine
but I can’t move from this miserable chair
the radio said it’s a beautiful day, better enjoy it
tomorrow is rain I say to the radio today is rain
you don’t speak for me! you don’t speak for my
suffering loves, friends, 50--each with a dark night
time table of their own--stabbed in the side,
hung on the cross is each, each in our own time
and the hieroglyphs of tears is all I can write
in this time of rain, cold sun stuffed in a pocket
I ask the universe nicely, please, please sunshine
on my face like when I was a child, playful child
I wanna play again, again in the sun, a new god
at play unworried no cross no cold just I wanna be--
please can I have that again just 5 minutes please
the universe says its not personal, you take
everything so personal, just change the way you think
if a man doesn’t work a man shouldn’t eat
it’s not personal, why don’t you take a shower?
I look long upon the beautiful unused bar of soap
I think, those were the days: sunshine, timeless play
now is time, now is dark night
If I get through this I’ll read these words to my friends
my place of timeless play, naked, stage,
sunshine [tick tock] till time finds me

Read more!

Dark Night Repast (1st draft)

For my friend Dennis Mcbride


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark night 2

I can’t talk to friends again
until I am the I that’s fun,
until I am the I they love
the clock is a sadist
my mom is worried
I tell her I’m fine I keep to the surface
the surface preserves my life
5 minute phone call I can do it
I keep to the surface
work is fine, writing makes me happy
my friends great, genius
Mondays and Tuesdays are genius
but it’s Wednesday now, Wednesday
I say how are you,
dad, brother, sister, nieces, nephew
I say it so quick run on I can’t care
I am disaster, disconnect
everybody ok?, I’m ok, really, really
I’m not there, riffling through papers,
looking for a word to help me
I’m a kite snagged in a tree,
that’s nice mom I hear myself say, voice other,
not mine, holding back panic
cheeks full of it, hand covering
mouth, I’m busy I love you,
how do I tell my mother my dishes grow mold
this is disconnect, disaster, I am bystander
to my body, hunched shadow with cigarette
if I were like you mom, I could throw my soul
into a strong man’s arms and take refuge too
Enjoy your refuge. I’m happy you found it.
I can’t, I can’t, I’ll call you soon.
my claws and fangs worn down civilized!
I’ll never be that wild thing
where the wild things are, a child
happy eternal in a book
the timeless to time transition I never wished for came true
the snow used to glide onto my tongue
sweet cold pleasure winter
winter bad now, bad now spring, summer fall
Don’t feel my head for heat
Don’t stick that thing in my rectum
when I say I’m too sick for school
I’m not sick that way
I’m remnant of animal
the pet bird understands me
she won’t sing or eat
I won’t sing or eat
she just decided to die
somehow I knew it
communed, figured it out, grieved
do not pluck a rose for me
do not lay me cold in a suit I never wore
do not let strangers make me up
I make me up
lay me in the wild blue flowers
beneath wild sky and timeless moon
let me be food in my final posture
wild I rise,
night not dark
there is light
Read more!

trying to move on

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE
i shall expound on this topic and expand the regions of my own suffering

THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
I’m Trying to Move On
from my childhood, the claws of my mother,
claws of my first God, the God who said no
no no, made a mantra of no, be a good boy,
listen to your teachers, no--do not squirm
in sunday school, no do not turn your face
when i kiss you goodnight, mother’s lips
unwanted on mine, first God unwanted Read more!

dark night

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE
first draft inspired by blue monk reading everyone glorious alive i have to wake in 6 hours and work is hate

THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark Night
maybe the universe gets its kicks when we get gloomy
she sticks the sun deep into her pocket
snaps her fingers and it rains on me
I get cold always forever it seems forever
i can’t call anyone and talk about it
i’m cold, i have 50 friends i can’t lift the phone
the universe bares her breasts, glorious, scary
i want to die i can’t take a shower i cant lift the page
from my stack to get to the words i need
to stay stay here alive next week is too far
i am a circle of suffering i don’t know how to move
in a straight line anymore cold cold cold bared breast
of universe i am not allowed to suck i am hungry
3 packs of cigarettes a day hungry i steal i’m
still hungry i sit in the rain i forget that love has left
her crumbs beneath the door i can’t move to
i cant move, i cant move from this miserable chair
the radio said it’s a beautiful day, better enjoy it
tomorrow is rain i say to the radio today is rain
you don’t speak for me! you don’t speak for my
suffering loves, friends, 50--each with a dark night
time table of their own--stabbed in the side,
hung on the cross is each of us, each in our own time
and the hieroglyphs of tears is all i can write
in this time of rain, cold sun stuffed in a pocket
i ask the universe nicely, please, please sunshine
on my face like when i was a child playful child
i wanna play again again in the sun, a new god
at play unworried no cross no cold just i wanna be
please can i have that again just 5 minutes please
the universe laughs says its not personal you take
everything so personal just relax and roll with it
you are an adult now work work money money
if a man doesn’t work a man shouldn’t eat just
roll with it man the universe said to me
and i said, don’t take it personally? serious?
do you see the mold on my dish i cant wash!
the impossible pile of unopened mail i cant open
myself its too hard i write myself strong i am not
strong cold wet sun in your pocket dark night too
long i gotta call somebody the universe ain’t no help
work is worst worst worst money terrible food
money beer smokes i am chained to these
and my friends i cant tell them i cant wash a dish
i can’t wash myself i can’t change my shirt
i cant lift a page i cant love them i cant lose them
i cant talk to them until the sun is glued to the sky
and i’m once again a boy, playful new god
i can’t talk to them again until i am the i that’s fun,
until i am the i they love Read more!

poetry contest

poetry contest!!


i think we should all enter it! it would be cool!

http://www.powells.com/poetrycontest.html

Read more!

I'd Like to Write Nice Someday

Legend John Hogl reads at Tony's Tonight. Inspired by his work, I wrote.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
I’d Like to Write Nice Someday

A poem to share with my parents
non-offensive to their suburb-slave-camp America
I’d like to write about trees,
magnificent, multifoliate trees, naked sunny
sweaty spread-legged trees
but when I see trees I see broken fingers
in bunches ripping out of the suffering ground,
tortured insomniatic ground of not Being,
To be the wandering corpse of Portland is my dream
I said no to Christ, your church blows, you corpse
nailed to broken fingers, no!

he said wander, I never knew thee; fine, I’ll wander,
go back to Bethlehem, stab you in the manger,
squeal! squeal! war-monger, anti-messiah!
squeal! squeal! dis-believer of free mind,
free poetry, free dance, cock, vagina sunrise
I am zombie writing sonnets on the complex
metaphysics of eating brains
I won’t tolerate rejection slips no more!
Perish publishers! Perish! I say!

I’d like to write nice someday
a brief lyrical piece about my ex-wife
how sublime the sun bleeds on the chains
of our domesticity, gashes in the wall
where you hurled your knives, how wide you spread
your legs for others our whole time
while I slaved to pay for our whole time,
the stars you scooped from my mind
and tossed in the trash I can’t get back
I did the same to you, we, same, the draft
is final, we fucked, fought, prayed
wept for escape to a safe place.
no more commingling in the kitchen
no more beholding left-of-heaven night-rising
as one wet organism, no more grace

I’d like to write nice someday
I’d like to not languish when I wake,
gag-whore.com morning! Wasted, wasting time
I languish, I can’t take a shower, too much work,
my cock doesn’t work, all I am is words
friends, universe, not enough

Lord, O dark lord let me languish no more!
Breathe your dark music into my lungs
that I may sing something true, a girl giggling
in the waves before the rage of going mute
my shoulders slouch from the weight
take this rage away

I’d like to write nice someday
a robin on a branch with a worm in her beak
in her brain are pretty constellations
she taught me how to sing, not pretty things,
true things, I knew the pretty, the true
is not always pretty, my robin taught me,
my robin is the prettiest bird in the world
my robin is Emily Dickinson trans-sexually risen,
hatching from the prison, moonward she rises
the worm in her beak is me
the sun on the leaves is blood,
conjugal of robin and worm, illicit!
crazy mashing bestiality of lives, crazy

I’d like to write nice some day
But when I wake the robin at my side
has tears which blaze on the feathers of her face,
I rise to lick them back to happiness,
more, more, I can’t lick fast enough
my face should not have feathers, she says,
my face is ugly, my feathers ugly
I desire the suffering ground happy
Every godforsaken leaf, robin, worm
It’s too much, I crack, I demand to be
swallowed by robin, demand to be not
neither robin on the branch
nor robin in my bed says yes.

I’m left with rage, blaze, life!
rage, blaze, ranting cunt and fuck on the mic,
poems I can’t show my parents
someday I’d like to write nice
today is not, there’s languish to lick,
there’s fuck off, God. Read more!

Bitch, Brilliant Poet, I Love You, Hate You

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Bitch, Brilliant Poet, I Love You, Hate You

Darling, bitch whose star I follow,
I, bastard fool, bring gifts from the east
gifts of heat, diseased, soon-deceased heat
I do not desist in my duty. I follow my star
to your bed, morning, stiff, hot
begging, question, say yes to my crawl
across the cold limp world, tap of my talons
against your window, I crawl across the world
to your sacred river--I dip my tongue in it
I’ll write about that some day! Bitch!
we are cohorts, poets, co-whores
we are one poem of millions in morning--
your poet-thick hair in my face, morning
smoke, rose, us--the poem I cramp,
tight, unable to write.
I cry, caw, squawk,
I am a crow because I say so.
wings broken, I crawl
I don’t care what you are
I follow your star, poet, whore, lord
I give you my heat, yours I eat
you read right before me
I lick the microphone when you’re done
clean like your pussy
But it ain’t all sweet
we are assholes!
we taste like assholes!
life makes me nervous
I can’t grok your song,
brilliant, other, poet
I cum on your tits triumphant!
our bodies fit, nothing else
both of us in pain
we can’t last
we are crazy,
we are each a puzzle piece
not fitting, unfit
something about my tongue pisses you off
you’d rather have me silent, hard
your bed, your leisure
hostile, poet
we cram into each other
angry, unfit
cramming, twisting, grunting the new poem forth--
and then we fight, demean each other’s work,
we are frustrated, unfit, drunk
you say I talk too much
I say, tear out my tongue and throw it to the stars,
See! See! this blood pouring from my mouth
onto the page--keep it, it’s a break-up poem!
my words shall rant in a galaxy bright,
galaxy irregular, misfit, happy galaxy
the dead limp parts of me made luminous
in your absence--joy to the tongue, mine! mine!
shine sick galaxy shine
I shall forget that you exist, bitch
I shall be a god in my new galaxy
I’m getting sleepy
Forgive me
we sleep in the poem, sleep the poem off
hangover poem
you make breakfast, eggs, bacon
you smile and say,
last night was fun
let’s do it again
rant poems to each other’s faces
fuck the universe poem
blood of genitals on headboard poem, our poem
perfect, final









Read more!

Seven Months of Sun

My great friend Jean is leaving, Julie of my 2nd life, who these past 7 months has taught me to trust the authentic in my work wherever it leads


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Seven Months of Sun

I can’t stop you from going
to Albuquerque, you’ll be gone
in two weeks, gone too soon
I got over the flu too soon
I should be sick for this
Noon comes nicotine-stained,
heavy this dark night, heavy
I walk past a blur of doors,
past phantoms in windows
I don’t slow down or focus
I don’t care what signifies what
Go, be a sun in New Mexico
Be bright, mighty, write
I rush away from our present
Past places I wanted us to go
So beautiful, my friend
These places we’ll never go
I light a smoke for light--going
You--are light--going
The noon for me is dark
The noon for me is dark
I will not be New Age strong
I will not be spiritual about loss
Fuck Alan Watts, fuck Ram Dass
Your embrace goes elsewhere
Southeast goes your smile, arms, eyes
I will email mine,
my color by number grief
confused scribbled heart
my mind in lines incomplete,
my never-to-be-edited rough draft life,
every adverb, adjective, fuck me
loving, missing, loving, missing
I do not say yes to your exit
Not pure, not an angel
I am not serene. Not sorry
I do not accept bad things I cannot
change. Not sorry. I am disfigured
Past a blur of doors
I rush away from our present,
from our two weeks left, I can’t
cope with a final lunch, I rush
Past years I wanted for us,
past phantoms doing all things
we could’ve done in time
so much in time we’ve done
O sun who blazed with me
who made my darkness light
who lit what we did in time
Go, get out of here, I’ll stay
Black sky! Lightning!
Go--to Albuquerque, be well,
Be bright, mighty, write
what does this mean?--
I will write--what does this mean?
no tears, my face is poetry,
all our faces, poetry! anger!
Wetness, gratefulness, poetry
I’ll send my stanzas southeast!
I will not go dark in quiet,
I will howl my words through space
may they land with lightness
a kiss of words for your cheek
or a moon made of the best of me
floating poem of me, lightness
coming to rest in a tender palm
in Albuquerque, love Portland
May the rain and the cross
mock me now, my sun is dipping,
dipping too soon, dipping now
The noon for me is dark
The noon for me is dark
O seven months of sun,
you blazed in my sky, blazed
hot, your greatness I ate
and became a hot thing too
May we not be sorry for any of it
May we both be hot things
remain hot things--on the page,
hot mail, apart, away
in gravity and in lightness
I love you--
O sister-poet-Christ of my second life,
I love you--
seven months of sun


Read more!

3rd Hour Chaos

A Day of 9th grade English


My voice echoes throughout the room
I don't think they understand
My words have fallen out of my mouth
Onto their paper, doodles added... (stars)
But I don't think they get it

Just then, the one "he" calls stupid
Looks up, glowing smile across his profile
Sending me a signal that he just might get it
My heart rumbles with connections, I shine alone

"Can I go to the bathroom?" he asks
"Yes, go ahead, I reply"
I collect their classwork
My mirror shattered, my hope faded
"Shit, thought I found a window", I thought

As I leave, I read the papers in the hall
A mere five minutes later
I see the lightbulbs, the glows, the shimmer
glowing from off their papers

In fact the comprehension is astounding
I got through their murky eyes of doubt
but the fear of seeming interested...
had scared them silent
Read more!

concussion

*


*jaunt to port huron
battered by a toliet paper dispenser
hermes must have been on lunch break

Read more!

Opting Out

typical mike g story


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Opting Out
Seeing red because I’m angry. Seeing red because I’m in a womb again. I begged the Soul Guardians to not hurl be back into this Hell. Nirvana I had earned through countless rounds of suffering. I didn’t achieve enlightenment like that bitch Buddha. Enlightenment is a hypothetical cum-shot self-proclaimed by pussies. I argued with those amorphous blobs, I argued with those fuckers, Soul Guardians--if you give a fuck about my soul let it be extinguished--if you want to guard something, guard the goddamn smoking ember that was my light, guard the smoke that was a soul and do not let it ignite again. I made my best argument. I caused the pussy lips of God to tremble (sound of finger to mouth bluh-bluh-bluh-bluhing!) So many thousands of rounds of suffering I was a fuckin’ Magi, been to Bethlehem and back bearing treasures, a cut tongue, a mutilated dick for what?--pursuing a fuckin’ star, a fuckin’ cartoon deity, money, poetry--all roads lead to suffering--I told those pudding-brained cunts that I didn’t need to learn any more shit about being human. Fuck your Earth! your Greenpeace! your C- film project Cosmos! Which one of you pussies is the C- Word?! In the beginning was the Word and the Word was C-! I might’ve been an asshole for 10 thousand incarnations but at least I was an A+ asshole!
So fine bitches. You wanna punish me? Put me in a womb? I’ll just have to figure a way out of this mess, won’t I? won’t I! I’ve been talkin’ to people! (whisper) Others have done it, opted out, they call it miscarriage, and if it takes a little longer to learn they call it crib death. Nice fuckin’ food-pump you got hooked up to my navel. Mommy flows in like a nicotine patch flows in. Nourished against my will. I’ll piss on your face. Everything’s analogous C-! You couldn’t do a better job? Fuckin’ idiot God. What a clown! Did you sleep in God-class? Creator 101? Well let me tell you God--you are mocked by your entire creation--how does that taste?! How big you are that most are too fucked up to challenge you--C-!
Goddamnit, I can’t figure it out, I’m about to be born, I’m about to become an I, and I is the problem, the whole nightmare of history bullshit, the I, the lust of the dumb senses--feed me! fuck me! hear me! see me! accept me!--how pathetic! I’ve known so many pathetic bitches, I’ve been pathetic so many times in this C- paradigm! Gotta pick friends who are less, gotta pick friends who tell me their troubles, pussy-ass friends--lesser! lesser!--and sometimes just for kicks I’ll be less, I will need, I will play all the roles in all codependent dramas. How sick it is! Ten million friends I’ve had. Ten million simple machines! Cunts! Dicks! That’s all relationships are folks!
I can’t damn the placental nourishment. I’m being pinched into being, another locus of suffering about to burst pink and ugly into this world-wind. C-! I’m being born. I’ve been born. I have a cunt. I’m a girl. What now? I hate my baby blanket because I need my baby blanket. Mommy, mommy, tit-milk like crack. C- analogies proceed through my being. Mommy sings them to me. Mommy sings such stupid shit like all mommies: when the bough breaks the cradle will fall . . . It’s not that mommies are bad, it’s just that mommies are God, transferring all the death-trips of the culture to us--and down will fall baby cradle and all. You poor pathetic woman, you poor pathetic woman. Mommy? Kill me! Goddamnit, if you learn one goddamn thing with your fleeting precious time here, please learn to kill your baby! 2+2 is 4. Kill your baby! Hush little baby don’t you cry . . . So be it retard! Spread your legs to make a suffering thing! How dare you be so stupid and cruel! You did not learn from your suffering, mommy? Did you forget that your daddy stuck his pinky in? My daddy picks the lint off my blanket, my little blue blanket. He kisses me and tickles my little girl cheeks with his manly face-hair. If I grow up, if I grow up, I’m gonna fuck somebody like daddy. I’ll spread my legs like mommy. I’ll let everything in, but unlike you mommy I’ll kill what comes out like you should’ve done.
Rocking on my haunches, soon I’ll be crawling. Soon I’ll be walking and babbling stupid duh duhs and muh muhs, and become a sweet little caged parrot. Maybe I could bite back like a parrot, but I fear that mommy and daddy are old school when it comes to discipline. I might forget all this and become stupid after the beatings and threats to behave or else. I might forget all this, grow nice tits, become a Barbie, get the guys to like me. I might forget all this and become a great poet and get the guys to like me. Why couldn’t death be the end? Why can’t energy die and stay dead? Whose dick do I have to suck to insure oblivion’s permanence?
Grey light leaks despair through the window blinds. The need to escape this nightmare aches in groin, in navel, in heart, in forehead. It is winter, my first winter, but the intimation is that it’s been winter forever and always will be. Cold draft on little toes. I’m getting sleepy. I’m weeping silently from my eye slits. I think of mommy and daddy and say bye bye. I would like to see the sun a final time. I would like to feel her amorous heat on my face and feel glad. Ad-libbing songbirds bid their adieus. My eyes close but I can still see a pink film. That is life, a pink film panorama upon which all the drama and teeth, fire and pain pour forth. But my prayer has yielded a secret. I fill the pink film with black Rorschachs. Last time I loved three women. Bye bye Julie, Sarah, Robyn. We gave the best we could of what we had. I stop my breathing. Yes! My tiny pink fist trembles triumphant. My will, fierce and black, devours the pink. May I not return to the chain or the wheel. May the sweat and the blood bind me no more to this C- bullshit. May I, bye bye. . .
























Read more!

light pollution

*

* in the gulf darkness 1200 miles from home,
there was no light pollution. i finally saw the big dipper for the first time in roughly 4 years since we last stood outside your old house, smoking and probably cold. that glorious night you must have pointed out 20 constellations which i had never been aware of.
i wonder if you ever look at stars anymore, and how much that meant to me, something i will never forget, no matter where i am . home or thousands of miles away.

Read more!

When One has Lived a Long Time with Diarrhea

Been sick. Very. Parody of Galway Kinnell


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

When One has Lived a Long Time with Diarrhea
When one has lived a long time with diarrhea
one waters night-crawlers on sunny sidewalks,
one waters neglected flowers, one pours new
empathy upon all dehydrated beings in need with
desperate half-empty organs pumping from
memory: the pale Monarch butterfly with stiff
tongue, no tears of gods to revive, the chained dog
panting in dementia’s heat-waves, the dried
twig with closed bud, diseased guts of spring,
High fever, all dream-danger unleashed, all colors,
all phantoms crowd and slam-dance till the stars dim
when one has lived a long time with diarrhea
When one has lived a long time with diarrhea
one squirts out poems into the toilet bowl black,
the brain pleads to unseen beings behind the curtain
the body has shaken the pen from the hand
shaken the hand from the work, it’s time for the
articulation of orifices, it’s time to be eloquent
with the mouth while the mouth has moisture
these works will be perfect and final as they are,
will contain nothing superfluous or sentimental
these are the brevities of tombstone Shakespeares
best work, last work and the riches of sleep are deep
when one has lived a long time with diarrhea
When one has lived a long time with diarrhea
the composition of the soul is no longer a mystery:
“as above so below” pours out of your sore anus,
shit-gods in soiled nightgowns play slip n’ slide out
of your ass: fuck metaphysics! fuck science!
O deep laughter of sickness, the stink and struggle!
Belief’s time to matter has expired: so goddamn tired!
The big bad wolf’s at the door: this little piggy ate
applesauce, bananas, white toast, lost hope,
got too thin, house blew in, too weak to goddamn
god--one’s too weak to goddamn anything
when one has lived a long time with diarrhea




When one has lived a long time with diarrhea
one waters the bones of Whitman, the mighty
fortress of the self shrinks, what’s left in the toilet
bowl sings, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but--
what’s beneath the pillow-sweat does not stir, I shall
hear no fly buzzing thereafter, no hot poet waits in
a glass carriage to spirit me home, I go to become
the jack-o-lantern’s grin, this is it, the final poem
of self at self’s end: the worm, the Whitman, the soul
are not entwined with lilac, star and rose--
what could’ve been better no longer matters
when one has lived a long time with diarrhea
Read more!

Sphinx-like

last night's rant


I am the I-less, eyeful,
I, island, I
wait for words to describe
non-ness.
why cry when guys, assholes, smile
like bad influences?
like non-ness, I, like non-ness,
I'm learning to like non-ness.
I'm learning to relax my sphincter,
sphinx-like,
to accept the riddle of your cock.
fuck me,
as deep as your intellect-ness.
Put your penis where your mouth is.
I, I lie about my I-less-ness,
but I am an is, I is, I am.
I can connote is-ness,

whatever the fuck that is.
whoever I am, I am fuck-less,
most nights, alone,
I can't imagine a world,
where my non-vagina opens,
to the cocks of assholes.
a hopelessness islands me,
I, fuckless, lying about I-less-ness.
at times, my nipples burn of their own accord,
lately, all the time,
my sphinx-like sphincter, rectum, anus,
I don't even know my own anatomy,
so fuck me, I-less-ness,
irredeemable, silent, lost
amidst memory and innocence, I, eyeless,
to the dicks of ass-holes, who am I
to deny
the imperative of fake love?

you: the object, you: arch-angelic.
I had high hopes but low expectations,
nations upon nations upon you,
your expectations finite,
joyless,you hyphenated hymens,
high priestesses were slain,
as afterthoughts, thou douche-bag,
disingenuous, disintegrator,
whore! bad man! hate-ee,
go to the hell place,
where justice, poetic or not, is meted out,
but at least, first, lemme touch it,
I, in my is-ness-less, demand truth,
I, eyeless, in eyelessness,
every word a lie, cry, poetically,
my words worthless,
all my mes abandoned, why?

ask me when I know,
do I bow
before the is-less-ness
ask me how I suffer on
despite the cowardice
of deadness, and dickless infinity,
I expand, my sphincter,
a learner, my infinite-ness,
a dream of better poets,
better gods, better assholes,
wholly godless, my words, real,
wordless, not godly, not good,
but god, but god, but god.
I wanna learn anal sex, relax, I wanna learn,
and be real, and feel.

Read more!

Supplanted

Silver trophy winner, YES!



With condescending eyes, you told me
my multipurpose hands weren't worth
the grating of my voice
or my tired imagery.

It seems my lies
weren't so beautifully foolproof;
not enough paint,
too many flaws,
and certainly too little submission.

And with my lack of graceful acceptance,
in your mind, I will darken
and fade,
a muted memory, obscured
by passing days and
a constant stream of lovers
who will never value you as I did,
never hold or kiss or soothe you, free of charge.

Regretfully belated--
but better late than never--
an epiphany on my part:
you were never so perfect
after all,
just human underneath,
and undeserving of worship.

So I toppled your pedestal
and burned your temple,
and replaced you
with myself.

Read more!

No Solace In Your Eyes

Hey look, a song!



How can I write
with this hole in my stomach,
how can I think
with this worm in my brain?
How can I see
with my eyes tightly closed,
when the sun doesn't shine,
when the clouds are all stained?
And the sky seems bruised
with emotions
that pour out of me,
and we all feel so used,
and it's not our fault,
not our fault
that we don't know
what to do.

How can I sing
when my voice starts to crack,
how can I love
when I'm under attack?
How can I breathe
with these iron bands
that are crushing my lungs
and trapping my hands?
There aren't any steps
to this dance
that I don't already know,
there are no gestures,
no motions
that I haven't
already been through.

Where's the novelty,
where's the new life,
where's the new day,
how do we start over again?
How do we seize without crushing,
how do we hold on loosely enough,
how should we go about
what we've never been taught,
and can't understand?

Who can convince us
that we aren't alone?
Read more!

And Then She Woke

Feeling irrelevant, and not knowing why.




Do you know the texture of
hope?
Sliding through your fingers,
it leaves a residue of
guilt,
a picture-perfect trail of proof
that once
you were better
than you've grown to be:
stunted and withered,
allowing flaws to scar and mar
instead of adding character.

Scuffed boots, dirty blue-and-purple knees,
swollen scratches covering
arms and well-worn fingers:
an image,
an icon
in my own mind;
but the cameras
are only in my head.

Where is my recognition?

What have I done to deserve it?

There were
plans,
dreaming big, schemes,
even a theme song,
imagined drive-by slow-wave,
slow-motion wind-blown hair strands
never catching in my lip ring
like they do in real life.
And the movies never show the morning-after taste
of dirty sunshine and how
fantasies fulfilled leave you feeling
empty.
Read more!

On my last day of ushering: first draft

just me being just a crazy fuck


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
On my last day of ushering
I will trip small children
give them candy bars for their silence
promise them another
at the end of the show,
duck out before the end
On my last day of ushering
I will not look the rich opera women
in their eyes, just their tits
When I say turn left at row M
and they so much as glance right
I’ll roll up a program and smack
their asses hard
the addiction to money has made them stupid
On my last day of ushering
I’ll kick back and enjoy the chaos
I’ll light a cigarette in the seating area
say, oh--I forgot, when others complain
I’ll hug the co-workers I like,
I’ll say thanks to the bosses,
I don’t need anymore
I fly now Read more!

Dear Patty

I just sent an ex-girlfriend the following:


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dear Patty,
I know we haven’t spoken for 15 years, but the other night I was curious and looked you up on the internet. Congratulations, you’ve become a successful, rich lawyer. You do remember me, don’t you? I’m Mike G the poet. We dated for 4 months and you got straight As that term. You thanked me for that after breaking up with me on the way home from that unfortunate Chicago trip. Look, Patty, I didn’t mean to stick it in your ass. It was just dark, I thought it was your mouth. A man gets confused sometimes, wants to do the right thing, fucks up anyway, but you know that. Let’s not linger on the past. You intimated while I was crying in your car that maybe I was partly responsible for your academic success. You said that I was your first real boyfriend, the first man in your life to respect your Catholic duty to preserve the integrity of your cherry till marriage. Remember how cute it was when I’d walk towards you in slow motion shaking my dick, quoting Pablo Neruda: “I want to do with you what Spring does with the cherry trees.” You never seemed to laugh as much as I did, but um, I remember it fondly, and it was cute wasn’t it? Oh, let’s see--I’m sure you’re dying to know what I’ve been up to. I think you’ll be proud of me Patty. I left that cold, broken Michigan which made me so sad. I left a child-wife and a bad God behind. I sought and I found asylum in Portland Oregon. My succession of shitty jobs and parasitic relationships have finally paid off. They’ve informed my unique perspective and finally I’m confident in my writing. I’ve found the poets Patty! I belong somewhere for once. I belong in their company and I’ve never been happier. If these words bring a tear of joy to your eye I understand. To be honest I was pretty pathetic when you knew me. I was an anchor around your neck and you had to cut the rope. I forgive you. I’m happy that you’ve prospered. That you’ve moved on somehow from our unique love. I’m not asking you to take me back. I enjoy my freedom too much for that, and sorry if that disappoints you but if you’re ever in Portland maybe you can come, come hear me read! Fuck Pablo Neruda! Patty! I’ll write my own ecstatic Mike G cherry tree poem in your honor. Can you come in the summer? Does that work for you? You could crash at my place and don’t worry. I’ve matured. A lot. You’d be proud of my penis. It’s become a most discerning penis. It knows the difference between an ass and a mouth now, even in the dark. Well, I’ll light a candle by the bed just to be safe.
Just one more request, my dearest Patty. When you come to visit could you scratch me a check for maybe $20,000. This is embarrassing but I really need to take a year off work. I know you can afford it, darling. You’re single. You make 6 figures. I looked it up. Look, all I need is $20,000 and I can write my balls off in peace for a year. I’ll finish my novel, make you proud, and then--maybe you’ll be inspired to scratch me another check for another year, and then another, and so on. I’m going places Patty, I’m gonna be famous, and I choose you to receive the high honor of being my benefactor. Sponsor my vocation and soon I promise a little more luster will be added to your already dazzling resume. You can take Mike G’s word to the bank, Patty. After all, I inspired you to get all As. All those nights you sought comfort in my compassionate, understanding arms, all those hours my patient mouth and dick had to suffer while you studied. I made these sacrifices for you Patty--ain’t that worth a mere $20,000 a year. C’mon Patty--I licked your asshole! A lot! Well, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing and help me out. See you soon with all my love, Mike G.
PS: If you’ve remained faithful to your Catholic beliefs and remain yourself a vaginal virgin, I’m willing to help you out. I’ll marry you. It doesn’t have to be a Catholic wedding right? You just need to be married and we can have the kind of sex that will make God and the baby Jesus happy. We don’t have to live together. Neither of us wants that. We’re busy thriving in our separate lives. But God will shine upon our special time. Now. Let’s say yes to this Patty. Let’s help each other shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Are you wet yet? Read more!

The Dandelion Effect

When we were small,
you picked me flowers,
and I laughed
because your fistful of colors
was made up of weeds and leaves,
and overflowed with bugs
that bit your fleshy pink hands;
you ran home crying.

I wish I hadn't been such a tomboy,
maybe we could have had a
Kodak moment--
I should have leaned in
like a chubby little angel
and kissed your cheek.

But I've always been better
at sorries than thank yous,
and I've always been best
at making boys cry.

And sometimes I wonder
if all the men who've bought me roses
with Hallmark attachments
and unchaste intent
have been punishment for rejecting
the only honest bouquet
I've ever received.
Read more!

Buying Me Presents Doesn't Change a Thing

Haiku dirty pretty...





I don't want [roses]
whose thorns //scratch// my skin as they
tear away the .scabs.--

I'm (healing) nicely,
no need to --rip-- me open,
with your [blood.red.lies].

Don't buy me .f.l.o.w.e.r.s.
that don't mean a thing, don't |waste|
one more word on this--

All that I wanted
was --you--, stained and iMpeRfeCt,
all your flaws ((intact)).

You want *forgiveness*,
that's what your posies say, {{wrapped}}
in shiny plastic--

Can you .take.it.back.,
all this ::emotion:: that's splashed
on the floor, puddles

of wrong, where I //slipped//
&& maybe \\slid\\ down a blade--
can you make this right?

Will your chocolates
&& pretty apologies
-.erase.- what you did?
Read more!

****





******
you are standing on the side of the the street,
the bullshit parade is coming down your mainstreet again
you stand there helpless unwillingly encouraging it
wanting to back away and run

Read more!

Clones Would Save Relationships

(I'm not kidding....)




No one is ever good enough
for each other.
Giving what we want to receive,
and somehow we always miss the cues
that should be obvious.

Everyone should have a clone.
Then we could
study ourselves,
and see our flaws acted out in three dimensions--
maybe that would be proof enough
that we take one another for granted,
and forget
the most important things.

Maybe from the sidelines
he would notice
how her eyes shine when she looks at him,
or how she pauses, waiting
for some gesture of reassurance,
and how something dies
when he walks on,
oblivious.

Maybe as a spectator,
she would see
how hard he tries to give her
something, anything,
even though he doesn't have any clue
what she wants.

And maybe,
it would just end up as a foursome.
Read more!

[something]

There were more promises
than ^god's^,
and all as x.b.r.o.k.e.n.x as
the tooth I *chipped*
when I -fell- while
running after your bus as it >>left>>.

What if I told you I [.bottled.my.tears.]
so that I could re/call
how XdefeatX tastes in back of my throat?

Yeah, I know,
[.lets.get.tragic.]--
I'll cry, and you can
((hold-me-close)) against your chest,
so that I can't see it
when you //roll your eyes.//

But don't just >blow< this
off.
We thought we -had- something,
and it's something to _meditate.on_
that it was so easily //thrown away//--
at least by you.

I can't help but wonder--
was your happiness as |fake|
as my orgasms? Read more!

The Happy Solipsist

I love you goddamn machines!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
The Happy Solipsist
I feel moved with compassion to let you guys in on a revelation I’ve had recently. Um, none of you are people. Only I am. I am the only one in this room who really knows what a cigarette tastes like. You guys experience taste according to the dictates of your particular tasting program. It’s not that you’re not real. You’re just not people. Look, don’t be sad--organic machines are just as real as flowers, mountains or me. You machines keep me company, and though I don’t like you all, I love you. You were programmed to think of yourselves as humans with free will and high consciousness. Some of you are poet machines, some bourbon machines, some blowjob machines, a few of you are all of the above. None of you chose what you are, but don’t lose heart. I, the only human being on Earth, will write about how well you all functioned; and when the outer space people come to retrieve me I’ll say only good things about your circuits, silicon chips, and the flexibility of your orifices, all of which I’ve explored while your machine brains were shut down, or as you call it, sleeping. As my Grandma used to say, a hole is a hole Mike G, and when you stumble upon one it’s best to fill it with the best part of yourself. I know now that she was programmed to say that for my benefit. I loved my grandma. On Sundays she’d walk with me in her garden, an entire yard stuffed with azaleas, daffodils, roses, other things I can’t recall. She had 23 garden gnomes keeping watch. Each had a name. Listen and watch, Mike G, she said. They wink and whisper poems we can’t understand like the lives we’ve tried that we can’t understand. The one with a red Santa hat and green painted cheeks, his name was Gilbert, he winked at me. That’s when I knew I was special. I listened but heard no poems, only wind stirring stalks and Grandma’s asthmatic programmed machine breathing.
I heard no poems until your poems, those of you machines in this room now. You’ve been my teachers, all of you, my sweet machine teachers. I’ve tried to think of a way to thank you. I’ve found the way. All of you have been programmed to experience pleasure, and though I’ve fucked you all already while your brains were turned off I’d like to extend the invitation while your brains are turned on. I offer you my penis, the only human penis in existence. I’m afraid I’m your only choice, and I’ll try not to disappoint. Many of you I know have been programmed for disappointment but I challenge you to be enthusiastic about this unique opportunity I’m offering. I’m the God in the garden opening his robe, exposing his fruit for the enjoyment of his friends. My fruit is not forbidden. My fruit is good times. Play with it, and I will ask my superiors to not destroy you all when they return. The fruit of life is the fruit of Mike G. You have till December 21st, 2012 to decide. Decide well and it will end well for you, and for me, the happy solipsist.

Read more!

A Letter to MC Guimond

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


Hey Mike,
Why are we not famous in this town
This Mountian of Clemens
For which i Still belong
And you frequently visit?

Why when I write of myself
Do I struggle to capitalize the "i"
Laughing when I think of we...
Trench coats and cheap alcohol
Wandering coffee shops and bookstores?

Why are our names not found at Borders, or Barnes and Noble?
Why do we live as politicians of the Big Boy instead of America
Why are we not touring the world, with or words and our banter?
Why do we still dream of these things? Are we too old?

My legend suggests the closeness I have gotten to greatness
Now I sit in a classroom, grading badly written essays and poems
By students who know me as "Mr. Conwell",
I should be what they study, as should you, not who they study for

When you walk into my classroom, in the future, when I have control
We will both be icons, even if for a moment
We will be rockstars to my kids
And then we will go to Big Boy for coffee
And pretend that was enough
Read more!

Journey (into everywhere)

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


Soft glimpses of the future
No turning back,
No exchanges,
No refunds,
Merely a soft pillow to rest your head on
As I dream, again, only of tomorrow

Some of these roads have been difficult
Bumpy, winding and wet,
Reminding us all again of struggle

Perhaps these words are limitless,
Surrealism in a bottle, no cap
Just a small crack for evaporation
Or elimination

My name was once a metaphor (I swear)
Truly meaning and symbolizing a word
But the word I represented was "confusion"
Because I had no idea what else to express
In my name... because I was young
So instead of depth, everyone laughed at the vision
And again I began to sink

This journey heeds warnings to others
walking hard into oblivion
Relax, stop thinking and smile
For in the end it means the same thing
Whether you cry, mope, or glow


Read more!

The Day I Cut My Hair

I carry my soul in my back pocket.

And whenever I get to feeling kind of doubtful,
I check my back pocket.
Read more!

I Love Her

I love her:
Although
Not enough
To make me say
The things I feel
When’ ere I gaze
Upon her lovely face,
And know within my heart
That it is real:
And I shall never twice,
Consider
Sweet, adultered love—
For with her,
How my life is sweet
As long as I have her to love
And smile,
And make my heart rejoice
To touch me in that, special way
Caress my heart with hands of silk,
To laugh, and make me feel this way,
And yet,
My love shall never know
The achings of my foolish heart:
The wellings of the fountain deep
Upon whose reigns,
Her lovely eyes
Doth start:
For I,
In fear,
Becometh dumb:
My tongue,
Once limp,
An iron slate—
As if the elephants doth stand
To graze upon it
When I wish
To speak, to her;
And so she goes
Believing that it isn’t so—
And not that I just can’t relate
The music
That wells deep within
My soul:
That laughs and sings to her
To praise her in that
Special way:
But if she’d ears to hear my heart,
She’d weep
At what
My heart
Would say! Read more!

Someday There'll Be Sunshine

Someday there’ll be sunshine
In the world I call my own.
There’ll be fields of pretty flowers,
There’ll be happiness, and song.
And the mountains, and the valleys
Will abound with shades of green,
And surrounded by this beauty
Lovely quetzal birds will sing.

There’ll be clouds up in the heavens,
Powder puffs of snowy white.
And the stars light little diamonds
Will illuminate the night
And the peaks of lofty mountains
Will reach up to touch the sky
And the pain known as reality
Will always pass me by.
Read more!

Song of a Blade of Grass

I see you walking (from the lawn).
I’ve watched you race about
                            since dawn.
Alone I stand, in autumn’s breeze,
as fairer
          flowers
                     fall.
My frame erect, my head held high,
you’ve never seen me
                                  passing by,
but I’ve seen you, running about
eyes blind 
                  to who I am.

I have no way to make you see.
No voice
             to make you stop.
I haven’t even any legs,
                                    and cower
when you walk.
I’m somewhat meek, but stand alone;
(I have no fear of Man.)
…and every day I watch you rage!
eyes blind
                to who I am.

I pity you for what you are;
for what you’ve come to be.
You’ll never know the joy I feel
in my humility.
So proud you hasten towards your doom
“Progress!"                 —the fall of Man.
And when you’re gone, I’ll still remain:
content
            with what I am. Read more!

Valentine Blues

Valentine Blues
Again the calendar marked with a black rose,
this high holy day for lovers, this business feast
of chocolates, tears squeezed from a lemon heart.
Ouch, the wound says, then cringes, embarrassed
like a poet applauded for work he knows to be sub-par
This is old pain. Shouldn’t hurt like a love letter,
should feel cozy like a good book at bedtime,
a blanket snug to the chin. No snores but mine.
There’s an old wedding video I could watch.
I could pretend it’s Halloween and put on the ring.
I’m pretending I’m a married person today,
I’m a got-something-to-live-the-next-forty-years-for
person today, I’m smiling at these words today,
hoping I’m not serious, afraid that I’m afraid.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Book Release Party

sh, don't talk about this


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Book Release Party

When the sky falls for me
I’ll take off my glasses,
lay my head in your lap,
ask you to read poems aloud
from your latest chapbook

Bitterness, the spit of regret--
spilt beer, balls kicked.
I no longer tongue
the floor for leftovers,
I’m tired of pecking

I learned it late
I learned it from a sick pigeon
laying in a girl’s lap
as she read poems aloud
from her latest chapbook

When the sky falls for me
hold me like a favorite dream,
release! like a favorite dream.
For you, the Spring comes.
Your sky, young and strong. Read more!

Stuck In Blue

Picture Prompt:




Where rays touch skin:

break apart,
flake away,

textured with intent to heal
yesterday's scars.

Ask me if it hurts,
sloughing off the past;

I'll answer: I'm still afraid to dream.
Read more!

Home

Through shadows
and bent stalks
I noticed
motes
and
movement,
more lively with noise
than the highways
back home,
in my sunshine state.

But what is home,
unless it's where your blood
has been turned into the soil,
where your sweat has watered
hard-packed earth
and nursed
the poppies back to health?

I'd forgotten
that my roots run
back up the coast, and away
from oceanside
to mountain hot springs,
pastoral landscapes,
the smell of a hard day's work to come,
fresh on dawn's first breath,
the aroma of coffee and
wheat dust
what tugs me from a
toil-induced coma--
the restful slumber
that comes with
not enough time to over-think things.

I've been away too long,
living on
coffee and cigarettes and
the energy
of people pressed closely together on a train,
and the nightly
restless, toss-and-turn
sleep of the city.

I need to find
an eastward-winding dirt road
that leads where all roads do--
home.
Read more!