All posts in poetry

in the midst of a small noble con
don’t pleasurably passingly remark on
how absolutely breathtaking the happily-frustrated cerebral’s
spouse is
and ask about kids (they’ll presume
you’re after a child)

and

(unless death fascinates you) later
don’t answer the better-half’s bold question-
able looks (let them)

some days we’re all dragon
we bump into things

we open our traps to say something
silly, stupid, ordinary like
pass (hey) the (i) sugar (love) honey (you)
and the house burns down

and
look! (i) fucking (swear) look! (i) now (love) i’m (you) late! (sugar)
for work
and the house burns down
 
 
 
yeah…
i’ve been there

checked my claws too
wondering if this was real
if i was real
if i was among those monster things my parents spoke of

if i was them
 
 
 
yeah…
don’t worry
these’ll fix you right up
one prescription of flowers
and one worst night of your life

no, they won’t do you any good
actually, they’ll kill you
but it’s a good killing

… don’t tell anyone your doctor said that though
seriously

gloom’s moon

                                  (Is…
                                                          young, quaint, zonked-out;
                                                          ROGUISH XENOPHILIC COMIC!)

                                  kicks light, vaccinal, jewels
                                  through never-ending panes
                                  eagerly hoping we’ll…
                                                                                                  open up;
                                                                                                  sneak down for a bit

i don’t understand religious girls
who only expose themselves to boys
in locked rooms when the sun’s down

you are not sacred
and naked you are, beautiful
enough, this is fact

please open the curtains

there will come soft rains
and the rooftops will cry music

and the eukaryotes will dance

and not one will know of the music
not one of what was such soft rains

and the prokaryotes will dance

and, there will come soft rains
and rooftops and music

there’s something …about
sitting in a full room hungry

(no one will ever know) …about your this
personal sensation
(not really)
…this pathetic condition

masked through learned apathy
and a miserably inadequate smile

no one will ever know
(or care) about
the turmoil of You’re your
your stomach
(not really)
nor of much more

there and here
(there and here) you sit
hoping against hope
that it doesn’t
young man rumble

that while you stir
(in your chair
physical reflecting much more)
it doesn’t stir
like you (silly young you)
and give you away

for what you are

how noticeable
do the silent need to be
before they’re silent

keep on your toes child
there is always a cookie jar

an angel trips and falls
face first
into the mud
“clumsy me!”
rises (but not so high)
and lets the mud harden

and let us
the mud
harden

across the room, god
notices
lore
intentionality
love (not praise)
that heads have stopped turning
and exclaims
“why didn’t i think of that”

how horrible it feels to shell out
a moving life
time
creating ceiling light

(screwing a lightbulb is
a two part problem
play of
inspection and sadomasochism)

and to then find out
they
still
only want fire

tango
paso doble

hard wood floor dancing
ephemeral entertainment
that consumes itself

something they can clap
and cheer for

(ask anything of men
but don’t
ask them to look up)

the clapper marks the height
of civilization