Tails on the cattle are
busy with insects, but
I saw happy wags and
love, bovine care, passion,
while sicking myself from
murdering a bird, the pain
glued to the radiators
in my stomach, and Harry,
he shook her, snapped her
neck and what choice
did I have, her last swallows
of universe, shouting me down
in heart stop time, as I may
not eat steak, as like
a vicious crow, I dive
back to my nest, waiting for
a shovel to end me.
Too, so soon, too.
Hearing insanity toiling
through the moving wall
that pulses in astonishment
though expresses no emotion.
All of this soupy mess is mine.
Birds fly into
concrete, but none
near my house,
and where does
this purple reality
get shot from,
this one which
Do not write.
There is nothing
worthy in my palette
when I don’t
describe my dark
universes, and all
the dirty dishes
come back dirtier,
less shapely, less useful.
No more terrifying
hatred, sir? These dank
alleys where my chaotic
paths lead, I shall
There are these short stints
in my life when I feel rather okay.
These are not at all common.
When they come, I am a satisfied
pig watching with a flat
temperament the chaos that raises
my boat. The water rises so high,
the landmarks disappear
but my fear remains repressed, for I
have cases of Hershey’s Almond
Chocolate bars, 36 in each case, and I feel
myself spectating at the odd
feeling of not being disappointed
in myself for eating a whole case
at a time, more often than not.
My last short stint started
last Wednesday, but now, it’s terrible,
my boat is sinking and I’ve stopped
eating the chocolate. No matter.
You cannot make me fearful,
for I am writing.
There are these long stints
in my life when the darkness
permeates everything. The last one
ended last Wednesday, but it lasted
so long, nine weeks, and there were
two days when I was reaching down,
clutching my hair in desperation,
but calmly embracing suicide’s horns.
The last long stint was overwhelming
and stifling because I felt as though
I couldn’t write a word. Writing is a vent
and I want it back soon.
Slight changes in the breeze
coming from the North, wood
block sound chunks from
shutters. It was the
anticipation, breath stolen
by fear and if it wasn’t
next time, it would
be soon, but we could
never hold steady
waiting for any good.
Some days, the love
pierced through her
Detroit armor, her
French denial, some
days, she loved her
own children having
sprayed and cooled the
coals covering her middle.
The black on the coal grey screen said 9:08, confirming ugliness in the truth of being. Failure drips down, seemingly from hair follicles that have tremors. She was smiling in the room with glass corner until she glanced at him as he sailed the hallway, and he knew the screen on the phone on his desk would show bad news. He had been hoping for 9:03 or 9:04 after seeing her violent eyes. As it is, there is no defense. He had promised her that he would arrive by 9 AM each morning, agreeing that this was entirely reasonable. He failed, failed, failed, and today there was clarity to the failure. Even the most simple parts of life squeeze and expand the pulpy mind of consistent failure. This is not a decent man, so it may be a terrible way to start our fictional dig into psychological essay about what it is to be a decent man. We will find out despite his failures.
Today, my journey was the usual,
the daily, each day heading for home,
finding home hidden from me seeing
vegetable stands in bombed buildings,
watching plywood work it’s way
to shelter me from the innocent,
locking me away with crooked beasts
who have steel pipes pulled from
the structure of nothingness, ready to
beat me thoroughly, and I stare
at the vacant parking lot with black
sewage toppings, knowing there is no
warmth, knowing it’s no home of mine
but wanting to be flattened under the
sewage and the two smashed eggs.
Motor-mouth machine, what part
of me believes, hopes for happiness
or peace? From mean to easy, neither
works, for punk am I, from the long, wavy
chords in Beethoven’s Number Two, his
weakest, but so powerful, stretching to dive
into a bar of the music and live there,
hide there, never come back, but I am being
a restless dog, first shaking, moving almost
a century to Mahler Number Tnree, and it’s
here that self-pity reigns and crashes in on the
senses, the false triumphs, dogging my ugly
lack of talent, forcing me back to now
where nothing can be good, not even
my favorite music. I whisper desires to drop
dead and slink away as odorless gas, with
or without music. Mahler, buddy, I am
gone and can’t come back. Scream, Mahler!
Crawling bears wade
gracefully, almost inside
the fused pieces of blacktop
as I ask god, my neck like
a garden hose lost in thin,
light clouds which hide
the screaming, fierce opposition,
the devil, please god, intercede
for me, help me discover
my own center, don’t allow
them to drag me to my cubicle,
as terrible music stings my ears,
traffic from neighbors pauses, and my
dusty black car hops on the backs
of the bears, as I feel already roasted,
yes, toasted, unable to jump out,
unable to find my exit.
Whisps of gray poison slink
proudly, quietly around the gray
cubicles, melting marble chords of
self-esteem, directing my crouching
character until like the innocent
charcoal translucent in the waves
of masterful ocean, I am
slammed against the fearless,
tarnished pavement of the walls
of an empty closet and the boss
shreds me, rolls the wads of me down
a chute to a table full of emotional
indigestion, across from an old, rotted,
scrunchy man, mean man, impolite, mouth
sealed as he is served by hippies, and I
think it’s okay, no bitterness, he’ll die very
soon, and wilting, I know it is true
for all of us.