Archive for March, 2011

Flying Inside of You

Stretching obstinately,
proving to you that I can manage flying powerfully
through the friendly universe,
listening to a spirit from tall balloons
telling me freedom allows me to travel anywhere,
and happiness might always lie there.
Dreaming of brooms with sharp Michigan tornadoes
rolling through steamy purple clouds running uphill
toward a castle made of velvety moss and soft stairs
in greens and pinks found only in South America,
allowing me to encase myself with the most
intense passion, compassion, kindness,
and love for you without any regard for anything else
in the whole bag of tricks, all of which being irrelevant.
I long for your forgiveness and I may be deserving.



I thought this might be a good submission for One Shot Wednesday. Go check out all of the wonderful work happening over there.


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Dangerous Bubbles by City Building

Mark was looking thoughtful, crooked neck with green eyes zooming in on sky, leaning left, right, left in the middle of a gravel parking lot. He has a way of consistently looking pensive. He often scrubs his chin with extended fingers and looks to the sky for all of the answers. Mark is sober, but his son isn’t.

There was a lady walking in the alleyway. She appeared to be intent on selling her ass so that she could acquire her next round of heroin. She scared me, but she’s probably nice. Where would she be if she was not doing what she’s doing?

I felt compelled to get in my Ford, head for home, eyeballs looking steadily at the tremendous inner tubes attached all around the car, wanting to dive back into Anne Sexton’s experience, her complete poems, in my sleek and slightly dark den. Anne talks to me about all of the dangers, and she survived so many of them. She helps me think of surviving danger by putting it on paper, away from the soul.

Cover of "The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton...

Cover of The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton

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Sharp Pieces of Jug

If the plug is in the jug, does the stuff rot?
My malady lingers, but I see the rest of you recovered.
I want past tense too.
How would the room smell
if I threw the jug against the wall and there was spray?
All of the jugs left my world in the blackest of minivans,
and peace came and made my senses waiver like a butterfly.
The rest of you manifest so beautifully.
All the pieces of jug continue shattering my mind,
and until I clean my mind and kill it with drugs,
the flowers in my bed will be dying and laughing.


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Etude for a Fool in a Castle

I’m staring at the topic angrily.
Beetles are eating the cheese
while sitting in the purple grass.
The odd dog looks wrecked and tart.
He watches the gravel fall from the tree.
An airplane moves roundly,
tasting the peachy boat.

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Surviving on a Late Thursday Afternoon

Blooming tulips loving frozen drain pipes.
It’s cold here.
Tonight, we are hoping for miracles.
She always has schemes for survival.
You’re cleared for takeoff.
It might snow this weekend.
How’s business over there?
The traffic’s been light.
You must tell me about apples.
These things comfort my soul.
All of March should be a lion.
April should be a whale.
Whales are entirely loving.
May is a hyacinth blue moose
because I was born in May
on the day Lindbergh landed in Paris.
Defend yourself. Man-up.
How do you spell Katet?
HAHA! I’m a 21st Century Poet,
not fox. You better watch out.
I might post it.


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Wednesday Morning Soundscape

Swimming waves of divergent black wools.
Human chattering.
And then it is all chattering everywhere.
It’s noise of harms of half-large self-importance.
Billions of layers of chattering, thicker than god.
Clicking of heels.
Sound is not studied when it is our own.

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‘Cool’ Post-Modernist Architecture

Convoluted, dirty glass.
Tan plaster leans.
He doesn’t want to see your face again.
Windows to the souls are clean.
More towering glass stands behind
as if modern culture
is the only core for humanity.
Doesn’t seem possible.
Seems to be a cesspool.
Walk, slowly, the diluted pastures.

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Four Pieces from a Difficult Day

I feel shame at my missing discipline.
Take the top half of my skull,
put it on the tip of the helicopter blade.
The air is cool and chilling to what’s left.

Discerning the wind traveling
carefully and confidently
across the field of brown grass,

and she, the wind, lifts one eyebrow
in a knowing manner.

(With wistfulness)
I get to smile at my worthlessness
when someone calls me because they don’t want to be
in trouble.
I’m not good with the people who don’t care about trouble.
Luckily, people who don’t care don’t call,
and I get to write sterile e-mails.

I smile at the others who think something I do matters
to anyone.
I smile at myself for thinking it matters,
sitting in my cage,
my rattled cage of empty purpose.

(As a Funeral March)
I try to walk slowly, deliberately show peace,
allow my powerless brain to crisply
accept the sheets of disease,
use music to shut out the world,
meditate for a cure.

The trains are rusted,
and creaking and
the tracks are
winding and

All looks like a kaleidoscope, conglomerate of beads,
a melee, a funeral march for creeping rotted ant carcasses.

(As Fast As Possible)
When my heart hurts in gripping severity,
I’m in an alley from an action movie,
but there is no escape, no hero.
I prepare myself to be crushed.
I do most of the crushing myself.
And I crash there in puddles of waste,
craving for it all to end quickly,
longing for blindfold, firing squad.

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The Bats Fly Hard

Sliding terror for a hollow day
full of some blue and cold winds
with crazy mice who swim.
There is gray in the world,
told it is dangerous,
not life but people,

poisoning my eyes,
making my brain dance
after midnight
with pink life preservers

But the bats fly hard.
They fly steep,
these bats,
dancing with jiggers of scotch
crystal clear red eyes exploding.


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Fog Coat on Crisp Day

The day was brilliantly crisp. My disposition was the opposite and felt heavy in contrast.

His fog coat was chaotically draped and covered any hope for order to the day.

We look for signs, and when they aren’t there, we may know it is okay, but our stomachs fall on the floor and dance with the mouse shit.

The five trees were depressed, lacking medication, and one of them was clearly growing down and back into the ground. The dog scuffled around the trees anxiously with her nose to the ground, stopped, pointed with her right paw, tweaked her ears, and thought she had something, but she did not.


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