Archive for August, 2011

Moving Into a Day of Nothing

Time blows away.
Head hurts like drinking days.
Taking so long to make coffee,
not the brewer but me to get it ready.
Cleaning the basket,
skipping heating the pot,
it takes too long.
The evergreen, the old toy tree,
the now stately king, is brilliant this morning,
shining in a fluorescent dance.
It takes so long and the green pains my eyes.
This is not what I want.
Taking too long,
the beans are ground
in fifteen seconds,
but the flakes are floating in every
mild spot on the counter
and it will take so long to pour
new grounds into the filter
in the basket without adding
to the messy counter.
The evergreen crawls inside me,
scraping the fungus inside my skin
and grinding my nerves
to nothingness.
When I finally push the button
to brew, relieved that coffee will be here soon,
and while I wait,
I’ll look for medicines
that will mend my broken wires.

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Before I Rot Away

I am a car wreck, and this feeling
comes along easily. I see smooth
granite, not knowing if it is granite
but feeling it is and studying its
perfection. I am a car wreck but
I disappear before the tow truck
gets to me. The light polls are
steady and stately watching over
people who are ugly, wearing
ugly clothes. I am a car wreck
and while the ugliness goes by
smoothly without question, I rip
my innards out and watch them
get rinsed down the lovely sewers.
I am a car wreck but does it
matter, while they eat their ice
cream and pat their flip-flops
on the mostly clean sidewalk?
I am a car wreck. It will pass but
not really. I wait for the other foot
that I am told not to wait for.
I am a car wreck. Won’t you
come clean me up before I
disappear, before I rot away?

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Watch Me Wave, Love My Soul

Empty hands,

should be moving

a piano,

heaving a computer,

over the edge.

The Art of Fugue drives me,

bounces me

to violent, good crashing.

Not as bad as I seem,

I love my Bach,

working to fire

the good into the blue bubbles.

Watch me wave,

love my soul.

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How Will I Shave When I’m Old?

Heavy, black
sweater, to the knees.
August, but styling with curls,
the kind I love to have
ricochet off my face,
but the arms are crossed,
malingering, perhaps in disgust
at the short, eager guy with vomit
turquoise shirt and solid kelly green tie
who reminds us: we love the man
in the fourth window from Main, in the musty
bank building with crumbling concrete killing
insects who are always busily hungry in August,
and the man, that broken down man, gone,
always wearing a brown sack over his head,
watching all of these bipeds cross here or there
before or after meals always on path to Starbucks,
leaving, the man, an eerily sick feel to the rest
of his office with pictures of a beautiful
family, too far away for us to judge, as I rest
to judge the man of more than 80 years who looks
to cross the street, I presuming he can’t walk,
seeing his blurry grey and white pigtail under the
beefiest black hat that stamps the man 40 years
younger, and when he crosses, he jaunts and jigs,
and I see all of the folds in his face and see myself
carved to bits from my razor, staring at massive puddles
of blood in my bathroom looking like a map of Minnesota,
and the Yellow Freight truck guy is trying to figure out
how to turn around in an opposite direction, he driving
so hard, he spinning the city I live in as I eat too many cookies.

+++++++++++++++++

I like all of the great things they do at dverse Poet’s Pub, and tonight, they have open link night, so I thought I should put one up. Check it out – There are amazing people over there.

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Take Me to the Hospital for Real

I had an appointment with the doctor today. She is in a new building, which I think is beautiful in a subtle way, not that she’s there but the building is beautiful. I had to go to the top floor and wait in the reception area.

In the old building, I sat in a Psychology Department mail room in one of two chairs and said hi to all of the nice people who always glanced at me with a troubled look. (I like to think it is because I didn’t brush my hair, but I think it is because they don’t think I’ll make it – Luckily, they’re just students.) So in the old place, I always felt like I was at home in an old musty INSTITUTION, just where I needed to be but not locked in. The only disturbing thing was that they had a sign at the entrance of the Buddhist Garden that said “Under 24-Hour Surveillance – Vandals will be prosecuted.” I think if Buddha saw that sign, he’d vandalize the garden for the fun of it.

Today, I felt like I was going into an empty, sterile place dropped out of the 50’s (mind you I am not trained as an architecture critic – I just admire the stuff from afar), and I had a feeling that if I went in, they would take my brain out and freeze it, which would almost be as bad as a lobotomy, but more successful. At any rate, while having these thoughts, I noticed with peculiar delight the two “Do Not Enter” signs which must be the most ill-situated signs of all time, not due to the message to the patient, but because these signs completely ruin the feel of the architecture. If I were the architect, I would come over at midnight and rip them out with my Dodge truck:

Building Ruined By Street Signs

And the tallest tree in the background of this next shot, beyond the walking bridge (why do we need those anyway? In case it gets below 40 Fahrenheit?) is the one that I thought was dead like my spirit was in April, but both it and I are doing better:

My tree, Alive and Very Well

And here is the view I was afforded as I was leaving – I worked a lot of years in the twin tower on the left, but they disposed of me without so much as a wink, which tends to diminish my level of self-respect:

My Old Workplace, Haunting Me

And then there is this last view – If  it were two stories shorter and didn’t have that appendage on the right, I’d swear it was a high school building from the late 50’s, and I think, you know what that means? The 60’s are coming soon. Hang tight!

1950's but for the jutting on the right

OK, I’m no photojournalist, but boy was this building singing such a woeful tune to me today.

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The Sewer Pipes Ain’t Shit

Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus...

Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Over the Top Tigers

I have answers for the questions, declarations
that will spit off my tongue like the tiger
jumping smoothly through hoops at the Ringling
Brothers show. I know the good is fake created
by a frenzy like tomato soup boiling with a canister
of salt. Cruel when frenzy creates good, but it’s fake good
and when the frenzy stops, when my mind rests,
it plunges into the darkest of the sewer pipes
that by rights are too old to hold water, pipes leaking
into a terrible, brown river that is missing its bubbles,
white bubbles. The deeply buried pipes cannot carry
my rested sickness. It is the same as what everyone has,
but mine grips hard and pulls chains tightly around my brain
as if in the tug-of-war for right to die, and I lean back
and know that I have no right to be, wondering when
the pipes will finally steal me, roll me slowly, densely,
in the terrible, brown river.

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Empty Missions After Rush Hour

The rigors of the day
are upon me. Folks busily
marching to no place, thinking
mission critical, the beautiful
people, perfect and the Wal-Mart
people, perhaps not perfect,
almost Raggedy-Anne-like,
and then the lady with shockingly
white legs that turn so magnetic
when she returns, after the storm
has descended upon us, and finally,
the robiton with short hair and short
skirt, shaking her head, avoiding
the crossing traffic, rush
hour having been so unfairly,
and psychotically hectic
for a Friday.

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Particles Collect and Defend Me

There is that ocean,
larger than you can imagine,
telling me how wrong I am,
how I never say the right thing,
how people think I am such
an ass, and how can I still love
my job when I’m such an ass.
Then these particles collect
and defend me, and they tell me
I’m not as bad as I think, that
there may be someone who
likes working with me, and I
just long to hear that.

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Fondue Pot Face

This ain’t no poem,

and now I feel
better, you?

Mountains of cookies,
inedible, floating just at the bottom
of consciousness. I’m mad, but it
shouldn’t hurt you, and your mouth
might be agape, you finding I function
at times (surely not now).

I’m up and
down. You know that, so why waste
my ink when I’m a rag worse than the
paper I write on.

The wind is dry and
soft, marinating my hair, readying
me for fits when someone speaks
truth. All that was ever good, that
will ever be good (about me) melts
in the fondue pot that the crazy
burglar holds, ready to smash
my face good.

I share with you
about my fears so that I might
cut them in half, but instead,
they swallow me whole.

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Repeated Tremelos of Bottoms Not Departed

So you fuckin promised me, or was it I
who promised me? It’s a sea of trillions
of paperclips, not one the same size as
any another, as little tearful, grotesque,
moldy parts of me slither all around all
of their metals until consciousness, she
crashes me hard with realization that I
am all hate, full of inability to migrate with
my fellows, and today, I have nothing to
wash away the insanity, the hate storm,
but the weather today was so fine.

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11 Comments

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