Archive for September, 2011
The Walmart Ceiling Be Not Safe
Marching, dancing,
marching is best.
Ding-a-ling Walmart,
Bad, slick, bad,
perceiving this, no,
but fire trucks,
purple batons,
up and down,
hammer down,
backbeat,
up and light.
Forward, nowhere here,
up and down,
and pissy pimping,
creepy-crawly,
finding truths,
exploring delight.
But you are blind
so the engines
keep on pumping
up and down.
Spirit floats
above the wet blankets,
and the Walmart ceiling
will not be safe.
500!
Seriously,
this is my 500th post,
and all I ever wanted to do
is to write one good piece,
to feel the feeling of one
bountiful creation.
I’ll keep trying
thanks to the beautiful
the kind and generous,
the open-minded people
who visit,
and cheer me on.
Rah!
Keep the faith!
I can always say
it will be better tomorrow.
Being Gassed by the Aquarium
Twirlers, tish, tish, tish.
Clydesdale, Golden Retriever,
She is chomping at the leash,
bobbling up and down,
a beautiful creature
being gassed by the aquarium
of tall buildings swarming
with engines crawling
around on wheels.
Her owners, looking around,
looking up – They think
life beautiful too, enhanced
by their Golden Retriever,
but they’re killing her,
essence and all.
Truthfully, with lonely envy,
I only want the Golden
to come visit me in my office
and stay with me forever.
Dancing While Weeding
It’s what grown-ups do,
I tell myself,
but I’m no grown-up.
Yanking at weeds, shaving the lawn,
buzzing the bushes,
so everything is boxy.
It’s what grown-ups do
while sticking their chest out.
But I am a kid,
bouncing like a clown.
The Prodigy,
a blip from my war chest
of 8 Gig’s of MP3’s,
impetuous, silly
dance music,
blasts, erupts my brain,
and nothing else encroaches.
Surely causing old-age deafness,
but the price is so worthwhile.
Dancing, what kids dance to,
but I’m not slick.
I am in the mud
and lost in the suburbs.
As my body moves, I’m cognizant
of its intelligence, far more
vast than that in my skull,
I laugh at my grayness
as I contemplate where
I would be,
not wanting to be nagged:
Alone in a dark spot, being a child,
reading that day’s favorite book,
imagining having a life
as one of the beautiful
or even as one of the ugly,
but imagining having a life.
Berating myself,
prompting spiritual knowledge:
You don’t have a life;
you are life.
I am no life.
When a child, I am,
I am life as a child,
but when a grown-up,
faking grown-up might it be,
I have a life, more like have an
existence, a death,
but why do I resist
these things of grown-ups, why can’t I
accept my existence as an American
in 2011? Perhaps it’s those brilliant books
that poison me, that show me how foolish
it is to be grown up in a post-modern melee
of a shitfest, as my neighbor, Harold, assists:
he’s riding his fucking lawnmower,
his pale red, Sears Craftsman riding mower,
up and down the street.
No shit, up and down the street,
like he’s in the parade,
wearing his Safari hat, waving me over
to gossip, but my music’s too loud,
and I can’t interrupt my work,
and he fucked me over
about a tree, two years ago,
but I feel bad about my
anti-social sheen.
And a man, surely off-course
because he’s in a new, maroon Audi
nearly hits Harold,
but Harold waves,
like Hi there, Farmer John-
in-the-brand-new-Audi.
I push my cheapo mower
hopping donkey on my feet,
unusually not giving a shit
if the neighbors feel I’m cracked,
but feeling grown up,
feeling dead to life
like carbon fiber,
I’m proud of my boxy yard.
My Bruised Soul Settling Gently In My Shoes
A slow walk preceded my surrender. It was not a good surrender. It was not smooth.
There was a heavy gas full of sludge from the old steel pipes and it wilted my innards.
I sat down. I watched my empty plate, wondering why the surrender was so slow. I sat back in my chair and I felt my insides dripping into my tennis shoes. I picked up a blue, plastic cup, needing to drink slowly because my hand was shaking.
I want to be worthy of my sufferings, but I have no self-worth despite a sharp attempt at a positive self-awareness.
I was kicked a lot today, just like that poor frightened dog that I met at the shelter. Getting kicked should not diminish my value, but that is what I’ve witnessed, and my shoes were filled with the rotten innards, the distasteful, diseased cells of a madman.
I’m desperate to rise above this asinine victimhood, to have meaning in positive contribution to a good thing somewhere in my world, but I sit here without initiative, without the will to move.
Like a Frozen Man Like a Dog in Siberia
I was reading delicately with a swift sort of consciousness. Consuming the words almost as if I am saying them aloud, which can only be done with the best authors, and who has time for the other authors? There are too many best authors.
Inability to proceed with meritorious selection, this is what makes me a tired loser. I was broiling the fact that when I put words together, the experience is not as productive as when I read them. I imagine myself with my mouth open, standing at the side of the highway, immersed with the visions of shiny plastic things zooming by, knowing that I will always be the witness and never be a shiny plastic thing.
Then I say I need dedication to a purpose in life because lacking that, those are the times I reel for things that can end the vacuum that sucked my soul out and spat it back into my face. I’m on the side of the highway and all of the people who do not want trash in their cars are throwing cans and bottles and McDonald’s cups at me, and their aim is perfect. I wonder how they never miss at life and all I do is get smashed.
That’s a normal day. My nightmares are killer. Last night, I was stuck somewhere in my backyard in the low parts of massive mounds of dirt, pushing an artillery cannon around because the big white worms who disappear on command and then show up on the other side of town were surrounding my house, and they told me that if I stayed there, I would pay with squashed guts and other stuff happening to my skull, but if I tried to escape my house, I would be shelled until all there would be is liquid flowing slowly down the street
So I thought I might close my mouth and mix a little writing into my life and see what happens. Strap me on to one of those plastic suburban vans with my fingers pinned by the sliding doors and watch my hair fly as I take a pen with my mouth and I write a story or I write a picture or I write about the thickness of disease that is inside of my head, or best of all, I write about all of the beautiful people who have the perfect aim in life and none of the dastardly chemicals that freeze a man like a dog in Siberia.
Rattled Orange
That orange man.
His headlight, bright, behind me.
His bad ass.
I yield
to his megalomaniacal pathway.
He has his five-digit number,
big and black on his massive orange.
His tattoos are funny,
stretched by muscle-building,
but prison isn’t funny.
He’d pick me up, one hand,
squashing my midsection,
and he’d laugh as the white worms
squirt out my nose and ears.
But orange man couldn’t take my prison.
Sure, he survived Leavenworth,
and now he rattles civilians,
but my prison would flatten him,
him and motorcycle, no thicker
than a Costco catalogue,
and best for us, before he’s flat,
in my prison, we long
for someone to kill us.
Silent Death Befriends the Stormy Bureau
Emptiness sneaks in
under the door.
All should be fine
in a bluish cool office.
There are swarms,
hundreds of keyboards
being hammered
by wicked digits.
Then the jazzy ticking
from an oil drum
near the river bottom,
calling for complete change.
And the air conditioning
is a southern storm
with tornadoes
and no sirens.
My Blanket Has Announced Its Return
An inconsequential flock of geese
came by to tell me it’s coming.
I love fall but I hate
the heavy, wet, wool blanket.
Not as graceful as the geese
and desirous of destruction,
my blanket wants me gone.
Forever. Into nothingness.
This morning, I swim inside
forests and above warm hills,
feeling a part of it all,
not failing, but then
there is that one human who tells me,
who cages me and hangs me
out to dry so all the beasts can feed,
and I am gone.
I try to come back.
I try to survive,
but I’m made wrong,
and I drown
in the hatred of the beasts.
Recovery? No Chance
Harvesting emptiness through trees with no contrast,
a metal plate from a dumpster blocks the blood to my head,
and inside the skull, the tiny white worms, who only spread so far
in a year, are shaving what’s left of the inspired part, the part
that kept me alive until this moment when it gave in to pulls
of all the trees who know how to live, who know how to sit
in quiet, not brooding about their situation in life but laughing
at us who are filled with the white worms, who have no chance.
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