Archive for January, 2012
While Daisy and Pixie are Playing
Despair sits on the pink leather
in my nose and tickles
the back of my throat
while Harry-The-Dog
lounges upside-down
in the pea-green leather sofa,
and Buddy-The-Dog
crawls like a snail,
sideways, lurching forward like a turtle
in a bath of surreal Blue Jay feathers.
And Buddy-The-Dog announced,
“My leg hurts.
Does that…
make sense?”
I said, “Of course it does;
you’re speaking English,”
and Harry-The-Dog moaned
over the difficulties of life –
A real moan like from a bear
who cares never to be disturbed.
I want to accept Despair’s
desperate, nerve-wracking
toggles with her fountain pen,
and I tell her, “You’re just a story;
you are not who I am,”
and Buddy-The-Dog,
he wags his tail vigorously,
and Harry-The-Dog asks me to scrub
the persistent baby snot off my face.
Gracie-The-Dog is the queen
of serenity, and she sleeps through
all of the commotion
caused by Despair’s ruthless burglary
while Daisy-The-Dog and Pixie-The-Dog
wrestle in turmoil through the guest room,
hopelessly heedless of the terrible
Storm that surfs, close-by to the North.
The Setting Noonday Sun
There is that feeling.
It is right now.
I don’t understand;
Now is the end.
Sunday, it happened
while I walked into
the low winter sun,
setting at Noon.
I’ve been in the end
for weeks, perhaps
all of my days; the end is now,
but where is it?
Is it that low sun
or my wicked chemicals?
I’ve been at the end
forever, but I hope
I’m beginning now.
Such a slight hope.
Flatlining on Cold Metal
Cold metal,
round spot grips,
my work stairs.
Remember the smell
of your most stale,
your most flat beer ever?
That is I, flat beer.
January 19th, and
New Year’s goals,
flatlining, one to not hate
on myself so much,
but how not to hate
when failure
is so loud,
so early in the game,
before a penalty
can even be called.
At least I’m writing,
again.
The most shitty kind,
but I’m writing.
And I’m working so hard,
I forget how to write,
but I’m so good
at being worthless,
tallyho.
Estate Salers in Kill Mode
Today, a big charity truck came on our street. He was religious and ignorant.
He was big and white with a baby painted on him with tattered white blanky,
and he ran over 19 of the people who were eagerly looking for artifacts
to buy for next to nothing. If not priced at next to nothing,
the estate runners would bicker and fight and squabble and shake their heads.
Some left without treasure,
terribly frustrated and angry.
Some left with pieces of junk.
The ones with junk
left with things in their hands
so they could feel
joy in raping old peoples’ things.
They tore the place apart and took things
that would icily erase another human.
Things that serve only as
acquisitions in mad rush
to avoid death and her love.
They were proud, but the truck hit them hard, lots of smooshing bodies
brightening the streets, and they won’t do the estate sales again.
Willingness – Part II
The monkey was not aware,
but I was prepared.
Not wanting to move into the day,
I said let me be patient.
I don’t know why the monkey is slow.
If the disturbance is frustration
with terribly-unaware, marinated monkeys,
the solution is patience and tolerance.
The Brontosaurus was eager
to flatten me like thin roast beef,
but the solution is the same,
and get out of the way, if you can.
Run, run, run away,
and dip toes gently in the ink,
and float above,
sprinkling sand on the monkey,
sand from the eternity of my peace.
Unique Terminal King Sick
Yesterday, a man from Western Kansas
at our gathering, wanting to show how kingly he is.
I welcome him, sure, but I don’t want a king who ignores serfs.
We were serfs in a circle, longing to tell our stories,
but the king shook his head, pushed back his hairline,
stared at his shoes. The king was proud,
having something evil in front of him, something dying
by the king’s throttle, something making the king shine.
In nasty blunders, some told him he was miraculous
with such a brilliant uniqueness. It went around sick like this,
and the king continued to regret his presence at our gathering,
dismissing us and the boredom we brought to him.
Perhaps karma soaked him with hatred of our souls
because the hatred seemed to poison his own soul.
stillfugue 