Archive for June, 2012
Smash Me, I’m Sick
Posted by Carl in Finding Purpose, Poems on June 28, 2012
Not Writer’s Block, I start,
no, self-hatred, lack of balance,
and you can beat yourself,
waiting for another 2%,
beat yourself silly,
lose your love, lose
your kindness,
your beauty,
watching yourself hating
the world, the people,
the beautiful people,
hiding in your dark
closets, 22 minutes
per day, and your brain
is pummeled and out runs
your patience, your
love, and you say,
I quit but you can’t.
My Time Is Damned
Thinking about time again,
how I waste time thinking about her,
time that is, and then I get shitty
philosophy spasms, realizing
almost all of my time is spent
not being consciously focused
on the things I like to spend
my life doing, but rather,
I piddle and I piddle and I piddle
Like a shitty little Thanksgiving elf,
and I know why nothing is good
inside my mind, and time runs
by as I nurture the depression
which curdles all of my time.
.
Conversation in a Steady Car
He awakened to a piercing honesty while driving his battlefield sedan. He spoke in stilted and jumbled syllables with buckets of um’s, speaking to one whom he loved and one who was highly critical of people who don’t speak the King’s English.
Maybe the listener wasn’t critical today, but it made the speaker’s tormented soul regretful of his honest exploration.
“I hurt, and I know I shouldn’t hurt, but regardless of my solid rationality, I can’t remove the hurt, and it sticks and sticks.”
“It takes skill.”
The road was rough. It was flying by in terrible grays and all of the light-colored automobiles were trying to strike dead our floundering speaker and his tormented soul.
“I’m working on it. I am learning that it is not always all my fault.”
The hotels and the commercial buildings rose from the high vegetation which had started to slow with the heat of June and the mop head of river waters hanging in the air.
Perhaps the honesty was worthwhile.
I’m human, kind of, he thought.
.
The Power of the Great – Monday’s Donation to the Opponents
Scorching cries, skin flows.
Shy, fairness never arrives.
Stuff broken red teeth,
beg for nothing, statues blue,
not trophies, but love towers.
Grappling with tattered
fame, losing murky powers.
Growing ego soothes,
removing struggle and grays.
Free fall, same right, left, no push.
.
Beethoven, Watering the Judgment Fires
The man at the bus stop,
the perfect Blinky-The-Clown,
but with red, curly hair
extending out like fluffy
wings and the smooth bald spot,
not so spiffy in his gray sweats,
bouncing to and fro, left and right,
in a tremendous display of perpetual
motion, and I observe with shocking
alacrity that he is successfully
keeping time with the
Beethoven
Rondeau
ringing my ears
with joy.
.
After Lunch, When I Felt Not Real, Perhaps Dead
She walked with a pronounced
limp. Despite that,
I thought everything
would work out.
That’s silly,
but there was a streetscape
topped with beauty.
The black curls were bouncy, variable-
speed like fake rubber. No, she marches
upright, seriously real. I need to
dance but I am alone.
stillfugue 