Archive for December, 2012

Where Did My Friends Go?

I hide from my friends.
They circle like airplanes
in the fog of Pearl Harbor
battles and the radar

is fucked, so they’re
sharks, and I’m in
the tower, but they’ve
tossed me in the basement,

or I’ve tossed myself,
and I’m cargo like
destroyed Buddhas
rolling off runways

into dense thickets
of barbed wire from
camps where when
we’ve lost our purpose

we’re carted off to die,
and I feel my face,
screaming at the fear,
as I’m chewed up by a

G.E. engine, splatting
and splashing droplets
falling near my scattered
friends.

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19 Comments

The New Encroachments

The giant orange bear
eats pink frosting. He flies
with torn and hidden wings,
painting evergreen needles until they
die, until they fall away to the forest floor,

and they grow the earth with the detritus
of the greedy bear. His paint, a dark oil,
covers all that is near, and each day,
he works mightily to grow bigger and
bigger, and the needles, they protest

like sheep, perhaps silently, as they fall and
tumble to their deaths, those tender moments
feeding the orange furry mess with swords
for claws. The giant orange bear demands
that the needles move in ways they can’t

move and demands that the needles
not move with the wind, but instead, that
they cater to his regulatory whims, which do
nothing but twist the needles so they suffer
poignantly before their ultimate oily deaths.

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4 Comments

The Mind’s Empty Darkness

Compelled by absence
from my pen
the poison of a slated trap
of an iPad keyboard,

Shitty one word thoughts,
I read, I stop reading,
I read, I tell others
to read.

I want to learn, become real,
but the grease of a refinery
broken down by deadly fog
has stilled my mind
so I am fearful of the empty notebook.

I order myself to write
an essay on the deleterious
squeeze of a persistent depression,

but I cave to a fear of narcissistic
rage, so how can I help? I hold
out my hand and I should cure

the mud from millions of horses
in a wet November Ohio valley.
I should sweep away the bags
of compost from the surface

of my almost-human construction,
and after all, I need to go read,
to go learn
before I ever write again,

and pray that death will
not stop my project, that
someday I might write.

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15 Comments

Back Into

It’s a brand new day, a new job.
The waterfall is brilliant, but the chatters
are annoying the hell into me,
testing my patience with humanity,
but I’ve coached myself
to be compassionate,
so I let the voices commingle
with the tumbling water.
My brain starts to hurt.

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9 Comments

Demanding Music

Demanding music
is my fuel.
Right now.
Look at the orange
bag, the dirty beard,
the cigarette disintegrating
the human,
the white shirt
with loud
wrinkles, blocked by the angry
truck. Listen
to that
beat.
Drive me to the end
of a scummy
day. Be mean, but hide me
from the mean, hide
me in the closets
of office death.
Crunch me.
Hammer me with that strange
beat,
“Back with another one of those
block rocking
beats.” Steal me
from my insanity and dump
me in the gutters
of leftover humanity swimming
for the meat,
for the currency.
Spear me
with the orange cones.
Tear out
my heart and liver.
Blow my brain into the guts
of the amplifier, seal me
for another era.
Demanding music
is saving me
again.

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16 Comments

Commute with Elephants, Here Comes the Resignation

Round the corner decently, crawling, clawing
from the pre-dawn darkness and a cold garage.

All of the shades of god cover this season so
no joy shall be allowed unless you’re a Black

Friday dog with big plastic, and yes, round
the corner smoothly, but the first human to be

seen is mad as hell, sends a wicked ugly glance
with stalagmites of rotting claws made of rusted

iron gates, and it might be racial – the first
human wants to kill me – but I won’t let her.

Yet, here comes the resignation, the day being
stopped dead in the horror of swimming in

waves of elephants marching to jobs in hellish
boxes spitting out orange monkeys slashing

your tires, hoping you’re fired for not showing,
for not punching the clock, but if the tires get you

there, you shall be the punching bag. Pretty
ladies, three on the way from the work

garage and I wish they would take me away
to their soft world where we could be free.

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4 Comments

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