Archive for February, 2013

The Birds Mock Me, But Harry Loves Me

Wandering madness catches me briefly
after I skip exercise, after I stress over
my lack of discipline, and the birds come around,

they mock me, but it’s not personal,
and the pigeons vibrate detestably, so I
send Harry through the sliding glass door, and

while he smiles, he makes a lazy but quick lunge
at the pigeons, causing me to wonder whether they
can take off quickly enough, but they plod like

C-130s and off they go, and I wonder, where do
they go with such sloppy bodies. My enjoyment
of Harry’s antics, his smiles and circling tail, his

wiggly glances, sideways, quizzing my sleepy stare,
my enjoyment chugs uphill, fights my shame,
and I stay right here with Harry,
for a moment.


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Right-Sizing Traps Part III

After the meeting, I shrink to the screamer.
My brain withers against a firm spiritual
admonition. “Who are you to claim
you know,” I choreograph psychotically and

I grip tightly and label this a reverse form
of pride, a pride where I buffer myself
in a pocket of air, claiming my knowledge
as being on a higher mountain top, knowing

I’ve never been to the mountain top, knowing
I’m inadequate to the test, knowing that I have
no clue, acting as if I give the clues, but
the screamer is the ass, and I must work

on not hating, knowing that the unknowing
are fine because I’m with them. My pride
must shrink and I must mix like water
allowing the silt of the meeting to settle,

vowing to be compassionate for all
regardless of the their states of knowing,
not hating myself for my comprehensive
lack of knowing, my fear of hell.


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My Day in Tricky Bullets I

  • Empty mind, the goal, but interference.
    • Dog man, dog man, listen to that shitty music, don’t listen to that shitty music, just let that shitty music float through and cause you to vibrate, dog man.
    • What would guru guy think about how empty my mind is, but if I wonder that, it, the globby mind not my wonder, is filled with egotistical motives and pollution swarms, blowing circuits.
  • For a moment, as smart as the five dogs, but Harry looks at me.
    • Get your shit together, he says. I’m hungry and you need to quit fucking around.
    • Pixie loves me, but she’s only looking for a surprise for her breakfast.
      • No surprise, she toys with the others because dog food sucks.
      • Gracie does not chew Pixie’s head off. I don’t know why.
  • Idea for poem trickles in as I am busy feeling ashamed for not emptying the mind, feeling dizzy with the wheels of insanity trying to trick me into losing my place in the world, threatening to make me forget who or what I am, threatening to remove my sense of the calendar, threatening to incapacitate me and bend me over the edge of the sink under the rag infested with the rottenness of old kitchen mess. I am ashamed of my diseased self.
    • An unbearably sweet girl on the roof downtown throwing rocks.
    • Maybe 20 stories.
    • Maybe pebbles, but more rock-like because they have mass, power to alter the world,
    • and she throws and throws, and all the people in the streets are joyful.
    • The people do not protest.
    • The people strive for acquiring all of the free rocks.
    • I see why my poems suck so badly when I have ideas like this, but my editor earns his pay, and he says, You quit even thinking about writing until you have a brain that might understand what art is supposed to be.
  • Mozart for lunch. I did not eat Mozart.
    • There are times, listening to Mozart, and I am sure I’m listening to God. I wish I could understand this.
    • The odd phrase “could not be more perfect” comes to mind.
      • A guy talking politics on LinkedIn the other day said it’s rude to bring in things which come to mind. I suppose it is too spontaneous for politics.
        • Reduce your time with politics, news, silly strings of comments about art which somehow make you feel contentious.
        • Reduce these and do something worthwhile.
  • I’m a fucking toad sitting in a meeting.
    • New guy. doesn’t understand. You don’t know what we know.
    • Some guy says he likes Carl’s idea and I feel less like jumping out the window.
    • Jumping out windows is tough on the 16th floor because the glass is very strong in order to resist those things that buildings tend to run into.
  • For a short time, I reflected on the last 8 years of being a father as opposed to the years before that, and I had an immensely good feeling, a rare sense of worthiness, and I thought about the last time my daughter told me she loved me. Yesterday. Oh, there might not be better goodness, and I hope that is okay.


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Inside a Flagrantly Violent Sheen

I am watching the clouds go by,
sitting, myself, not the clouds,
in a giant spaceship, and the clouds
are so relaxed, belligerently cheerful
and nonchalant. They don’t speak

but listen carefully, dragging memories
of careless days when I threw
rocks across the wasteful tar roads.

I work at reading some good stuff,
but nothing strikes me with reward, so I

concentrate and the fine but random
patterns in the caramel-dipped wood,
which is singing to me about the cause
of my loneliness, humming about my
broken spirit, asking me why I slouch

in bubbling detestation of my inability
to be good in the world, and I look up
to see that we’ve left the clouds behind
and there is only a sad lull of the blue
that wraps itself in the flagrantly
violent sheen of an evil sun.


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