Archive for September, 2013

Where is the Vision?

I flatter myself,
my persistent efficiency

in the drudgery, and the ease
of accomplishment

make my other missions
silly, inane and useless.

No one will tell me
I’m any good, whether it

is the drudgery or some
of my art, and if they

did, they would be lying
to me.

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2 Comments

Man in the Messy Wing in the Hospital

I lost everything.
I couldn’t care for the cats.

The mother followed me
to the store.

She got run over
on the way home.

I fed the kittens milk.
They told me not to.

The kittens died one by one
before they opened their eyes.

I lost everything.
If you’re not an animal lover,

you wouldn’t understand.
I pass.

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10 Comments

How Do I Bring this Badness?

I dreamt that my leg
rubbed against the furniture,

that there was green shit
on the furniture, that I

was furious with Mother, shouted
at her for putting green shit

on the furniture, that Mother
corrected me, explained that

it was cancer vomit, and I
prayed she would forgive me,

though she is long dead
and had never forgiven me

for anything else.

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6 Comments

The Noise Rock Awoke Me from the Doldrums of My Work

For a moment, I could smell
this tinge of a burning oil,

and the table-saw dust sprinkled
my mind in a furry way and then,

I knew that everything is one glob,
and I could see that god was hosting

our glob in the most compassionate
mode. Sure, we have disease that is

ubiquitous, universal, individual,
but at least, for a moment, for a tick,

it was mashed gently, inside a soft glove,
comfortable, going to sleep, going home.

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7 Comments

Today, While They Applaud Themselves

Anti-suicide pro-
grams have a way
of inspiring
me to finally
commit suicide,

so I need to stay
away, left puzzl-
ing on why they
must aggressively
market con-
tinuing

with this
life, remind-
ing me of
my slimy
despair.

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4 Comments

Wanderings with the Hard Core

I wonder at why I should feel
so much pain, the purest emotional

pain, knowing nothing is personal,
my emotions override, and seem

to insist that all of the people
treat me gently, stop these personal

bombs, intentional or not, treat
me gently, I plead, blind for tears

that I’ve learned I must control
but have never controlled, learning

that regardless of personal shame
flowing from these outer indicators

of the insanity of a hopeless being,
they will despise me for my weakness,

and I wonder why on some occasions
I find gentle people who treat others

kindly, but these do not stay in my
life, for god seems to laugh at me

when god treats me to all of the tough
ones as I sit here terminally beaten, gone.

This poem is cheesy but it is the truth.
I wonder at why I am so damned cheesy,

but I remember it all comes from this
broken human structure I’m bound by.

My eyes are tired. They hurt.

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5 Comments

Air Conditioning, Granite, and Shoddy Walls

When I think of missions,
I’ve failed them all,
but here I am today; can I
do something for the good?

The music plods, and when music
plods, it’s always a funeral march.
I have that fear that pinches
heart and lungs, tells me to grasp.

The egos scattered through my history
frown at me with intricate geometric
shapes that mimic the smallness
of my mind, that howl and dismiss my soul.

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2 Comments

My Mind, Off in a Lonely Field, Looking for Sharp Pebbles

The mind’s forces are not
sanitized with clarity. Drag

cheap shoes over grated
cement. Plead as the sick /

weakness / is desire to get
wasted. Strength is getting

beaten by a world that doesn’t
see how much the beatings

hurt, and staying with
the world / the world of the

others. The mind presents
these worthless

existential questions. Why
can’t I get wasted? Why

can’t I hide?

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8 Comments

This One Lady

I know this crazy
girl / her voice squirrels
around like a fluctuating
car horn with a
dying
bat-
tery.

She is silent often,
but when
she goes,
she goes / it’s slow and
steady and always
breath-
less.

If I listen carefully,
I go crazy with her

as she crawls around on her
belly, sticking her tongue
out at me, and always
surprising
me with a
jump

from her knees to her
tippy-toes, dancing like a
drunken
balle-
rina.

I want to eat meals
with her, watching her
face as she soaks in all
of the chaos
that spins
around
her.

And I want to take naps
with her, but I do not think
she eats or
sleeps.

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1 Comment

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