Posts Tagged Day Job

Yesterday, When Serenity Hurt Madly

Hammer blows

make me clutch at brain’s

vice grip, pain

piddles, mind

arcs to new power, seeking

freedoms, but

losing art.

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Today, Briefly, Trying to Be Good

Forcing myself into the death chair,
thinking, now I’ve got it, now I will do

what it is I lie to myself about being
mandatory, feeling so disciplined when

really, I’m alarmed at how close to
nothingness I have become, and that

dark crevice where inspiration lies
is filled with contempt for being,

and the doctor might try, but the
required self hatred fills the hole.

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Just Like My Mother

Slight changes in the breeze
coming from the North, wood
block sound chunks from

shutters. It was the
anticipation, breath stolen
by fear and if it wasn’t

next time, it would
be soon, but we could
never hold steady

waiting for any good.
Some days, the love
pierced through her

Detroit armor, her
French denial, some
days, she loved her

own children having
sprayed and cooled the
coals covering her middle.
.

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Lost On, Lost In The Highway

Today, my journey was the usual,
the daily, each day heading for home,
finding home hidden from me seeing

vegetable stands in bombed buildings,
watching plywood work it’s way
to shelter me from the innocent,

locking me away with crooked beasts
who have steel pipes pulled from
the structure of nothingness, ready to

beat me thoroughly, and I stare 
at the vacant parking lot with black 
sewage toppings, knowing there is no 

warmth, knowing it’s no home of mine 
but wanting to be flattened under the
sewage and the two smashed eggs.

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Strung Up

Motor-mouth machine, what part
of me believes, hopes for happiness
or peace? From mean to easy, neither

works, for punk am I, from the long, wavy
chords in Beethoven’s Number Two, his
weakest, but so powerful, stretching to dive

into a bar of the music and live there,
hide there, never come back, but I am being
a restless dog, first shaking, moving almost

a century to Mahler Number Tnree, and it’s 
here that self-pity reigns and crashes in on the
senses, the false triumphs, dogging my ugly

lack of talent, forcing me back to now 
where nothing can be good, not even
my favorite music. I whisper desires to drop 

dead and slink away as odorless gas, with 
or without music. Mahler, buddy, I am
gone and can’t come back. Scream, Mahler!

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The Bears Are Winning

Crawling bears wade
gracefully, almost inside

the fused pieces of blacktop
as I ask god, my neck like

a garden hose lost in thin,
light clouds which hide

the screaming, fierce opposition,
the devil, please god, intercede

for me, help me discover
my own center, don’t allow

them to drag me to my cubicle,
as terrible music stings my ears,

traffic from neighbors pauses, and my
dusty black car hops on the backs

of the bears, as I feel already roasted,
yes, toasted, unable to jump out,

unable to find my exit.

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Crawling Between the Light Blue Electrical Sockets

Whisps of gray poison slink

proudly, quietly around the gray

cubicles, melting marble chords of

self-esteem, directing my crouching 

character until like the innocent

charcoal translucent in the waves

of masterful ocean, I am

slammed against the fearless,

tarnished pavement of the walls

of an empty closet and the boss

shreds me, rolls the wads of me down

a chute to a table full of emotional

indigestion, across from an old, rotted,

scrunchy man, mean man, impolite, mouth

sealed as he is served by hippies, and I 

think it’s okay, no bitterness, he’ll die very

soon, and wilting, I know it is true

for all of us.

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4 Comments

Riffed Out of Easy

Listening to loud Middle
Class Rut, wishing I
could run away to
their fields of play.

Some things are simple,
blare with clarity,
and they’re impossible.

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The Good Days Attack Me Also

Rarely, there is a day
with razor clarity, all the

edges, sharp, no fuzziness on the
round spiders, when the sun

creates millions more colors
than god originated, where

streets are empty but not
unfriendly, warm like blankets,

when architecture pops at me,
telling me man could not make

those buildings without god,

and while two days ago, the
sun’s fall angle burnt depression

on to my fingernails, today,
the angle is close to

perfect, where there is no
high noon, and I look

out from within my catacombs,
high above the gray, pock-marked

street, and all of me but some frail
string of spirit wants to

jump, knowing it is only with that
clarity in how it will end quickly.

.

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I Want a Robot (3)

to sit amongst the tans,
the creamy, sandy blurs
that don’t muffle, but seem

to punctuate the sounds of
gossip, soap-operatic gifs,
and cackles that reopen all my

wounds, to sit there,
punching the numeric
keys and alpha, as needed,

to be a steel case, undisturbed
by the chaos of death wearing
down the cubicled, doing my

job, so that I might wander
in a normally-hopeless search
for my life, for my reason.

.

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8 Comments

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