Posts Tagged Day Job
Recursive Empty
This Is a Career, Son
Mister Jones,
is he in the room,
under woods,
on the line?
No, he’s killing me, boarding
my soul with cheap fire.
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.
Today, Briefly, Trying to Be Good
Posted by Carl in Finding Purpose, Poems on September 16, 2016
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.
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.
.
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.
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!
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.
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.
stillfugue 