Tuesday, October 28, 2014

The man in the beige sedan

Glen drove his beige sedan
past 11th and Grand
the first time that he saw
her.
She was at the stop light
next to him
wearing a casual grin
that was trimmed
in bright red lipstick.

He tried to smile,
but he was struck with awe,
and he was sure she saw
through to the part
of his heart
that skipped
at the red of her lips.

She glanced back at him
through the rear view mirror
before she sped away
and no matter how Glen
wished she could stay,
she was on her way
before he could think
of what he needed say.

He thought long and hard
on what he would tell her
if he were to ever see her
again,
of how she had
been
on his mind ever since
then,
of the pins
and
needles that
coursed through his chest
whenever he imagined her
and how it made him lose his breath
as well as his composure.

He wanted to say that
he fell in love with her
the very moment
he laid eyes upon her,
but he knew that wouldn't sound right
right from the start
to lay out his heart
like that.

"But what do you
say
to the woman
you know
will be
the love of your life,
the woman you want to
be your wife,
the woman with lips
like a knife
that cut so deeply
into the core of your being?"

It was a few days later when
he saw her again and smiled.
Her eyes were wild,
and her tongue flicked the edge of her lips
like an illusory kiss.

He wanted to mouth the words:
"I love you,"
but he maintained his composure
and tilted his head
in a gesture
as if she should follow.

She gave a small nod of her head
and sped
up
to cut off the car in between them.

He pulled into the parking lot
of a cafe
just a few blocks away,
and watched as she parked
a couple spaces over.

They walked toward one another
as if they were future lovers
just waiting for this moment
to take them.

"I'm Glen," he said
with the same type of grin
that she had given him
the first time he saw her.

She gave him her name and said,
"It's a shame we didn't meet sooner."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," she said,
"I just fell for a man in a beige sedan
at a stop light a few blocks over."

Monday, October 27, 2014

last night's show

the scene was rampant.
bodies shrugged,
bent,
and bore down upon one another;
brother against brother
as the sound slammed against the
ceiling
in a type of social healing.
a wave of sweat and angst
like the last supper
where christ gave thanks
to the execution he was yet to suffer.
an arm flailed across their line of sight
where there broke out a fight.
two young men blowing off steam
in a manner obscene.
a single bloody lip ring
clattered
against the floor and out of view
where ripe and bloody mouths
reeled from fists thrown anew.

"let's fuck,"
she said.

"here?!"
he asked.

"yeah, here!" she
shouted over the music.

by the next beat
they were curving their way
toward ecstasy.
a single tit fell from a torn
t shirt. a scowl formed at the edge
of her lips. he bore down
and grunted in between the drop
of the kick drum.

sweat,
semen,
and piss
rose from the pit.

a socially ironic lyric
jumped from the PA
and rummaged through the crowd.
the vocalist bowed,
took his stand,
snatched up the mic in his hand
and pronounced
the next line in time
with the chorus
as it flourished
and drove out along the crowd.

"fuck me harder,"
she said.

but he was already
giving everything he had
and didn't think it was bad
the way he was pushing himself
into the melody.

"don't you fucking come,"
she said, "until i get mine."

he grabbed that
single tit
that poked out from her shirt
and wiped away the dirt
from his brow,
thrusting like a madman
on a crash course with disaster.
his hips thrust faster
and the girl was almost there,
her ankles adorned in underwear.
and a crude smile formed
at the corners of her mouth
right before her boy
bowed out.

the lights came on
when the song
was done
and there was nothing left
to do
but run
out onto the streets
in a stampede
of stomping feet
and thrash the society
that held their indignity
to the dropkick of a steady beat.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

from the top

from the top of
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet
i seem to be asleep
and floating,
wandering and shifting
through this
simple daydream
and i gleam
like a shattered
diamond
broken by the hammer
that set me free
and it's hard to believe
this is all i can be
and one other thing
i'm not what i seem
to them or me or any
others that happen to be,
that happen to be passing
and see
while i flee
to another ocean,
another dream
once i'm clean
the dirt washing from me
i will love and learn
and yearn
for forgiveness
from myself
from wealth
and emptiness
and complacence
and grievance
to do justice
with a promise
from the top of
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet

Saturday, October 25, 2014

the softest scream

i don't need marketing
i don't need to be told what to buy
i can't afford what they're selling
anyway
i'm fine paying for my car and living in a dive
with the worst plumbing and for something to strive

what i need is a new way to sell my ass to the system
i need a new type of lube
so it doesn't hurt so
bad
give me a fucking pill and let me wash it down with a frosty glass of bleach
and make me learn by a trial of fire always a few inches  OUT OF REACH
with a brand new commercial targeted to my particular demographic
WHERE teachers are taught to TEACH
in a curriculum pornographic

waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream

pay away the demons
and grab another bag
of product they're pawning
you think you do
but you don't know
what's it's like
to waste away in
the commercial they're filming
shaken and stirred
give me a dream worth dreaming

waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream

Monday, October 20, 2014

nothing but flowers

i feel the
heart attack
in my head
expanding
like the light
of an angel
already dead

i feel the
pain of purpose
in splintered bones,
the shards
of which
i've always been fed

i feel the
holocaust of motion
churning in my guts
and another ruined
war
as the maggots infect the cuts
sober and shining
like the angels
that defecate me,
slowly consuming
and setting me free

how the hand
slices away
this feeling of exposure
of the sickened blessings
for which we nurture
from tits of corpses
and trailing lies
and so soon enough
everyone dies

but we can pretend
to see nothing
but flowers

reaping

sometimes i see
the eyes
reaping me

now i know
i am the only one

how the heart
struggles
to beat
like a single drum
knocking steady
through
the blood of it all

sometimes i see
the world
wrecking me

i can't be the only one

how the soul
quivers
like a dove
in a torrent
driven
down into slick

all the eyes upon you
and the flame flickers
in your chest

you're not the only one

none of this
makes sense
until it's
robbing you
of death
like all of
the monsters
you thought
unreal

sometimes i see
the eyes
torn from me

now i know
i am not the only one

no matter how many
tears you shed,
it never
seems to become
entirely undone-
the matters of
what is reaping you
and the feeling
that you haven't
truly begun


Sign me up!

"Yes, we would like to buy everything you've written, and everything you've ever thought about writing. Mind you, we'll own every conceptual thought you will ever have, but we'll pay you 7% on the dollar. Now take notice that we don't actually have to ever publish you in reality. We would just like to buy your thoughts and possibly put them out in digital format at some point or another, but probably not. If you ever have a thought that may or may not coincide with a thought that we have previously purchased, you will not be legally able to express that thought or any other thoughts related to that aforementioned thought. . .
Now please sign on the dotted line, but no thinking because we own those and would hate for you to forfeit your rights under publication."

Thursday, October 16, 2014

swim, fly, swim

i'm in the bath
watching a fly
on the wall
above me.

the steam
is coursing up
and i wonder
about the fly.

he's still pretty
small
and they only
have a life span
of a few days
at the most,
so i figure
this fly
must be in
midlife.

i wash
my face
and rinse
away the soap.

i slowly immerse
myself
all the way into
the tub
until the water
is almost
ready to bulge
over the sides.

the tension is
easing from
my back
and
shoulders,
but the fly
is still there.

"hello, fly,"
i say.

he doesn't answer.

i can tell
he is a he
because he's sporting
a bit
of a chub.

"yeah, midlife,"
i say.

he rubs
his front legs
together
quickly
and tilts
his little bug head
and stares at me.

i'm getting hot.
the bath is
making me sweat.

i wash
the more
crucial parts
of the anatomy
and
rinse away the rest.

the fly is still there.
he flicks a leg.
flicks another.
it looks like he's
pondering something.

i release the plug
from the tub,
stand,
grab the towel
from the rack,
and begin to
dry myself off.

the fly
is still there,
pondering.

i dry my face
and
look down at the drain
as the fly makes his final swirl
before being sucked up into the infinity
that is the california sewer system.

he raises
a single leg
as he's swallowed up.

i nod and say,
"yeah, midlife.
godspeed, you poor
fucker."

forgettable images

friends
come and go.
you meet some
that are just not
long for this world,
and they leave a hole
in the sky when they
depart.

some of them
know a type
of sensitivity
that the rest
of the world
will never quite
u n d e r s t a n d .

friendships
come and go
like the rain
on a stormy night
pushing
the clouds away
before they can cry.

and there are some
who aren't meant for
that type of
relationship.
they meet a few
good people
here and there,
but life takes them
away
swiftly
to places unknown.

this is the way
with such things,
it's how we truly know
loneliness.
but in that solitude,
we gather
the memories
like flakes of snow
about a hillside,
waiting for the wind
to drift
it all away.

Monday, October 13, 2014

in g major

running into the sun
as the flames
lick at the
lips of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god
high on its
own
reflection.

we live to breath
and die
in the throws
of living too long,
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless traps
set by our own hands
continuing
martyrs of the cause
without pause,
our debt to remaining
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt.

the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor arched
across the neck
of our own doing.

the shame of breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity.

and in this,
we are so alone
that the emptiness
weighs down
the stones upon our chests
quarried
from the empty
dreams from which
we will never
awaken.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

     Love
is a Monster
      that will
   tear out
your throat.

Don't succumb
           to its
      allure
until you
           find
the only person
you would ever
       die for.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

take back your prophecy

the lie is murder
the gun is murder
murder happens by the blade
murder happens through the mouth

explosions in the streets
ballistics beneath my feet

       a few days
     give or take
   and we could
end everything
with a puff
                       of
                              smoke

one minute
      too late
   and some
      asshole
with his
       finger
on the trigger
 could render
                      us
                             nil


another second
                 like we are
             and we could
           lose our heads
    for no other reason
than some fucker's
      view of dusty
shit reading material

    no matter
where you look,
there's always
   somebody
    believing
  in a new way
         to kill you,
   a new way
                    to
      interpret
old words
                by
        dead
     prophets
that never really had anything to say
                        in the first place

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Write a poem about what we tell you to write a poem about, or face rejection.

With all the
different places
to publish
your art
it is funny that they
still get
so caught up
on themselves
to require
that your work
fit
into guidelines
they invent
off the cuff.

Give us your
best poem
about tomatoes.
We are a Christian
magazine
so no crude language,
please.
If your poem
is accepted
you will be required
to promote
our ezine
on your website,
blog,
social network
so we don't
have to do
the work
ourselves.

I don't know about you,
but when I read poetry,
I'm looking for grit,
for the blood
and sweat
of the piece,
for the artist
to remain
an artist
and create
the art
they so desire.

It would be nice
if everything
fit
into a nice
little box,
wrapped up
in pretty paper,
and tied with a bow.
But the harsh reality is
that art takes place
when it takes place,
under the particular idea
which it was created,
for the nurturing
of the poets soul.

It's no wonder
these silly publications
don't actually
sell anything.
Who the fuck
wants to read
an entire
book of poetry
dedicated to
pigeon sex,
or enemas,
or flicking piss
into the wind,
or ripe tomatoes
thrown in anger
at a shitty publication?
Haunted Within -
Night Black Stars


Soft light
plays through
the attic window
sending starry particles
of dust
floating away
as Frank moves
to the other side of the room.
There is a sound
just outside of the range
of hearing,
a black noise
that comes and goes
when he tries to concentrate
on its source.
He moves slowly,
fixated on the sound.
The brush
of his pants rubbing
as he moves
overpowers
the faint noise.
A deep breath
from over his shoulder
and
Frank turns quickly.
Nothing.
The sun will be setting soon.
The sounds will become louder.
The house will become cold,
and
Frank will begin
to feel them again.
It is as if they crawl
into his blood,
move through his veins,
and
pump into his heart
where they know
the fear hides.
His brow becomes wet
as a chill runs
along
the length of his spine.
Frank closes the attic door
and
bolts the top lock.
From somewhere deep in his mind,
he can hear them laughing
like a child enamored
with a new toy.
The stairs creak as he descends,
shuffling through
the thin layer of dust
that has collected there
since he was here last.
He makes his way
along
the hall
and
closes the final door
that shuts this end
of the house
off from the rest.
A trail of salt
is mounded up
at the threshold to the kitchen.
There are markings
in black ink on the walls,
small circlets
and
ancient script.
Bundles of sage
hang
from above the stove.
Frank lifts
the glass of whiskey
from the table
and
throws back its contents.
He grits his teeth
through the sting
of alcohol
and
places the glass on the table.
He pours himself another,
and
takes a seat.
Staring at the nub
of candle
in the middle of the table,
Frank’s mind wanders.
He can’t help
but think
that this is a dream,
that he fell asleep
at some point
before moving to the old house,
and
now he is stuck.
Unwashed dishes are stacked in the sink.
Dried food clings to the plates.
Several empty bottles
of whisky
are lined up
in a row
on the counter.
Frank runs
his hand
along his chin,
feeling at the stubble.
A loud bang echoes from the attic door.
Frank looks over his shoulder
and
gazes out at the setting sun
from the kitchen window
behind him.
“Right on time,” he says.
Another loud bang,
and
it sounds if the door
is about to
splinter.
Frank empties
the glass of whisky
and
hurls the glass
through the doorway.
The glass descends,
clanks against the floor,
and
shatters.
Salt scatters.
Frank’s eyes widen.
He feels the cold
against his face
like icy breath
whispering death
to his skin.
The table upturns
and
crashes to the floor.
Frank is hurled
through the air
and
lands stiffly
against the wall.
He tries to move,
but
his arms are pinned.
He looks down
at his dangling feet
and
coughs out a whimper
before
he is flung to the floor.
As he lies
with his face
against
the cool kitchen tile,
he feels something
at the back of his head.
Fingers entwine
through his hair
and
his head suddenly lifts.
There’s a child
playing in a pool
of blood
at the base of the cabinets
below the sink.
The child’s mouth
is sewn tight
with thick black thread.
Where its eyes should be
are nothing more
than cavernous sockets
filled with dark red.
Frank gasps
before his head
is slammed
into the floor.
With every lift of his head,
his eyes fill
with tear laden images
of the child
smearing its face
in the blood
that is pooled around it.
The child’s face is inches from his own.
Its sewn mouth curves into a smile
that tears
at the thread
looped through its lips.
And then his head
crashes into the floor again,
and
there is nothing
but
darkness.


Thursday, October 2, 2014

late in the evening

when the last of us
shits a grin on their face
and the final bomb drops
and there is no more gas
at the pumps,
boy, will we have learned then.

when the clouds are thick
with acid
and the nights rain fire
in the eyes
and no one listens anymore
because language was lost
too many days ago-
only then will we have
our fill of death.

when the children
snarl
like sharks
hunting on the blood
of the swollen
and every mouth hangs agape
waiting for something to fill it,
only then will we see
the big winding road behind us,
only then will we realize
it's too goddamn late.

what ails you

i was waiting
for my buddy
to get off
from work.

i lit a square
and stood by
the loading
dock while i
waited.

this guy comes
out and starts
telling me how
evil the white
man is -
he said that
him and his
have been
oppressed,
kept down,
rubbed out.

i don't think
that's quite right,
i said.

No? you some
kind of racist?
he asked.

No,
i don't think
it has anything
to do with race,
i said.
it's all about
education
and poverty:
the more you
have of one,
the less
you have
of the
other.

see?
he said.
that's my point.
the white man
keeps me poor.

you're poor because
you're uneducated,
i said.

but i couldn't afford
to go to college,
he countered.

then you see
my point,
i replied.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

this love we hide

a woman is as sensitive
as a man.

we are all looking to become
engaged,
enamored,
smitten,
taken aback,
relieved,
and satisfied.

we want
to find a connection
with someone
that compliments us
on an entirely higher level.

a man is as sensitive
as a woman.

we are all looking to be
enjoyed,
realized,
abundant,
worthy,
and loved.

we want to be experienced,
touched,
held,
fondled,
and cradled
in the arms of someone
who personifies our need.

in this
there is no room
for lies,
deceit,
misdirection,
or dysfunction.

we are all of this
sensation,
this yearning,
this discovery of ourselves
through the affection
of another.

we are all of this
and there is no room for nonsense.