Dual Citizenship:

What's an antonym for remorse?

The words are foreign
residing in a land 
we don't inhabit—

a frictionless
glassland

where are our passport
ain't accepted.

Meanwhile we can travel freely
from good health
to illness,
joy to
dread.

We take to the water
regardless,

paddling away from coasts
whose sands
kill,

not knowing
the currents or tides.

The Chronicle of Young Satan

was going to be the title
of the bestselling book
of how he ended up as a mass
murderer of unspeakable violence.
He had that special, strange glow,
the truly weird have, a kind of
gauze covering his eyes that
filtered out any traces of
humanity threatening to leak in.
He even smelled strange like some
kind of mutant life form, undecided
what shape to assume next.
In between shots of Tequila,
he whistled through the gaps where
front teeth should be, formulating
the question of the afternoon,
“I haven't eaten in days and I
need something solid in my
stomach. Got anything with
a worm at the bottom of a bottle?”

BOBBY McBODYBAGS

Nobody knows his real name
on the streets he goes by
               Bobby McBodybags.
He is the kind of man
who puts out fires
with gasoline;
leans into the middle
so as to see
both sides burning.
We’re all drowning
in the now - he is
floating in it
uses it
to move forward
back into the now.
Ice water hash in
his veins to stay cool.
He is a friend to many
an enemy to most but
he doesn’t care for
Bobby is a ghost.
Irish goodbyes his hellos
he may or may not exist
but he’s real as hell
a living legend
allegedly
still
no
one
knows
his
name.

Breakfast News


Give me a break
The breaking news
Just comes in
It doesn’t shock me

Whoever is making the news
Has made it news
All is too apparent
Give me a break

Here’s some other news
It comes from another source
Making completely opposite
Sense. Give me a break

No more news to break
All becomes nonsense
Do I need first to know the
Source? Give me a break

Are we fed up with news or
Hungry for true news
Give me a break
There may never be any truth

I’ve Gotten Lucky I Haven’t Been Lucky

In a dorm room. In a hotel. In life, I suppose. In a bed of four-leaf clovers. At the end of a rainbow. Atop the contents of a pot of gold (Breaking Bad style). Never near a broken mirror. Never underneath a ladder. Never in front of a black cat witness. In the pile of shoulder-thrown salt. Near at least one rabbit's foot and at least a few ladybugs. By a horse with all four horseshoes. After breaking a wishbone. (I'm tired. I wished to not be so lucky.)

THE HUMBLE POET

To be a poet.

Even the word,

“Poet.”

Grimy and self-important as it rolls off the tongue.

It’s the worst word to bring up in conversation and even worse to self-characterize as.

We go around the room in a circle answering one by one, name something you made recently.

I was near the midpoint, I had some time to think.

Others describe the garage cabinets, engagement plaques, and sentimental crochet for sick friends. I could say I like to bake, or do crafts, or tell the story of that one time I built a lopsided plant stand for my sister. 

I could. But no. 

I’m a poet.

I must “humbly” mention that I don't merely make, I create. Create things that are high above all their heads. I face birth and death and betrayal all in a day's work.

I could characterize myself as deep and brooding and “more than meets the eye” with the slip of that single word.

I nod and smile as a couple shares a story about how they met in college. I can safely tune this part out. 

Poet.

In stating this, I admit defeat. There’s nothing humble about it. Humble is the cake I made last week, even if it was earl grey flavored and made from a vintage-passing tin.

Humble are the baby blankets I embroider for my friends when yet another announces they’re pregnant and the only story I have to follow up with is that I broke up with yet another in a long line of short-lived romances. 

It’s closer to my turn. 

I feel warm, the feeling I get when I have too much time to think, or make too much eye contact.

I have the chance to make a simple, sweet impression. Reveal to them my warmth and homemaking skills. Maybe one of them has a brother, or a son, or a tolerably handsome dentist to set me up with. But my ego itches, the need to impress practically spilling from my mouth.

It’s my turn.

When it all comes down to it, when the eyes are watching and I need something to offer, I can’t help myself. 

I tell them I’m a poet.

Their response, “I thought you worked in marketing?”

Life

Some have
Memories and dreams.
Some have
Scars and nightmares.
Me?
Just a hangover, a reputation,
And a crooked tattoo. 



Luscious Blood

In life, she was a real lush.
Now a vampire, she only
Sucks the blood of alcoholics.
Fortunately for me, since I
Graduated rehab, I'm only
A pint a night man.

                               She’s The One

some people fall through cracks
and have no means to stop
tumbling; while others learn
to like it, if not love it:

but there are some who throw
themselves down,
knowing that stretching a hand
further than it wants to go
is the only way

Everests are climbed,
base camps abandoned: and if
you find yourself alone
in the clouds and no one knows
you’ve made it to the summit,
all the more reason to sing

the song of the climbers,
the tumblers, the dreamers
high on a ledge for so long
they no longer know climbing
from falling, acrobats
from clowns: tying themselves down
for another long night
dreaming of descent come morning

In Plain Sight

The prophets have given their warnings,
And signs that the blind could see,
The muslims want to annihilate Israel,
The UN wants to rule the world,
Russia is warning the West,
The U.S. wants to retain world power,
But is rapidly losing its grip,
While the world is obsessed with the cares of this life,
Satan has taken the reins,
The Destroyer will be loosed from the abyss,
And begins his path of destruction,
That continues until he is stopped,
And a rod of iron will then keep the peace,
That had taken so to come.

THE LOOK THAT SEVERS YOU IS NO GHOST

How can the firm
ground of wet grass,
dewy toes of the barefeet of liberty
be based on the wastes
of bourgeois abstraction,
like rulers invented god.
Out of the unconscious measurements
domination grew up building edifices
as a way of producing slaves
who we remain
believing our consciousness was unreal
compared to their reign.
What is the big bang to a subject in solitary,
on account of a soul wringing abstraction
bodies bow to in a hegemon’s wake,
their banners draping a creep of emptiness
along soft cheeks bashed repeatedly
by the fist of an idea.
Was night created before the day,
as the ghost of my freedom
dissolves into these alienated forms?