Paycheck.

My musical instruments
Blue topping ice creams
Matured conventional prologue
I see it barely now
How the postmen waited for the dove
How my natural insinuations
Folded before your zeal
X marked before and after
Afternoons planked a gaze
It's own milieu
Epiphanies phoned me
My hibiscus desk full of
Streamed lies
Lord's own megaphone
Metaphors everywhere
I swam under it
My musical instruments
I see it barely now
Lord's own paycheck.

Pops                                    


Making lots of trouble,
because I can’t be in control…
but I am.
Just like Pops.

I want to be how he was.

Pops brought me toys
when he’d be out working awhile.
Flashlights, pencils, and the like-
all with corporate branding.

Big surprises from Pops, always thinking of me.

He made his ballcap look so slick that
I wanted to hit dogs with him,
call my Mom a whore,
and hang out in bars with miners.

When Pops got mad, he’d use the most
colorful words-
an artist.
That’s who my Pops was.

I’d like to be like him.

Heck, I’ve already seen how it’s done.
Pops sure did like to throw me around,
and I’ll do the same with my boy.
Gotta show a young man
who’s the real man of the house.
Wear ballcaps,
hit cats with shovels,
slam whiskey at Noon,
grab children by the neck and squeeze.

A sensitive man…I want to be a sensitive man…like Pops.

Behind all the ballcap charisma,
he wept at World War documentaries.

It’s a brave man I wanna be.
A courageous man…like Pops.

Unholy Land 

Whether it is life itself that is garbled
or just the news that is, hell is settling in,

a dry white place where there is no need
to take sides, you can be on all sides at once,

now that the God of Gods, aloof, impassive,
acknowledges neither the cold nor dark,

neither ancient grudges nor new outrages,
but sits stone-faced on his tall throne

amid dead bodies and bombed-out buildings
and the continuous roar of unheard prayers.

"Giving Up?"

She begged me
not to go
off to war...

So I stayed
and with a kiss
we died,

listening
to the whistling
of an incoming bomb,

not knowing she was pregnant. 



"The Smile"

She waved
goodbye 
naked.

“The Neurotic Perfectionism of Artificial Scarcity”

The literary game is like being a virgin,
It’s the catch-22 that without first getting laid
No one will sleep with you.
And you constantly obsess over trivialities like the way you dress.
You think you just can’t do it properly,
That everyone else has some secret
Which they are constantly making money from
Putting out ordered lists.
As an emotion in pixels,
Squares of morale like little trigrams,
Cry like the Delta blues,
Bits of carrying on piecing my lonely journey together.
I can see the meticulous beauty of chicken scratch Chinese,
Like wispy forms in the blocks of graph paper
Her exercise books laid out,
On the floor with a mattress for a bed.
Penned in her own red
That she was lacking,
In what comes to the native
Speaker the most natural thing in the world.


“When Acclaim Outweighs the Vital”

Too much around that some to like,
When did pretension become a high art
The poor pen may ask
As much as the street person is often a master of glibness,
I have seen the grandiosity of language that runs as deep
As civilization itself, with its contrived futility
Like arguing with a judge who holds power over one’s sentencing!
How silly your excellence is on precarious chairs
Who privilege justification for greedy excesses that never trickle down
But in the form of meritocracies of debt and addiction.
A tedious ruling that makes of a sane objector some contentious rebel;
A loner of those who graffiti over patronizing voices of ads
Explaining how to live from a mansion of incontrovertible bullshit.
If we could eat as a result of your precious pronouncements;
If they could build a consciousness of all human beings as worthy of a place to live for the future to live in,
Perhaps I wouldn’t be so struck by the anodyne boredom of a culture that tells us it’s the best.
Maybe we might go outside into a world we contributed to make
Hearing the echoes of our prefigured yawps down the canyons of human possibility,
And walk off the standard of the bourgeois clock premised on no digit which grants the masses their liberty.
Those figures, whose canned applause
Triggers our consent for their impoverished masterpieces,
I tell you fame is really only an ersatz
Cosmic belonging. For what an otherwise unknown person would give
Simply for a friend. Simply a lover is better than
All of the loving fame after one is dead.
A simple natural scene is better than
All the best paintings about it. 

Your Favorite Songs

You told me your favorite songs.
Even made me a playlist.
Took a minute to get acquainted with them, 
Songs that went from strangers, to friends, to family.
Songs that became a part of me.
Through my veins when they played,
Those songs got me through.
Music that made me think of you.
Listening, as if an arm reached deep in my chest
Pulled a handful of emotions,
And held them up in front of me to face them.
I wont delete the songs, but I always skip them.
Far down my list now as time has passed,
My bluetooth wont connect, radio it is today.
There it is again, one of the songs.
No skipping what was made to play now.
Suddenly, it comes rushing back.
I sit and wonder about the songs.
Do they make you think of me too?
The songs that got me through. 
The songs that make me think of you.

Thankful

It’s been a great year.
Plenty to be thankful for.
Still got a job.
Sucks but still got it.
Got a place to stay.
Got money for liquor.
Everything that I need.
But mostly,
I’m thankful that
Maury said the kid
Wasn’t mine.


Winter Wonderland

Yup, livin’ in a true
Winter wonderland.
Freeze my ass off
Every damn year.
Shovel that snow.
Life in the North.
Just totally hate it.
Went South one year.
Didn’t have no snow.
Didn’t freeze my ass.
Shark ate some toes.
Experienced the dreaded
Category five hurricane.
Got the clap and was
Mugged on the beach.
Cold truth be known, I
Learned to keep my
Northern ass at home. 

Breathe.

A little forever is nothing
Munching my own little
Sorrows
My infinity knows no
Nothing-
Wealth is receptive
If you keep looking for
Tomorrowlands
You get hit get a new venture
Of polished newly molten
The city I wear
With my confident casino
My new era is nothing new
My own sorrows
Of newly built castles
I breathe thee.

Meeting.

A perfect weather
To remember the faultlines
The vivid picturesque
Melancholic
Whispers that hide among the trees
The holy chantings of long waited gazes
The turmoil of openings
The narrow road open wide
Bit my upper lipped sorrow
My zigzaged cashmere sweater
I wore for the longest time
Myself a bohemian wise myself again
Wrapped around my collarbone
Surpassed my fears the goodness of
Travelling around
My split seconded tornadoes my other toed
Lipsy sounds
I know a perfect weather
Creation's bemused journeying to the very South
My meeting with Goodness with God
Neutrality at the crowned head
My perfect weather
A known rendezvous a perfect meeting.

Booze Lens 


magical moments of
booze, of songs connected to moments
good and bad, and as the
bourbon flows, one bottle down two to
go, memories emerge from
the subconscious abyss, vivid as
if things happened this
morning, despite the years gone by - in the
inebriation you
discover the good, the bad, the
significant and the unimportant; through booze
lens you view the world
as it is, was, will
be, former relationships and friendships become
clear, real. blacking out is as close to
death as we’ll ever be, without the real deal, and it
contains the flash, life’s moments coming
back to life either to haunt or comfort you; drink
up, get acquainted with death so you
can conquer him come hangover.



Nagging 


“one of these days, you’re gonna
drink yourself to death,” Christine accused me. I
was nursing a bourbon-tequila hangover; had come
home from the bars with an empty
fifth in my
pocket, and some woman’s underwear. “you’re either gonna
die like Dylan Thomas or some whore’s boyfriend will
bludgeon you.”
from the couch, I could hardly open my eyelids, let alone
lift my head to face her. my tongue had turned into a
wet sock filled with ratshit and a construction crew had
invaded my
brain, trying, probably, to free the fucker from my skull.
“what did you do last night? who did you do?”
“didn’t do anyone,” I managed to mutter, but the words would
hardly be enunciated with no spit left in my mouth. “water,” I gasped.
“get it yourself,” she snapped, all too vindictive. after a minute, she
rolled her eyes and went to
the kitchen, to grab a bottle of
ice-cold water. I chugged it, finally my throat ceased to
mimic a desiccated wasteland, then my eyes
bulged. despite the throbbing pain in
my head, I dashed to
the bathroom and emptied my stomach’s content in the
toilet; perhaps, some pieces of intestine, too, some
red stuff floated down there.
“one day, you are gonna drink yourself to death,” she repeated when
I returned to the living room, and flung myself on the blue foldout couch.
“maybe, that’s the goal,” I replied, and stretched my arm to grab a
bottle of rotgut from my bookcase. “seriously?” she asked. “are you
gonna drink now?” “hair of the dog, baby. woof woof,” I chuckled, and it
almost sent me back to the toilet. “I don’t know why I’m
staying with you,” she said, with a solemn tone.
“perhaps, you love me,” I sniveled, after a hefty swig out of the bottle.
“maybe, you’re right,” she groaned. had I not
been hungover as fuck, I might have fathomed the significance of
her words. in the state I was in, I just shrugged it
off; never said it back. I just drank
her yammering away, then I had to drink her memory
away lest I drowned in regrets. booze still hasn’t
killed me; I’m doing my best to
prove her right.