Far from Home We met for lunch in a café where the juke box was set to loud. Soon we were shouting, both of us angry. You over the divorce, me over your threats. Neither of us noticed the waitress or the cook until you pulled out your gun and slammed it down on the table, where it landed between the salt and pepper, like a referee. The waitress froze, dropping the coffee pot. The cook grabbed his phone. “He never means it!” I cried. “Please?” While sirens screamed over the sounds of the juke box from whatever law was on the way.
Autumnal I was taught in school to never begin a sentence with “and” or “but.” But, realistically, how do you do that? And why would anyone even want to? At work your mother would eat lunch alone in the bathroom. I’m beginning to understand something about it. Nothing is ever the way they say it’ll be, and instead, a little flower between two abysses. & Buildings don’t burn up or burn down, they just burn. My own computer spied on me while I slept in. Whatever happened to the right to be lazy? Oh look, see how the leaves fall in gusts. Ah, darling, what blood and murder. Everything will shortly be turned upside down. & You can hear the war out there – machine guns and explosions. People quietly ask themselves: Who are we fighting? They are packing bags, in case the enemy comes this way. A very scared older woman confesses, “It feels like they’re already here.” Being Me There’s bad shit going on. Supply chain problems are said to be to blame. Often one has to make things oneself in order to have or see them. Just ask meth cooks what that means. I’ve been following a long, confusing route, down streets that twist and turn like Nietzsche’s enigmatic aphorisms and then in and out of rooms where people repeat phrases in the mindless manner of a talking doll: “Thank you,” “I love you,” “Awesome!” It’s all part of the inconvenience of being me, father of orphans and foster children, inventor of the fingerprint smudges on touch screens.
In the bewitched aviary. The sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor. Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen. Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow. Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay. Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek weird of the woodpecker. Masters daydream about nice marvelous songs of the tern. Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer. Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren. Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow. Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe. Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull. Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite. Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl. Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook. weird - archaic fate
Five Weeks So, here I am, out of hospital for three weeks and five weeks without a drink. It doesn't bother me like I thought it would. I was expecting to be headbutting the walls. But, no, the only thing I've been craving is a cigarette. I can do this. I know I can
Earth Day Just before being bored to death people wonder whether creation is overrated, life like a listless game of pick-up basketball played between bored millionaire basketball players and everyone in Middle America suddenly realizes Middle America is just a collective hallucination, a broad black hole of nothing burning through the conceptual center of everything… Happy Earth Day! cries Jesus who bursts into the room just as everyone finishes filing out the door closing softly behind them. Listening to Birdsong in the Predawn Hours I hate it when I log on to social media and die a thousand deaths before I’ve finished my coffee. Even people I might want to see on my screen are buried beneath a barrage of multinational advertising and how fucked up is it that Dawn brand dish soap advertises not with pictures of brilliant plates, glasses, and spoons, but with fuzzy ducklings scrubbed of planet-destroying oil? In the dissolving gloom and looming new day I think about the relativities of suffering and die a few more times before throwing my phone out the window as pointless and expensive gestures are all I’m capable of. A storm has passed this way in the night and the air and streets are clean for the time being and all the trees very green. Nothing but birds singing in deep green. I hate it when I’m a hungover piece of shit and life insists on being beautiful.
Behind Every Great Lion A halo of flies buzz around his crown Too quick for the snapping jaws That bite down, briefly, in irritation: They escape the click of his kingly teeth In that gaping mouth which just finished Feasting on Zebra meat. His Highness Grows sleepy now in the unrelenting heat— Having eaten, we might guess, to excess. Nevertheless, his belly wouldn’t be so full If such a pride was without a lioness.
Up Too Early Maybe I’m up too early, Not really awake yet. Slowly crawled out of bed, Drifted about the house, Pissed in the trash can Before I realized it. Fool. Wondered who that was In the bathroom mirror, Put a dab of toothpaste On my razor and stopped Short of shaving my teeth. Good stuff, the edges of My beard will be just a Little “whiter and brighter”, So say the toothpaste ads. Morning meds. Take them. Maybe the night dose, too. God knows you need them. Was there someone here? Did I have a wife? Well, Whatever, she’s gone now. Really good party last night. A proper bachelor party, Women, booze, women. I better get back to bed. I need my rest before I do The wedding tonight. Oh, The life of a preacher man.
White Lighter Society Legend says Every single member Of the 27 club Died with a white lighter In their pockets A memento mori Before rock and rollers Did yoga with millionaire gurus And Became shredded vegans To fight the wear of time One more celebrity scandal Or perhaps The machinations of unseen puppetmasters Sacrificing sensitive souls of particular brilliance For the New World Order, of course! A psy-op to enshrine new gods And tease the imagination Of the curious and pathological I put a cigarette On the tomb of Jim Morrison Summoning the mojo Of some mystery cult To tip the scale Towards creating a meaning Worth living for
Nesting After months of building painting and electrical work, after sewing and embroidering beading and bolting recycling and repurposing, after years of moving furniture and changing fabric dusting, vacuuming and tidying up you watch through a tiny peephole in the dollhouse as mice move in, building little nests from found objects, blindly tossing and turning in their miniature beds the carving-knife moon hinged like a broken fingernail.
"Paper Wings" Why do I worry I've never had enough money to make an easy run of it but mostly trouble magnified by who I am and what I write so I'm no longer squinting over my shoulder anymore at those with crooked noses surrounding me on the free corner of the city I'm going to fly upward with my paper wings of poetry over their flat heads and loose suits undoing my belt and pants leaving them with a spat in the faces! "Doing in Ourselves" Continuous Corruption perpetual pollution entire country full of flumes breaking wind cities shaking bombs spreading babel supposited leaders elected atop private dunghills bathtubs overflowing with worthless dollar bills ceilings covered with army ants dropping mini turds far oceans spying full of periscopes and troops doing in ourselves pointing our fingers at everyone else.