I don’t like to listen
to the heart beating my lover
as he sleeps or the tympanic drone
of the jet engine as my plane creeps
levitated on silence
or the hum of life
as it burns calories
into fossil fuels,
into calories or the buzz of a god-zillion
different smart phones and feet,
a regatta of combustion
There is a always a signature;
to everything that has decadence
and is trying
to pass as life
And there is this infinite noise
within the body of the divine
out of which
musicians pull their infant notes
But, all I can see is the doom
that is my violence.
And it is where I am
being the extrovert that he is,
cannot fathom the irritation of his bark.
Lies are everywhere;
in recusals & omissions,
they are there.
In platitudes & recognition,
-they are everywhere-
plucked from The Garden
for their beauty and disabuse,
they are everywhere everywhere-
artificial selections of truth.
I grow old… I grow old…
If that’s not poetry enough, what is?
And, I am running out of leaves and what remains trembles,
rattles at times, in the cooling Autumnal breeze
and the birds and the bees no longer trigger in me a ridiculous outburst of laughter, in fact what they perpetuate is beginning to seem a bit obscene.
Am I boring you yet?
Even my addictions are losing their sheen;
the sun, the water, those sly children who once desired my peaches.
I once heard them whisper on a summer day beneath the shade of my marquee.
Dare we… Dare we?
Do dare… Do dare! I hissed back, emphatically, with my leaves like lips shaping the mad thoughts into the air.
Do take the highest fruit from these silvering boughs
and take them far far far away from here.
But, oh no, no, no…they didn’t listen.
No way, No how!
after the taking of packaged sweets, and TV,
they just didn’t seem to give a damn anymore.
though she doesn’t know me
and though I’ve
To watch her
she still refuses to know me,
which seems a bit unfair,
since, i have granted
her so much
power over me
and though time
i can’t stop spending
It all on her.
She waits her tables
eager to please those other men,
like children seeking an allowance
an extra touch,
can happen to her
In the back
while she twirls her dirty blonde
hair up into a messy bun
(she thinks) nobody is watching
However, I am not a nobody
1.) a body,
2.) a yacht,
3..) a good job in finance,
4.) strong hands
What does she have?
A pretty face, a tan?
That spoiled little cunt!
needs a man like me
I’ll show her the value of man.
When I believe
what you believe, I see the world
as a leaf, not a tree,
but, that’s okay
because the aphids
see it the same
and the tree
sees the world as the forest
and the forest
doesn’t know what to think,
except that it is made up of countless trees,
hence its pantheist God Complex
and God, who is not actually trees,
tries to looks down upon the world,
but can only see his overjoyed penis,
because it is so great,
shouts out, “Oh my God! I can make it move.”
I do not like the old man much
who preaches from the grave and such
who brings the news of wriggly worms
and damsels damned by written words.
I do not like his hidden ways
the way he always wants to haze
then raze the ones who don’t behave
to brings us all back to the cave.
I only wish that he’d shut up
its not nice for ghosts to interrupt
while we throw flowers on his tomb
and worry over our own damned wombs.
After the last failed attempt,
I decided to tattoo her eulogy across my chest.
Better to be safe than wordless in front of a murder of mourners all bent on deciphering the meaning of “natural causes” at age 45.
I was never really good with a needle and small bits of viscera leaked from each letter.
When I finished, the heart was nearly drained to the size of a shriveled beet.
Then there was the scar tissue that grew over to construct the shiny pink tomb I now call home.
You say you want to reach out to me, but that will require a type of open heart surgery
and blood always makes you weak.
Whatever it will be next; razors, pills, or cigarettes, It doesn’t matter,
I have already located your place in the stars.
“Such cruel poems” she says “will surely bring on the death of me.”
“Whatever” there are much crueler things in life.
We see rain for its pain
prancing upon a corrugated tin roof.
poor rain. dancing against itself.
pathetic rain. Why must it worry its heart
thinking about all it mistook?
Everyday it survives a trillion drops,
Its countenance a trillion sparkling eyes
fracturing sunlight into a trillion faceted thoughts.
See how it shimmers for the sky,
magic and tragic in its starry flight;
The sky likes it that way,
but, it’s rough on the kind
that cannot fathom the rain’s failing
commitment to dying.
Everyday it survives a trillion drops.
Everyday a planet plummets through outer space.
Everyday its inhabitants look up (ostensibly with wonder)
and judge all the things they see as falling out of place.