Category Archives: Poems

stardust

we are all just bodies and souls
bags of flesh propped up by bones
bits of stardust smashed together
minds created through electrical tether
well God can take credit for that I guess
choke it down and Sunday scream “God Bless”

we’re all eating this fucking slop
fed down through a tube from a hole up top
kicking and clawing to get our mouths close
to swallow shit that we could never truly know
and we can blame God for that I guess
yeah we can blame him but I think God left

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Cats

I like to say I woke up at dawn
but in reality, I stayed up all night long
reading some stories on my phone
making minimal noise because I’m not the only one who is home
cats broke into the trash can
scattered moldy food all over the deck again
they’re not like the ones we keep as friends
hide in the deep woods in which they effortlessly blend

I’ve got ten fingers, ten toes
what life what be like without them, how could I know?
I’ve got a passive disease
I could enjoy the forest, if not for the trees.
one makes two, and two makes four
and so and so and so for a hundred million more.
And the cats are alright by me
Say what you will but everybody’s got to eat.

There’s Nothing Like a Good Story

Our lives don’t climax,
We aren’t Aristotelian tales.
We ride waves; we sink
We rise again.
We run into shadows,
We find the light
We stay the path however narrow
We lose sight.
We’re only born
We only die.

Detour off of the Greenway

I will smoke myself to death and back alive
Trapped inside this prison cell
Of rows of white houses with artificially green trees and grass.
Ride a short distance to an illusion of a forest
Deep in a stranger’s backyard.
Sitting against a dead fallen tree,
Neverminding the dirt, mud, leaves coating my pants and shoes.
The sticky sweat soaked right through my shirt.
My shoes wet walking across this filthy stagnant lazy stream.
Inviting insects into my pockets.
Pulling leaves out of my hair.
Smudging these pages with dirt.

Forcing myself to accept this as some sort of vacation.
It’s working pretty well.

I’ve never been to a bar in New York City

Take your seat, sip your drink
Or move to your feet
Tonight.

Her head is a wreck,
But the shape of her dress
Is fine.

Annette in the red,
Those words that she said
Were lies.

Her lips on your neck,
And hands on your leg,
Dimmed lights.

The smoke in your eyes,
The heat of her thighs,
The smell of this place,
The smile on your face,
The hand slipping down,
The call: one more round,
The walk to the street,
The weight of your feet.

Lead her through the door.
Who’s wanting it more
Tonight?

You steam and you sweat
Make use of the bed
One time.

In the shadows that night
She leaves in a fright
Again.

Still can’t see clear,
Bleary eyes in the mirror.
Alone.

The pain in her head.
The stains on her dress.
The marks on her back.
The feeling she lacks.
The wallet of his.
The cry of her kid.
The slide down the wall.
The realization of nothing at all.

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Coffee and crepes

Waiting for the bus
Drinking freshly brewed
Now dreaming of you
You had one curl of hair shying away from your ponytail
Smile shining, eyes glimmering
You gave it to me
It was hot
I wish this metaphor translated
And I’m quite pathetic
Without any nerve
I’ll just sit and sulk
And sip.

From the bed

We are
We are everlasting
Consistently recurring
We are never so cold cold cold

Bone dry
Flesh painfully regrowing
Forget our last, we know it
Reject the past as so so so

Grassy now
Stones by column and row
Plastic flowers not broken
Wind chill, tears roll roll roll

30

Nothing special tonight,
just another click in the wheel.
Settling into yet another notch.
Struggling to overtake that next tooth.
I am only Mr. Sun and Planet.
He is the Reciprocating Arm.
Pull or push me,
I’ll spin the same path.
Heat me up, make me smoke,
I am just an aeolipile.
He is the fire.
My brothers, my sisters,
we are the simplest parts of the gearbox.
Never moving, never changing,
just spinning.

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29

skin pale, hair dark and shimmering
metal struck seductively through the skin
black polyester wrapped tightly around the thighs
the weight carried on the toe of the boots
excites myself as she darts around
as easy and smoothly as the air
that lifts up her skirt
so slightly, tastefully, and appropriately,
yet desirably, absorbingly, and temptingly
perfect.

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28

The trucks here,
I can hear it
bringing those pretty flowers
I’ll never see.
The ground’s so soft
I’m slipping down.
This box is too small
I’m claustrophobic.
My mouth won’t move
I cannot breathe.

And the trumpet plays
or the rifles fire
or the bagpipes sing
I can’t care.
This show isn’t for me.
All I need is the plot of the land,
the granite stone, the sincere thoughts
they have all provided me.