Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Feel It

I fritter my time proofreading
the works of dead authors.

Terrible minutiae.

Improbable poetry exists somehow
in my petty, tedious feelings.

If you squint your eyes
and put on a song that means something to you
and take those barbiturates you were saving for later
and drink that extra glass of gin
and linger in your morning shower
and huff that gas you keep in the garage
and let your guard down and watch a Leslie Nielsen movie for God's sake
and suddenly take up autoerotic asphyxiation
while bungee jumping into a cauldron filled entirely
with that famous Rush drum solo that nobody actually likes
and eat a Reese's the wrong way
and vote for a third party
two hundred meters below the Earth's surface
and stay home on a Friday night

you just might feel it too.

Monday, June 27, 2016

Made Old

I reached my oil-stained hands
into the children you love
and made them old.
I blindfolded your lover
and pleased her,
and made her old,
and made her desperate to be used
for my amusement
and mailed you a digital copy.
After subduing you completely,
capturing your breath in a jar,
attaching my name to all your IP,
I dragged my hot dog fingers
across your unshaven face
and made you old too.

Four works in progress


What makes a man cynical,
His dusty cartilage? His salads?
Or that he finds water in his bed
And it keeps his bones from wandering?


Endless attributes
having unanswered prayers
by which god prefers.


I stand breathing into wallpaper.
Pressure on my stomach.
With none less wrong to appraise my choices.
Intimately sad.
Worried mom.
I'm alone.
With just this: providing support.
Mostly money.
I stand and linger when drinking.
In bathrooms.
Solitary moments when I realize,
how sad it is.
Then I go back.


When I am older, somehow even more
boring I will have a scrapbook of
my thoughts.

Some will move and make me
cry for youthful passions once
fanned strong.

Some will make me laugh
at my own stupidity, foolish
youthful priorities.

It costs little, some ridicule,
some eye rolls, to make that scrapbook.
So I will.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

A Managed Life

Up and shower.
A managed life
Until you push your baby
Out like a paper boat.

Eyebrows furrowed.
Beads of sweat.
Baby cries in other room.
Don't stop.