Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Hunt


“Poe dismissed the notion of artistic intuition and argued that writing is methodical and analytical, not spontaneous. He writes that no other author has yet admitted this because most writers would “positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes… at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair… at the cautious selections and rejections."

Waiting for words to wander
out of the ether like a long-lost
explorer, 
I pore over hastily tapped out
scribbles on yellow stickies,
mini billboards comprise 
the prototype horde I cultivate,
hoping to bait the poem slithering
in the undergrowth of my brainpan
to my waiting hands,

tense snares

ready to break the

necks of darting rabbit stanzas


I am inclined to believe Poe,

we all just want to impress

when we pick up the pen,

writing is a constant audition

where we are shuddering actor and

lunatic director both,

but what of the pieces that

appear light as smoke like this one

not cooked in the crucible of crafting,

but of catching it and forcing it down

into the pot for all to see it sear,

boiling bones and all.  

Friday, July 27, 2012

See Vermin Run

The wonder of us,
walking water balloons
tottering around
frantically
about our wind-up troubles
coveted baubles,
unrequited loves,
tasks undone,
we jitter to an well-beaten
drum of the incomplete

Too busy to start anything,
too unmotivated to finish,
caught between the hardest rock
and an even harder place
instead of tending to
the slimy machinery within
delicate as clockwork

The reaper pounces after when
a spring or gear snaps,
there are no do-overs
death never gives the runback.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Purge

Ever notice abortion advertisements
never feature men?

I suppose that's obvious,
I browse this particular ad
having a strong feeling
it was written by a man
brainwashed by Planned Parenthood,
trying to make good by painting girls
like forlorn murderers
foregoing motherhood
facing down the obliteration
of the best years of her life.

Harborer

Fresh from biking
through Bushwick at a scenic clip,
I come into her apartment,
our expectant grins find their trajectories,
as I noticed she is cleanly dressed
I presume for the
current paramour du jour
sitting on the brown couch

Nerves crouch in my chest
as unrequited feelings
those treacherous, bickering demons
begin to chatter
"you don't matter"
howling with laughter
in the higher lofts of my mind
biting a sneer back,
I prop up my steel blue steed
playing nice like the third wheel
is supposed to,
smile through the graphic background
movie hoping some shit
doesn't poke through
my false unflappable grin

I am deafened by the din
of a chance missed
evaporated like mist
on a hot bathroom mirror,
the famous 'they' often say
when one door closes,
another opens
although they never say
what happens to those
who keep trying to twist
the knob locked forever
desires tethered to the other side

I try to make with the wit
as I feel their eyes search mine
like they can see the battlefield
inside the brine of my mind
a dying thing congealing inside,
excusing myself with my bike
I cast one sidelonging glance
at her smiling, a subtle knife in my side
as I prep for the long homeward ride.

Mediocre Man

(Inspired by Bukowski's Tales of Ordinary Madness and tales of my own sadness came this.  I'm thinking about doing these streams of consciousness writing again as a way to stretch my limits.  Also, it helps me be less of a miserable bastard.)

"It'll be okay."

I miss hearing that and actually believing it.  Especially when you said it. Back when you were alive.  Back when the weight to the tether to this mortal coil wasn't a straightjacket.  Back when youth ticked away, wasted on the young and dumb.  Back when I was happy.  That was a long time ago.  I know because I can't even remember it.  Sure, there are happy times and memories.  But those are fleeting, ephemeral as desire, ephemeral as dust, ephemeral as our lives.  Little gossamer threads that hope to withstand the wind.  

Who knows where you are now. In another place, time, Hell, Heaven, the rewarding eternal blank void of puragtorial penitentiaries, the dream of a poison dart frog.  All I know is that I would love to hear you say you were proud of me, your loser son on his loser missions for loser ingrates.  It grates.  This weight of living like a tinfoil hat to keep all the mind control out, self-doubt deep in a barrel, Russian Roulette is immenent.  

I will be dead soon.  Not that it will be by my own hand, although I suppose our deaths usually come at our own hand. What can be done?  Will I ever stop beating the twisted equine cadaver. What are the value of the dreams of a monkey?  Can I be Robert Townsend for a day? Because I could use a meteor in a coffee can doing everything I sure can instead of the deadpan look of pushing a dirty mop across the floor.  It is a false promise.  There are so many of those in life.  So many.

I dunno why I'm writing this.   Perhaps to regain some confidence cashed in as soon as I put on my first Urkel glasses.  The inner sea is crashing.  Maybe that's why I'm crying so much tonight because I hadn't seriously since your body stared at me, an openmouthed husk, a shredded cucoon cutout like a cheap Halloween costume in that Bronx hospice bed.

Of course this roiling wave of emotion started because of those women and my conspiracies and my crazy, the ammonium nitrate to this scenario.  It can only stand to reason I would look to your chalk outline.  Just like old times relegated to Polaroid albums.   You, the best woman I ever knew, because I never had to jump through hoops of fire for respect and loyalty.  I wish I could see you again, to hear it will be okay even if it won't or can't be.  Just a hug even.  I ask for this even though it will never come in this lockstep trudge.  It's fine, I'll settle and be settled for, persistence is supposed to pay and all I can do is slowly row this oar.. 

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Crumbling Temple


You were once a sweet servant
catering to any whim I created
in the folly of forgotten moments
you failed to remember your place
you failed to remember mine
calling me outside of my name
in order to crown yourself some unnamed deity

Yet without my adoration
without my venerating touch
you are but a statue carved out of lifeless marble
not such a wonder to behold any longer,
best left to be forgotten in the 
dust of your adoration
made stale by the falseness
of your airy benedictions
that now fall on deaf ears
and dead temples,
devoid of welcome or want
for your wanton wishes
that brought about
luminous shudders
scarlet contracts binding us
until you retraced the steps of Judas
and devoutly desecrated eternity.

Monday, July 9, 2012

A Knight Errant

A loyal sweet pet,
made to be loved and trusted
with a selfish bent

Should be honored,
shining pride makes one the best,
sadly I feel less.