Could be Worse

bitten in my sleep

fan hums

losing patience yet no choice but to wait

friends occupied while I try to kill time

a move to a crime scene

sweaty, dirty job

flipping between diversions

heat, more bugs

thank God for the food bank

full stomach, AC, on my laptop

peace and quiet

people who care

time for reflection

sobriety and a clear head

it ain’t all good,

but it definitely could be worse 🙂

 

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Ashtray

My mind is an ashtray

Full of half-baked thoughts

My feelings are delicate like a dry leaf broken off the tree by rain. The trees inspire me, the way they never stop reaching–even if it’s in the wrong direction.

The butterfly flaps its wings. Nothing happens. Six billion butterflies flap their wings. The rain stops–for good.

Now everyone will be delicate too. A slug hides under me, a root under that. The trees make their stand. Water or no, there they are. A desert awaits a salesman who dies of thirst.

Thirst for others. Uncertainty stares up at me from the chasm. I want to jump in–what a thrill, though short-lived.

Upholstery ensconced and yellow and white paint rush by. Many dead trees. The fire got them. They are ugly now, aren’t they?

The wind pushes the door shut. I re-open it time and time again. Will I ask the right questions, see the right angles? Or am I too obtuse?

Other leaves are lighting themselves ablaze. But what are their stories?

Did he hit the train, or did the train hit him? We’ll never know. Could you blame him, I mean would you?

My mind is a dirty ashtray. Ashes are soft, tasteless. They stand for nothing and let the wind carry them. They are lazy. I want to be the cherry. Hypnotizing, captivating. I’ll try hard.

Raw Fragments

forgotten suspicions amuse me

discovered on a dated device

artifacts are better than a journal–more telling, no sugar-coating/

30 pounds, self-doubt, my inner-quitter: things I’d like to lose

a fulfilling career, pretty pussy: things I’d like to gain/

shit under my fingernails stinks, picked it up and threw it at a brown guy, why

stuck in the mulch, spouting off

driving trucks on sidewalks

orange traffic cones ignored/

drunk or texting murderer

lost friends howl at me from behind the cold stars

lost love presents a scale: relief on one side and an auger in my brain on the other/

smoked too much weed, per uge

thoughts are scattered/

pacing around the lake

winged ones in my pupils

flight is majesty

we can’t dive for fish all the time

sometimes it’s just for fun/

the world is fucked up but what am I supposed to do about it

joy and good will surprise and delight

I try to drink in infinite shades of earl grey

got to breathe too

am I enough is the real fear

when I’m too much I’d rather fuckin’…

I’m no Wollstonecraft, but I’ll still jump in the godamn river

but there’s no need for that

yet jumping out of a perfectly good airplane may be necessary, nay is necessary

to get as close as people can to it

I’ve found this out the hard way

if there was reincarnation, reset without hesitation

do I blame nature or nurture?/

If I were Trump I’d just blame others–the media probably,

but alas, I know better than that idiot

cocksucker is worming his way into my art now for Christ’s sake

idioms, i.e. cliches are useful as far as they go

we all need to study and debate more. Notice I didn’t say regurgitate or bicker…

cruel irony can kill or maim

choking on caviar

gasping hunger knows no bounds/

keyboard clicks and clacks

mind jumps and twists

but if no one reads this did I really write it?

who am I kidding–this shit is for me. The audience is critical, of course–don’t get me wrong

however this is a selfish act, though I suppose less selfish than many of them

is that all you got out of this? smh

 

Late Lark

Cool smooth lime

Bowling with the crickets

Sprites about and moonshine

A gay affair to behold for runny eyes

Statues ponder deeper ideas

Leaves are timid dancers

We drink it all in underneath the stars in between fits of laughter

There was a jar for complaints but we broke it in one of those fits

The balls roll, the pins fall or stand defiantly

The bakeries are at work

Making macaroons for the many

Beneath tall fir surrounded by neighborly juniper

Moon filters and swims through the air, free and joyful

It doesn’t have wants it knows no needs

Childlike and carefree it carries on and proceeds

to light the game

Two Thirds of a Night

The hag’s curses and laments echo through my sloshy brain. Her energy disturbs my surrounding flow, my face sours as I bid her to take leave already

ignoring her and focusing on my new friend and the spectacle of people performing under the auspice of an open mic

my point is lost in the gentle lighting and its reflections and my tongue rests in place

My desires are plain and absurd. I’m not sure I agree with them. 

we are all sea creatures on the ocean floor, our movement slow and deliberate

the acoustic strumming and shy, unrefined vocals bring me back again

It’s the right place with the wrong crowd

the girl from Philly has shiny skin and the area below her lips pierced

Technology faster all the time, but never fast enough. Is everything out of place or is it me?

hoping my eyes will meet the right pair, there are many eyes in the room

some searching like mine

some meandering

a few intent and locked

if there was a mission, it’s been drowned and then its smoke has dissipated

I see purples and whites and regal colors happily arranged in the lounge-like area

a young couple makes out on the couch the couch is made of chemicals and so am I

I sought connection and found one, but not the one I think I wanted

My friend chickens out on taking the mic and I conduct him home

Maybe the Sun will help my sea legs return, the purse took a beating… but I have a story… and hopefully some direction for next time