some poem i wrote

we are of waste, or of sentiment
and sediment and haste
and to the earth i dare to return.
when i die let my  energy unfold into the mountains
and grow solid in a mighty tree
speaking ancient tongues
while i dream
i am a native

poem by me

i sit at a truck stop
eleven feet tall
to survey the evening.
every man craves
destiny or will stay
aimless at an inn
licking the skin of a
stranger or maybe
stay lonely.
it’s hard to say
which is better.

link

the old monument
silhouettes rays of autumn
sunlight and is bold

by me

we are not allowed hospitals;
drunk superior specialists tucked
into the ever puckering noplace
only care if you are about to die.

so, on death:
my own consumption may not lead me
to perilous ends but
i must long for the sawtooth of freedom
or i shall indeed perish
under the structures of demonstrative
businessmen.

i hear the old wooded countryside
can heal these wounds and
could lead us from barstools to a real peace and quiet
surrounded by the still energy of earth
that seems to tell us
what is wrong.
or maybe it is saying
i am wrong.

there are stomach pains that are not my own;
worms gather on the sidewalk
pulled up from the rain
while i pick you up
at the hospital gate
while the night wind blows in
a mighty October like
grubs morphing into beetles seeking
full enlightenment under the
eternal Egyptian sunset.

the city lights ooze and glow in our suburban sky
they produce dark shrouds
where we stain black pavement with fire
squishing a burning mass of cigarette butts straight down
beyond the sick city sewer systems
still full of the infinite excrement of rats and bums
our trash burrows deeper finally laying at rest
in the molten heart of the earth
which swells the same way as my own molten heart
in the anxiety of arguments.
i flee for i fear the beast of heavy, uncoordinated conversation
will strike me dumb with its confounding teeth
and i will have nothing to say.

inside the bar i find no brotherhood in the worn souls of my friends.
only the mad dash into bubbly misery lights their unfocused eyes
to see that too often we take aim
with the absence of precision on identical targets.
blind with instinct, we fall into a sexual jungle;
madness undermines our sacred bond
while poison darts swell in clusters
stabbing into the strangling snake
of personal tension.
this city contains no peace.

my entirety fills with the urges of man and
i tilt my head for a drink to find the ceiling fold
lower over the hobbling indignation toward the company i keep.
the jungle enters begrudgingly,
violently surrounding every muscle flirtation
with moist air of pestilence that enters my lungs
i breathe heavily and dismiss the intricate sadness
of your corruption.

i watch Jack make a move into unsure deliverance
hungry for a better fix than the jungle can offer.
as for me, i’ve done nothing
but not out of waiting.
all out of pigeon-toed sickness
and fear;
steering my ghost ship heart
to a land of new hopes.
i prolong the undefined stealth in words that await me;
let me through the gates of unknown flesh
for i too have been hungry in this jungle.

every raging lioness casts a smokescreen
of sultry scents and the snake looms in
hissing sin after sin after mother earthly sin
but the spin of the room retracts everything heavenly:
the ghost of the jungle looms near
and with every unholy muttering
grows solid
the old growling elephant
speaks this riddle:

“but for who does time pass
in the night, the same
as the day and
whatever deeds lay done are done
as we say our last holy word
and drift into bed
what slumbery dreams
will be nightmares instead?”

my eyelids peel back and
i seem to find clarity in morning.
curse this tired body, these aches are my own.
what dreams i’ve known
are the apparitions of the autumn wind
and i sit a rotten king
in my land of fear.

just like the river the day before,
the sun rises over
these saturated flood planes.

i am soaked in the sweat
of sickness.
i shiver;
the air is still and warm.

i imagine a breeze
could rustle on through
my newly cut hair
and feel good
but
instead i’m just cold
sitting and wondering
when i can breathe again
easily.

basic chemistry could devise
my face;
a compound of electrodes
met by
a kingdom of strange lights.
the molten movements of
shuttering skin
untie my eyes
widemouthed and fingers bustling
i think an understanding
of my warmth
could engulf your bust by mistake
so huge your mainline artery
breaks;
your heart grows hands
learns to sew and reconnect
reads old books and
longs for a better look
at love

(by me)(more)

i keep my mind in a plastic bag
wrinkled and frozen and mostly
in the meat department.
as for the meat, it rides into life rot
steady and fast over the last few years
like cowboys who’ve saddled
wild west horses;
healthy and swell
and with manes that flow darkly
sparking the interests of young women
everywhere.

i wish i were the cowboy
so they could
surround me
more often,
but recently i find they’re too ghastly
too vacant too snakelike and coldhearted
too much like the meat department
where my mind still resides.

i thought things would change
that my mind would move around more
but i think it likes the air in there.
the crispness makes clarity much more exciting
it’s still seeping thoughts and they drift along the floor
with the steamy moist air that comes in
and blows out
when i open the door.

i get footing in a place and try to fetch it out
but all of those drifting thoughts swirling, entangling
my muscles and structure, and my mouth corners
curling while my tongue is flailing about needless instructions
that undo my intentions while incompetence engulfs me.
my warmhearted words get scrambled to just utterings
and off goes my talkbox
lips locked
shitting cold words
i’m not funny
or meaningful
just wealthy
with probably
lies
or half-thought-out conceptual, illogical bullshit.

you’re probably mostly
confused and bewildered.
you think i’m all full-of-it,
idiot, figure-of-manliness, obviously
trying to belittle the tiny things
that make up your psyche but if
you think you can honestly
handle the machinery, the doorway
to the meat room is unlocked for entry
but don’t say my warnings
weren’t clear enough
please.