Friday, May 26, 2017

Daring Denial

They make pastrami sandwiches of Palestinians
And stir fry of the Congolese
Subjugate
Purple is power

This is not a metaphor
This is real life in high-deaf technicolor
Where Western whites meditate and pray

Broken spines stretched across the dirt road to salvation
The stench of rotting corpses covered in concrete
Pristine
A pine tree that hangs from the entryway like a
Missile they tow their pain
Through fields of garbanzo beans and olive trees

This fever that melts ice
News America does not care to hear
News denied daily by dimwit dignitaries
Denying disagreement
Denying devastation

It is neither freedom nor a solution
It will not cleanse our stained hands

But we will speak
Let them cut out our tongues
We will speak 

Turtle Shell

There are these moments in which one cannot grasp their own disposition. There are times in which we do not know what we are thinking. We dig into the bottomless abyss of confusion and the unknown. Some people call it fear, and it certainly leads many to desperation. We need a safety jacket caught in this stream of uncertainty, but we merely confuse it with a ladder.

Blind beasts of desire, terrified of ourselves.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Simple Genius

He writes when not driving
A mailbox that leans
She paints interesting things
Shower curtains and cuddling
"It's nice to meet a real poet"
Chicken and pasta
Needs more garlic
Broken down
But cucumber cool

An electric sabotage
Un cane stronzo
An apple on Wednesday
Pellet gun suicide on Friday
Cupcakes and chess on Saturday
"Taking a shower with a raincoat on"
Empty page opportunities
Black and white love
Another poem on Monday

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Bus Crackers XI

Tom on the bus      reading books of poetry
Autism - head tension - nicotine vapor
Bump through the night
That thump thumping

A tingle in the arm
Swelling legs
Tired eyes
Burning

Sharing styes
You only live once
Through one thousand lives
Pockets of lint for the leeches

This is how the saints dance
This is how to make romance
This is how men wear pants
This is how they create chance

Cat people smell like litter boxes
Drunks smell like piss and vomit

Aching for the tailpipe methane
Broken down climate control
Three flat tires
Overdue for an oil change

Caffeine and peanuts
Newspaper and nail clippers
There is no spell check in hell
Neither freezing nor boiling

Luke warm white toast
Bottles of hot sauce
Nowhere
Commodore reboot

Ripping out teeth
The driver whistling
Shouting at windows
Grinding another day

Bump through the night
That thump thumping

Eat another soul and
Cheat a black hole

Bump, bump through the night
That thump thumping

Monday, May 22, 2017

Obese Minds

Fuck their poetry
Trite so-called poets
Humble outside
Pure ego in
Mountains of unnecessary pages
Boring
Contrived inside and out
A fashion statement
Nothing to satisfy my canines
I'd rather be reading
This book of dying Plath
Masturbation ejaculating puffs of air
Farting and frumping
Withered away
Pale and dry
Langston would spit
Writing words with empty pens
I gave them ten seconds to grab me
No, okay, ten more
Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling
Interesting use of white space
If that's your thing
The result is manufactured
Snowbirds drowning in the desert
Weak hands without a callous
Soft hands and soft will
A popularity show
If it was on paper
I would tear it to pieces
Set in on fire
And piss on the ash
Instead, I write a poem
But I am neither poet nor writer
And nor are they
Sad vampires
Bridges crumbling
They will stab each other in the asses
As soon as she senses a threat
It is their way
More poetic than their poems
No one reads words these days
It's an idiot pursuit
They care more about the pennies
They hate thoughts
A theater of psychosis
Delusions of chaos
A novel of words
Filled with blank pages
Filling pages like their mouths
If Bradbury knew
451 degrees to it all
They put the art in fart
And the ake in fake
The blood-sucking tic in plastic
Yes, [sic] and sick
There's no need for a spectacle
But that's all they look for in words
Sloppy and bloated words
I have their lies on tape
A new maxim
Those that can't do become critics
This is not even half the story
Their poetry
Classic white-on-white appropriation
Stop reading this poem
Bloated hounds
A sinking showboat
Never left the kiddie pool
Glorified collectives
AA meetings without the addiction
Only addiction to the self
As a child she had aspirations
To become a suicidal heroin junkie
As a man he clings
To delusions of leadership
Obese minds create obese bodies
There's no character to assassinate
Merely their confabulations
A righteous movement
Sitting on a couch
They are not looking for friends
They are looking for followers
Splicing together fragments of feces
Dangling from their chins
Frame by frame 
Frame
by
Frame
Line
by
Line


                      As usual, I call bullshit