We Used to Talk

Ponder with me, if you will, 

Those distant cousins who crafted language. 

To emerge, erect and erect from

The shadows, the lack, the before, 

Into the mistakes of Eve. Imagine

The poetry rolling through 

Hills of tongues, fjords of teeth, 

Just to taste it and birth bird song. 

Imagine how the moon conspired

To create romance and lust,

The Sun spawning wonder and the guteral sound of art, 

Doubt oozing out of the swollen snakebite

And the venomous glee in being

The smith of words just to hurt. 

Ponder the creation of song and wails, 

The utterance of a messiah and the horns of Jericho, 

The white horse and death rattle. 

Now, Speak. 

Help Me Name This Poem!

Howdy folks. Quick look into my writing process offered up here. I always write my pieces without titles (or vice versa and create titles without poems) and then try to find a title that sums up the work at the end. This one eludes me. Like, I have no fucking clue what to call it. So, I offer this untitled work to you, and give anyone who reads this the opportunity to give it a name. Until I get your help it will remain nameless and unloved, and it’s my baby. Help me name my wee little baby, wouldn’t you? kthanxbai…

 

Untitled

Garbed in militant wools

and all this black,

rakish smile hidden away

in a back pocket next to a wallet

that’s mostly just symbolic,

we head for that millennial dive bar

hoping the nosebleed seats

lack their usual sweat stains

and sorrowful middle age women

that are so fond of Springsteen,

but hey, they give me free shots

of well whiskey, which serves as a whetstone

for my blade of wit, which

exists to vanquish every friend who approaches

and wants to comment on my physical appearances

like I did it for them, folks

honest enough to admit that the rest of us

are just background, still, their heads shall not roll

because of childhood agreements,

those peace treaties of the past.

As for you, I suppose you could have

stayed home, or crept across the rooftops

and just watched this show of force,

My dirty feet slapping the spilled drink floor

all off tempo and my paws pulling

at the off kilter top on a little countess,

but you make a good alibi,

conversation, and walking stick,

a compass to my heart

and the mask I’ll wear

In the two AM revolution.

Asking for a Friend

What is one to do when

Their insides, their kosmos,

Their chakra, boils over, leaking

Essential nutrients onto the hot

Coiled salamander of the post

Modern world, what is one to

Do when science and spirituality,

Who were about to kiss

And create alchemy, turn face

Last minute and leave the room

Empty, what is one to do

When every snare, line, and

Plan only bears old boots

And heavy clouds, what is one to

Do when the tide becomes too

Clingy and the moon decides to go

Find itself another planet?

 

 

Notes #5

Notes #5

I met a girl last night, wearing a floral print dress

And gauze around both knees.

Jill fell down a flight of stairs

While intoxicated,

Dulling herself up for a night out.

I don’t think booze was always the bastion of hope

For disconnected introverts

That it now is.

I met a girl this morning, wearing a hospital bracelet

And a confused face,

Wondering how she got a MIP and her stomach pumped.