Climate’s Change

(via Daily Post, Finite)

 

The flames are always finite,

For they rely on the generous giving of

Others bodies for their warmth.

Eventually they get climatized

To the predatory pity and decide to fade,

Ash to dirty ash, spinning and

Cackling like newborns

As they spin free, dust returned

To dust, so fine it lingers

In your life line and love line

Through each wash, growing darker

And more a part of your skin.

Continue reading

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.

Entry 11

(Author’s note – Sorry for the delay.)

 

11

 

Reggie was playing PS4 when Jackson opened the garage door. He looked ridiculous in his full black sweat suit and face paint, and Reggie couldn’t avoid making a jab at him.

“Did you pull off the heist, hamburglar?”

 

“Uh-huh. We got a plan now man, we are going to help Ethan and find out what happened to Maggie. Ms. Halverson might know something, and giant Todd too.”

 

“Pretty sure my mom’s new boyfriend and his pig friends will do that, but I suppose you guys have an equal chance of solving the case. That dumb motherfucker wants to vote for Trump. At least, I think. He seems like a republican, right?”

 

“Yea, yea, how was dinner man? That had to be awkward.”

Continue reading

Entry #5

5

 

Todd waved the police car in. Officers Bishop and Parker got out, both rushing to the passed out Maggie. An ambulance was only seconds behind, and the paramedics quickly took command, leaving the two cops to pacing the scene rapidly. Bishop made a slight gagging sound and sat down on the curb while Parker sent in a call to dispatch. Todd quickly walked inside, tapping Kate gently on the shoulder and pointing her towards the responders on the scene. He headed back to the dishwashing station as the officers entered the diner. Tyler, The Creator’s baritone voice barked out the words, “rape a pregnant bitch” and Todd smacked the speaker system, a small yelp leaving his lips. He hadn’t realized he was crying until looking at the blurry lights on his iPod as he shut it off. From the front of the house he heard Bishop say his name, and Kate’s high-pitched response.

Continue reading

I wish I was born after pop-punk

It was the incestual bleating of banjos and the girls with daddy’s disappointment on their breath that brought me to this town – I wish I was born after pop-punk so my pseudo-sadomasochism meant something – do I self-deprecate myself? I self-deprecate myself – wanting to be useful, I made myself into a hammer and hid amongst the rust at the back of the shed – with a river for a cock I freeze each winter and let Spring’s breasts tame me into a child again – my kind are rotting, after years of salt water and blood – I only drink to wash out the taste of Pompeii – while the cool kids learned how to make it I just begged for forgiveness – something about jazz makes me wish I could just scream about how cold I am – If I died tonight my death rattle would sound like train cars locking, a yawp to blow the house down – The wind of my eyes sets fire to all the pine beetles, whose sour pincers have embedded in my tattoos – All burnt up, I stumbled into a community garden and spread myself over your mother’s artichokes –