Category: More Poems


Giving Up

April 10th, 2016 — 10:46am

 

There is a moment in a man’s life

when he realizes deep down in his gut

his groin, his gait

he realizes

he’ll never experience much

that life has to offer.

 

TV, news, radio, magazines, books, atlases, photos

airplanes, buses, the brain, our imagination

can’t take us there or anywhere

near the sum of experience.

 

There’s a time in your life

when sadness soaks all and

awareness becomes a chore given

there’s so much you’ll never have or know

in this big candy story.

And the only recourse once you do feel

once you do know this,

the only action, the only response

is to give up

sit down in your garden, enjoy the day’s sun

’cause you ain’t going anywhere important

in this short time you’ve got.

 

Enjoy your slice and

give up the guilt of not owning

the whole damn chair of stores.

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Why I turned out the way I am

June 2nd, 2015 — 9:02pm

 

It’s for your own good

my father belted.

My mother did the same

at the dinner table with peas.

Mr. Drury in grade 7 had me

write lines of “P”s,

“It’s for your own good.” he opined.

 

Cigarettes are now $10 a pack

and casinos $1,000 plane rides away.

“It’s for your own good,” they say.

 

Seat belts, sanitariums and saints

always a safe, sane, step away.

My wife, my ever always wife

books me monthly to see a doctor

as much a dunce as a doctor can be.

All he offers are pills and pleasantries.

They both say, “It’s for your own good.”

 

Wars, weddings, sprayed green lawns

taxes, papal proclamations and government acts.

“It’s all for your own good,” they declare when asked.

 

My life nearly done and

I have yet to truly taste

what we call – free.

I followed footsteps

and danced to my own good

doing as I was told.

 

Thinking back, I now know

how I came to be who I am

this man, here and now

finally at home in the world

on edge, aware,

of what is really good for me.

 

My flusher finally broke.

 

It’s like one day you wake up

and realize there ain’t no jello tree

or the dictionary was written by a pedophile

and

you head out the door to plant or write your own.

 

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It doesn’t matter

April 23rd, 2015 — 9:03am

 

 

It doesn’t matter if

the air con is broke

the car got scratched

or the wine ain’t chilled.

It doesn’t matter.

 

Don’t matter if

the dog went on the carpet

or the DOW’s up or down.

Don’t matter if

there’s an earthquake in Ecuador

or you won the Super 7.

 

No worries about

missing the 9am meeting

drinking too much

drinking too little

no mayo in the fridge

a bad back, a better world.

It doesn’t matter.

 

It doesn’t matter if

the bus is late or

you arrived too early

or

Sunnis are killing Shias

or

Shias are killing Sunnis

or

Justin Bieber is doing time.

Don’t matter if

you are this or

should be that.

Don’t matter if

the dog got your cat or

carbon emissions are up.

It doesn’t matter.

 

It doesn’t matter

if your mother-in-law

hates your guts

or the plane’s delayed.

Don’t matter if

your bank balance is $0

or the remote is broke.

Doesn’t matter if

you don’t finish this poem

or ever do.

It doesn’t matter.

 

Why?

It doesn’t matter.

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Cheers!

April 23rd, 2015 — 8:45am

 

I am here

this is enough

like the last seed pushes

through the rough.

 

Want, desire, need

abstract things I

no longer bleed

the apple now in my mouth.

 

I am here

piss, shit, breath and spit

I lounge and loaf,

there is no longer any

getting on with it.

 

For other there’s

the buzz of progress, nicer hair.

I lift my glass

I walk not where.

 

I am here

this is enough

like the glistening ant pulls

the large leaf through the rough.

 

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Failing

April 18th, 2015 — 4:55pm

 

This poem

these words

falsetto

wrong

like Frank Sinatra

breaking into song

half way up

the Amazon.

 

Nothing never seems right

like the i

trying to see itself

or beauty gone

just a little

left of right.

 

We are animals in costumes

made of human skin,

pour another drink

barman

this poem sucks

I have to begin again …..

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Fictional Delirium

April 5th, 2015 — 9:30am

 

Tin man is pounding

Pippy Longstockings

in the back room.

 

Cat woman’s got

Bart’s tongue.

Inspector Gadget

his zipper undone.

 

The Hulk is in the backroom

doing yoga.

Batman’s thrown off his cape

and wearin’ a toga.

 

Ironman is taking an oil bath

King Kong is watching

The Wrath Of Khan.

Speedy Gonzales he’s long gone.

 

Coyote finally caught his bird.

Next up, Tweety Bird, I heard.

 

The Cookie Monster is getting

ten teeth pulled.

Zorro’s wedding plans are on hold.

Spiderman’s been sold

to a future arachnoid.

 

Indiana Jones I’m told

is in town to discuss the next script

insisting it must contain a larger crypt.

 

Denis is menacing.

Donald’s ducking.

Bozo clowning around.

 

The Littlest Hobo fell

and is hobbling back to his owner

in Hollywood.

The Family Guy’s got a boner

for the girl in

that other show.

 

Zeus is on the loose

and won’t take no for an answer.

I just saw some deers fly by.

Onward Dasher, onward prancer!

 

McGyver’s driving a loaner

and Wonder Woman is wondering

if its worth it

all the animation it takes as

delirious Betty Crocker rebakes …..

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Everyday Effluent

April 5th, 2015 — 9:20am

 

Piss, shit, sweat, toe jam

Dead skin, dead hair, dead heads

Bad breath, sperm, nail clippings

Snot, mucous, earwax, phlegm

Puke, puss, blood, placenta

Tears, spit, saliva, sound, words, thought

 

It’s surprising how alive

we are

given all the dead

we send out.

 

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The other side

April 4th, 2015 — 7:51am

 

When I die let it be quick

a surprise

waking up in a strange bed

after a good night out on the town

looking around, smiling

just happy to be here, there

anywhere.

 

Let me not see it coming

when it comes

a bullet to the back of the head

a piano falling from the sky

sweet poison in my drink

death taking me from behind

lights out

its dark

I’m on the other side.

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A Literary Autopsy

January 24th, 2015 — 9:35am

 

kafka (1)“Now, you have all the vitals. Josef K., male, 40. Eastern European, middle child, no dependents. Never married, profession: Insurance advocate.

 

“So, let’s get down to work. The first thing you notice immediately are the feet. Big. Too big – a duck out of water, clown’s feet, must have been uncomfortable walking through this world, on cobblestones especially. So too with all the extremities. Notice the ears and how they are reaching out to hear – almost to here! The hands. Too big for gloves. A murderer’s hands, always in need of clutching each other for fear of their fallen fate.”

 

“Now, let’s turn our attention to the eyes which some say are the keyhole of the soul. Dark, deep, moist, cavernous eyes. They have the look of too little sleep, of an active nether world, an always awakening dream. Calculating eyes, always wanting something which the other is unable to give. Long straight eye brows that guard the inner sanctum in a plain yet threatening way.”

 

“Then, there’s the nose. Typical mensch, built to oxygenate the brain. Solomon’s sniffing snoze. Almost artificial, glued on, inhuman, primitive, as if it were bought from the golem maker along with the clown’s feet, for a show, to beckon some hidden force, then unceremoniously stuck on. A nose that knows.”

 

“Lips. Thin, always dry. Unkissed. Not those of a lover but one who wants to be loved. An intellectual’s lips. Well sealed to prevent secrets from escaping too soon, allowing ideas to be well digested.”

 

“Speaking of the digestive system, let’s now focus on the torso. Truly a perfect ectomorph. Emasculated, a human squirrel full of nervous energy, unsettledness. But of the mind, not the body. The body wastes away on the stem of the mind. Thin, wiry, almost consumptive, the torso shows the effects of a high calorie burning organism. A man of immense hunger. A hunger artist. And it is this, I believe to be the key here. The digestive system is or should I say “was”, in a constant state of work, reconstituting experience. Life does not offer this man enough food to exist.”

 

“So, in a word, the cause of death: hunger. Perhaps he never found the food he liked – a forerunner of a more modern and endemic though less fatal disease known as nausea. A sickness of those who never seem to arrive at port. Which brings us to our next cadaver, a very interesting case, a young man found on a train from Bouville in the Gare de Montmartre in Paris. DOA, dead on arrival, no apparent trauma though ….”

kafka

 

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Modern Hygiene

January 19th, 2015 — 2:02pm

 

Everyone should have to dig a grave.

 

Choose a spot, break the earth

dig and dig and dig

jump in

dig and dig and dig

cold splashes on the face

bailing water

from the always giving, taking earth.

 

Everyone should have to dig a grave.

 

Then, feeling the arms light

hearing the smuck

as the body lands and settles

seeing how the first shovel full

lands and

illuminates the face

for a moment

though the earth abideth forever.

 

Everyone should have to dig a grave.

 

Digging, digging, digging

then, a few stones on top

a few quiet thoughts and

the wiping of the brow

the sun on the damp soil

finally, the back turned.

 

Everyone should have to dig a grave.

 

The day is coming

when this will be deemed a talent.

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