30 Jan 2018

Worms turn beneath flowers as the birds await their feed

Flames cascade down toward the earth
Fitting exactly between the collected tall buildings

Workers, mothers, preachers of god’s word
All run for their lives

Soon after the white cumulus turn blue, then black
Snowfall is reported but

This city
My city destroys any purity long before it can reach us
Its concrete surface remains clean
As we fade into evening and disturbed sleep

The streets clear except for a broken toy
Springs and cogs poking from the innards

As we slowly turn from the sun yet again
Surplus fumes and winter death

Words drip to a stop for all the tired writers
For today there is nothing

To report 

2 Jan 2018

Untitled (seasons)

I want to live where it snows
Every single winter
To awaken before a jagged horizon
Where mountains block the sunrise

I want to live where it is too cold to rain
In the autumn
Only orange leaves dry and
Crunching underfoot

I want to live where the summers
Defeat the average man
Where women and children wilt and
Rejoice in the searing heat

I want a billion stars shining each night
Wild animals prowling across my porch
A post office and general store
And a small bar in which to get drunk

I want this simple string of things
I need them as you all do oxygen
I need them both alone and not

Hidden in the dark of night there must
Be a road straight and true
Out of this town.

11 Oct 2017

New Work. Oct 2017

Weird people

Not the different
Not the odd
Not the dysfunctional
Round peg in square hole

But the weird
Those who are kind of
Slippery and glossed
Calm and sallow with a
Volume never above a mediocre

Untrustworthy and nauseating
Happy and agreeable and
Out for themselves only
Ever and for

They are sly and cut like razors
And so you bleed out before even
Finding a wound
And they are the majority
The climbers like
Spiders on a web of success
Reaching the top and dying
Still ignorant but richer

 Normal people

We are small
And caring and look too far
See too much
We understand the fire
The insect and the elephant

You have no idea
The difficulty in maintaining this
To awaken every morning into anything but
And yet still become the shape of it
The weight of normality continuing
Permanently crushing
Unceasing and tireless

Our days an unseen high-wire act
Between street and office and café and
Finally home
And throughout our finite tolerance
We still manage to love and compound our art
Into the everyday hum

And it becomes at times impossible
To maintain the
Façade that we are part of this
Square onto square onto

And we are small
But not the smallest
We look too far but are not blinded
By it
We are nothing like you.

1 Oct 2017

Dying Laughing


The gods are not the artists
The painters or
God forbid not even the musicians
Though they come in a
Close second

It is the comics
The comedians driving from city to city
On lonely roads of sadness
The stand-ups that hold a mic
And control and dominate
And finally overpower all
Those faces beyond the spotlight

These are the souls racing far ahead
Of the rest of us
Words coming at you unfettered
Brutal truths direct to your third eye

These are the gods
It is not a painting
With a hundred meanings
Or a poem swollen with

They instead send us rock and soil and the
Air we breathe
And nothing I could ever write will
Come close.