Of Men, Of Ills

So that I may know what

errors or sin men have

all committed against

themselves, or of the

forces that nature has

impelled upon us all,

I force myself and hand,

with fortitude and will,

early under morning light,

to examine with empathy,

and progress beyond it,

then I won’t think,

or wonder, or fret,

my head can clear of

their misgivings, of their

evils and trespasses,

of woeless scythes’ blades,

unending and portentous,

and I can pretend that

those among us are pure

and true, until I wake

again, and start anew

Post Traumatic Happiness

I made a promise to me, and I lied,

but now I can reaffirm, but I am

a liar, so I don’t believe me, but

I do believe you, and your voice,

and your heart, and your smile;

my black, soot, pain, laceration,

darkness, eye smear, blood fallow,

is truth-less, toothless, useless;

in the morning air quiet, I take

each step away from you, and

make lie after lie to my face as

I pass through the hall, and then

to the bath, and then to the galley,

and then I wait, lying the whole

time; and I remember this exactly,

when I was eighteen-years-old,

I tried the same logic, and the

face I told it to disagreed, each

face was caught in depressive

calligraphy, study me, study this,

walk this way, no, no, we gave up,

and he said lying was lying to

yourself, he was an optimist to me,

I was not an optimist to me,

and I have only flown a kite one

time, and I hardly remember it,

because I lied about it happening,

like I do with magic, like I do with

trauma, like I do with the scope of

existence, I wouldn’t say pessimism,

I wouldn’t even say the opposite of

optimism, I would say lying to live,

and living a lie to lie to myself; lies

Gazing at Freshly Settled Snow

eclecticismgunfight

Like Rembrandt himself, paintings in mastery,

the shelter stands true and deft, while snow so

pure rests succinctly: beautiful, like moments

in your life, creases in time, perfect as a day’s

pass, when the moon moves through the sky,

lit horizons lift each bird, higher then higher

still, aloft and enlightened, we stare in wonder

and shiver at the thought, amazed for minutes

among hours, if ever there was beauty, eternity

is its bride, and our eyes gaze aplomb, leveled

and natural, lost in tranquility for seconds, alive.

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April’s Snow

eclecticismgunfight

Prince was a pioneer and a talented artist. This poem is for him.

I started working,
I got lost,
like too much to drink,
like memories that don’t hurt,
like that one time… it’s
never that one time long enough,
is it?

It isn’t.

A creamsicle,
a purple rain, a red corvette,
a dramatic entry, a new love, no
worry, hunger erased

it’s amazing, what everything
isn’t, especially when it is

fresh dirt, rainy morning,
her lotion on her clean
body, recess in the first grade,
the last time you felt
appreciated, a glass of wine,
a crisp radish, saturated
clouds, a trip to the lake,
clean sheets, her eyes
in the morning sun, clean
elegance; smooth, clean fabric

enough to
make you wonder,

but
it isn’t ever like that one time,
even when it happens again. Once is
all there ever is; indescribable​
uniqueness

Because snow in April can…

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The Smugglers

Originally posted 8/17/19, in what seems a different time and era.

The Smugglers,
no haste in heart,
short retreat repents,
a natural night rains slurry,
quadrupeds habitat,
dove crowding handrail,

magical supine,
trapped in Mongolia,
the safety of cloth,
wooden lattices,
verily we watch us,

avail the embodiment,
the frost enters soon,
our taken hearts beat,
so I carve it in wood,
the night long and drawn,

each Donna brought more,
we laughed at the old,
chewing eggs ridiculous,
five dollars is enough,
hand-in-hand we love,

trod the valley’s girth,
beyond great skies,
greatness within hours,
unnatural continents below,
staring at our faces,
like thousands before,

this recharge: a song,
a moment in time’s drum,
only one sight smiles,
drunk on you always,
safari in Ohio’s azure,

this beaten moment’s muse,
magical back-masking,
a poet sinking into crime,
the ringleader soft,
recapture butterflies,

in periphery we sink,
the coated lens green,
fortune still on the coast,
bastards we laugh as one,
dreaming of each moment,

yes to the smells that day,
madness gripping our twin,
sorrow for caged lives,
while horizons await,
yet we smile loud,

yet we fight death’s light,
yes we walk the path,
the coolness on our heads,
the warmth at our feet,
the love swept up between,
the smugglers refrain

The Grave We Are Lain

It spits, shoots,
shakes out (loud)
of the bottle’s top,
a fevered, sweat,
upon the fifth night
our duplicity cowers
over the rim, putty
in the fetid hands
of the reaper’s grip,

Jim Harrison.
Bukowski.
Parker.
McCullers.
Lowry…

sots and prophets,
made life stink away,
cast out castigates,
sway in amber pours,
drown in dark malt,
furrow brows over
Chandler’s lights,
and Cheever’s run
through the hoods’
green pastures, uke
a cantos, iamb the
plumbing, and in
the sour, filthy, swill,
our hearts pump
ethanol, cigarette
ash a sandbox,
and the cull… the
rip? The ripening
of it all? The living
is the same as death,
so to the dying a
drownt light, surrey
contraption of pest
and pestilence noise,
to breathe, to live,
to lie alone, to wander
the hills, bleary-eyes
fixed upon the glowing,
shit sky so bright and
magical, and each path
darker still, too dark,
too wretched a sight,
but about then, the page
turns, and pour pimples
and dimples into a
tumbler’s crystal, and a
question to solitude
no longer drivel to
the natural leaders,
but a swan song to
the meaning of even
the simplest existence,
we live but to die,
and every path is a
dead end, be it life
eternal, or worms as
friends, suffer life to
live and pass the bottle,
for greatness is but
a disease, and the cure
to death, is but to live
life purely and in truth

Psychopomps

Muckbang, muck-luck, transition

into Dadaisms, ARP in tranced,

pisschrist worshiping dirty toes

of goddesses, while print scans

swap yellow toner jokes, burst

onto the scene with digital arts

cum tropes cum magenta-bullys

cum sallow seafarers cum rum

drink cannibals static wizards

hung dry slope caustic witless

cantrips cum suffering kittens

whose fur is dripping wet in a

bubble wrap fantasy cum free-

basing pantywaisting supple

supplicants saffron tasting safe

harbor bellowing piebald pipes

whirring smoke cum death on

top of a roan horse dressed for

the wrong century, ~14th has

moved on, Black Plague now

a trope, you fool, not even an

ee cummings poem could lock

you down, not even a dream in

a fugue state could animate u,

could stifle u, could trfle u, cld

educte u, cld led u t me, cd c u..

…………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………….

……………………………………..

…………………….

……..

…

.

Hopkiss

And you even made the label,

designed and formed, a poem

included therein, the “gall, the

heartburn,” all fits into glass,

the care and touch, the bleary

undertaking limited, attached

to graciousness and harmony,

your touch flattery for pagans,

though Popes still know you,

belittled still sunken, roughly

hewn there in glory, morale

the highest it ever was, a hot

August day, dinette tan, green,

the gavel flew from the judge,

the face magical fiber, for my

hand you so did take, along

each path we carry on, ramble

with me for as long as eternity

lasts, typical results standing

ever so still, another one in

each of our hands, thousands

of years to ride among a long

dream together, whether fair

skies call or storms split black,

it’s the finite gestures concrete

in essence, I never forget them,

I will endeavor always keeping

them here, pockets of posies,

and our ashes relax entwined

Bastards Betraying Youth

Around the time I truly became “middle-aged,” I wrote this. I’ve shared it before on or near my birthday, so why not again?

fuck middle age,
wrinkles conspicuous,
faces like used leather,
gray beards, hair, faces,
balls,

forgotten youth,
trampled by
up-and-coming

assholes, fervent
pickled cocksure
men, waggling
their flaccid penises

but we,

pouty, pursed lips,
singing ballads from
decades old radio
shows,
masturbate each
other in front
of loving women,
who hold us tight
at night when we
smile and pretend
not to cry,

ringing in my ears,
I hang up the phone,

fuck your parties.

I’m not coming.

not to rub our elbows,
and talk about old fart
shit, pretend our
faces are dragging
in sand, fat, dripping
cancerous truths,

“Is this gluten free?”

fuck you…
this art sucks,
painted by children,
pretending to hurt,

next is 50, I’ll
take it and run,
burn down the
house, dancing cripple

it’s got to be better than
this death,

pour me a beer,
it’s getting late

no title

this magc moment, if Lou
Reed would have kept the
i out, he would have been
put into his own Tropic of
Cancer, where staunchly,
drunkenly, stately, white
men can use you like poly-
propylene, like we are in
the end, because this magc
moment, less the i of dec-
iet, keeps us separate from
dogs, from cats, bats, rats,
no magc in death, because
there’s no i. no i in me, and
no i in you, it’s filling, used
deep, bothersome, applaud,
laugh, forgo the pleasures,
the neurasthenia happens,
i did it, when i was five old,
no magic there, because i
was in it, and prescient n’
prepubescent, and a pustule
on the ass of my parents’,
who thought i was worthy
of their hatred to each one,
beat in, beat out, i was left
egol-ess and crying, belly
full of worms, shattered
in my room, shaken and
blustering, i, small, i, alone,
i, hate, and it still fills my i
with tears, not even the final
version helped. I transform?