Friday, May 27, 2011

& i think i see Death winking

for a few


all of

the light bulbs


the whole



several times

& i sit

not shivering

but calmly







Monday, May 23, 2011

the antithesis of boyhood rooms

when i was a boy
after the horrible fights
beneath the roof would end
& the house fell silent
sometimes it'd rain
late in the evening
when it was still light outside
& gentle drops came down
as day still held onto its slender brightness
& i'd imagine a room somewhere
a long distance away
one w/ kind walls standing peacefully
at 90 degree angles
& windows tall & flung open
w/never-ending views of green grass
& finally a very high ceiling
yes, there was this abundant space above
but not so much for love but for mercy

the worst poet

even lies
to himself
in the

most poetry & great poetry

most poetry
is fake

& contains
no truth

great poetry
is like a dangerous
powerful drug

that makes you
realize that
reality is shit

orbiting orphanage

shoulda stayed a microscopic tadpole, or better yet, shoulda stayed in the rings of an elm, shoulda remained in the weightless ether, shoulda sat at the core of a mountain, shoulda rolled w/breakers in the ocean, shoulda stayed mineral or moonlight
shoulda fought birth w/more doggedness, shoulda dodged its hook more diligently
but i was caught & reeled into this thing: this mess, this orbiting orphanage
this thick, lopsided, loathsome, spinning wilderness of lonesome-hood...

Friday, May 13, 2011

second hand shit

the cigarette ash that dropped
between the keys
is the better poem

the dark figure i pass in my car
w/the hood on, walking w/a twelve pack
at midnight is the better poem

the sleeping cat w/her back to me
w/relaxed & un-pricked ears
is the better poem

the cherry blossoms on tips of branches
against the cloudless blue sky
is the better poem

all the men spending their first night
in their graves is the better poem

but this second hand shit
these lines will have to fucking do...
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.