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Sunday, flailing Sunday |
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Placed a wire and wood totem in the rhododendron, wooden fingers to ward off marauding goblins. Arts and Crafts Sundays rule.
A poem a night is a tiny goal
Insignificant self-improvement
Maybe even self-destruction
Reducing life to paltry lines
Culture? I will sell you garbanzos nickels for ounces through the feathered shadows cast by phosphorous glares of war. It may be possible that the war is here, lurking between our slender aural bones in sparks and chemical pulses. Never doubt the value of altering reality to suit your giggling whims.
——–
Grading tests
Writing assignments offer snippets
Tiny lines traced in the Sand of Life.
I am 23 years old
I work as a bookkeeper.
I dream of buying a dog
To replace the one that died.
I hope to work in a foreign country
This is why I study English.
Puzzle pieces
Corners, edges impossible to find
Snap them together if they fit
Spread them across the memory
If they do not.
Midnight creeps in
Is soon gone
Outside the rage of traffic
Babble of tongues
Ceases at last.
—–
If it bends, we can break it.
Dreams of running
Joyous and invincible
Heedless of uniforms
Turnstiles, registers, lights.
Upon waking though
I must shuffle
Through dim tunnels
Corridors of stone
Give my papers
(Pictures of myself
Of dead statesmen
Of Important Monoliths)
To pale hands
And flashing machines
My eyes downcast
My spine crooked
My thoughts silent
Again.
——-
Humble Apologies to Ginsberg's Grinning Corpse.
America I want to expend myself upon you
Burn and writhe out my potential across your face
Add infinitesimal pieces of my soul to your fabric
Not for what you are now but for what you have been
And will be.
Because the pendulum swings,
Necessity will come again
And the American will rise again
Out of the mire of obesity,
Relentless squandering,
Precision bombing reconstruction,
And the bizarre great swamp
That is Political Correctness
And Patriotic Politics.
We will rise again
Become the force for good
We so desperately must become.
So, America - for you, this -
Faith, Hope, Sweat and Iconoclasm.
My thoughts and my strange little prayers
Not for what you are now but for what you have been
And will be, again.
Porch in San Fran Sutra
The hum of the refrigerator
The blast of cool 3am air
Through the open staircase
Heavy blankets, soft couch,
A night of musical speech
Metaphysics and gardening
Her eyes were bluish-green
And sank back for eons.
Plug for my buddy Matt - Hair Envelope - Good mad scientist music.
