Spot the Lie

Today was
top to bottom
the worst day
of my life!

Too bad I'm
so inclined to
tuning out static,
I forget to turn
the radio back
one or two clicks.

I'm in my burning
car still turning
the station back and
forth, back and forth,
back and voices
telling me in broken
frequencies -
GET OUT OF THE CAR!

Talk radio,
so tedious these days...

May you find peace with every demon living in the cellar 
of your dream house. You should have killed me when you
had the chance. You know when I come back it won't be
for you. I would tell you that I hate you but the last thing
I want to do is give you any sense of satisfaction. After all,
you're a con-artist; I'm a liar. It became too real for you
when you started believing your own story. Though I'm not
sure where the facade began and you ended. All I know is
we ended and you're probably dead somewhere warm, 
or so you hope. I hope for a lot of things. I'm ever the idealist.

• I hope you forget where I do my work
• I hope my poems are lost on you
• I hope you never read a line of poetry again 
• I hope you find peace across the sea

I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

A trash bin that reads THANK YOU
stands more dignified than I.
Dutiful, proud, polite...
A belch erupts from my jutted
hairy jaw. My mouth opens
collecting dust, flies, and
coins from generous -- if not brave --
Samaritans. I pause to sniff my armpits.

My eyes are like dumbbells
weighing down my dumb head

Brain sloshing about like ice
in an empty cup of cola

Thoughts of naked ladies and smelling salts
rattle in my noggin like a lump of an infant

banging it's rattle on a white hi-chair tray
I write these similes while drooling on myself

My libido rages like Lucifer's unholy war,
and I will inevitably fall from grace.

Like Milton I shall blithely declare:
It's better to reign in hell than serve in heaven 

Like hell, this waking life
Like dreams, I keep my visions to myself.

Like a star everyone will see my dying light,
gazing at profound beauty until I will

inevitably burn out and come crashing
down in dust at their feet. Little star gazers.



 

The Tragedies That Envelope Loved Ones and Ones We Barely Knew

The story of the Screaming Lady.
The pockets of her ragged cut offs
lined with ugly orange filters where
the smoked was sucked out.

She expels frequent blasphemes,
aiming malice toward the sky and
to passerbys who pass her by without
a scoff, smile, or slight.

The smell of cigarettes sticks on her
breath like a dog who rolls in freshly
dead animal.

With each grimace and scowl
her face contorts and assumes
a frightening frame. She speaks
only ills and slurs simple phrases,

"All in on the bad one!"

Each blistered finger pointed
in the face of an infant, mesmerized
by the revolting expressions
dancing across her face.

A cradle, a miscarriage,
the outline of a sobbing
woman holding a baby's rattle -
that doesn't make a sound.

She must think it queer, the mistress'
distress, immaterial as the shadow
she spots in old photographs, looming
over fading depictions of parties,
old friends, lime green dresses.

Haunted by scentless apparitions
of love and trauma occupying
the same space, but no one
believes them to be bothered
with ambivalence.

We are, after all,
flawed beings by design.

Be it the bottle or a potent
cocktail made to swallow,
snort then wither and wallow,
you find out down the blurred,
red eyed road you've been
enamored with who and what
you choose to abuse.

It's a curved road,
an uneven road,
a slippery road,
a road that skirts the cliffs you once
feared falling into out of fear
of not knowing how far
the floor is below.

A fear of falling
and falling
and falling
only to realize
you've been
falling
falling
falling
all along.

One moment, headlights.
One moment, weightlessness.
One moment, eyes closed.
You touch the chasm floor and
sing out to all your friends,

"I'm here, there's nothing left to fear..."

Retreading the Same Damn Sinking Story

Thick, dark, sweet fluids
(or so I picture them in my head).
The subdued practice of feeling.

Feet up on a ratty plaid sofa
left out in the rain, collecting
moths and mildew - it
smells like home. White
fluff puffing out from the
crusty cushions like cotton
boils ready to pop and ooze.

I'm a disease. As certain as
one may be in this gripe age.
Clinging to dreams of fleeting
memories still suspended in the
musty air of a Michigan basement.

A skipped rock sunk in the bottom
of Lake Huron, a westward wind
gesturing toward a life ahead of me...
if only I wasn't so far behind.

I'm the 'no means' Messiah,
giving it all to be crucified on
my cross to bear:

To be the tortured artist,
yet holds all the tools of platitude.
To be starving,
yet always insists being full.
To be misunderstood,
yet always unsure of himself.

The conclusion came to me
in a fever dream of angels and
demons playing cowboys and
indians in the scorched
pasture past the screaming forest:

I remember her posture, how
distressed she appeared bellowing
at her face sinking to the
ocean floor so far below.

The complexion I fished for,
so dark and deep, kept me honest
as I gazed at the reflection glaring
back at me. My resolution held
firm, I damned these thoughts to
depths deeper than the face
that once belonged to despair.

I awoke in my bed,
wondering only now
who it was that I allowed to drown.

Born of Fury, My Child

Paternal dreams,
the recluse of my grandiosity.
Flipping through channels,
dead batteries in my clicker.
(Antiquated references be damned!)

She's flushing her destiny down
the drain. Tears, vomit, ill will.
She's weeping now,
weeping now,
weeping now.

The TV set is broken.

Weeping now,
weeping now,
Weeping now.

There's a sweaty ball cap
sitting on the chipped oak post
on my edge of the bed.
It's blue and red all over.
To no one's delight, it was for
the One never delivered.

A solitary tear.
Eye contact, a breach
of rules solemnly kept in tact.

Brown eyes, window to the soul.
Blue eyes, some will never meet.
Brown eyes, shutting now.
Blue eyes...someday, somehow.

Brown eyes, weeping now.

Ritualized Disorientation

It was when I traded the

pen for the drug that

I lost my mind.

The debilitating buzz.

Slurring poorly written slam

to an audience of a complacent cat.

My dog died...

(he was a better listener.)

Sometimes I'm bold and proud,

the rest of my hours are spent 

cruelly staring at a genius

that'll never materialize. 

Fraternize with the enemy.

Maybe choke down a cat call, 

a copper brew, a smile to say

I'm prone to poor decisions. 

Attention comes at a price 

we're all paying. A dilemma 

we often ignore, but 

I need this more than

you ever care to know. 

Acknowledge me, 

Cater to these 

intoxicating fetishes. 

Habits, demons drowning 

out the cries of nature's better angels. 

I, a casualty in an unholy war. 

Alas, the angel before me now 

fills my glass, and again...

Return

I'm at a loss, involuntarily
withholding words best
put to paper.

Arrangement improper,
prose perhaps?

Phony, fake.
Unsightly to scholarly
eyes, an undignified
force to reckon with.

I wish myself Webster,
or perhaps an Eric Carle.
I find myself Dadaist,
mocking my own meanings.
Ambition lost in a
weathering soul.

Grace in a period of
brutality is a hard sell -
an even bloodier buy.
First it's a black eye,
then a bruised aorta,
then comes the real hurt -
pride in the age of the fall.

I should be writing
instead of laughing.

I should be living
instead of dying.

I should be loving
instead of wondering
what's wrong with a
little more cream in my coffee.

The Ballad of Unrequited Indigestion

I'm yours. Forever, for now,
'til then nothing more.

The flight of fleeting feelings,
an "aw fuck it" facade. Your
rule-breaker smile sends a
chariot of chills down my spine
as I use hand-crafted baby
bottles to catch my salty tears.

I blew it.
The candle, the torch,
the belated birthday balloon.
I'm the prick, the pop!

I lay a heap of latex deflated.
Stretch me with your hands,
pull me over your face so
I can feel your smile tickle
my elastic skin.

Sometimes I fear you're
allergic to me, itching as if
I were a rash. Other days
I'm kept not far away,
as if separation might cause
a worse reaction -
the stuff of fatal attraction.

We'll kill each other before
we're through. If you go,
I can't live knowing
of love without you.

Me, the fool who will
follow you to the grave.

You, the sorry soul who
can't escape one stubborn sucker.

I'm yours. Forever, for now,
'til then, and the remainder more.