Potatoes sprouting
from the couch
made a nice meal
for the ladybug
in my shoebox -
I admire her appetite.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Thursday, April 3, 2014
New Door
Drooling god
sniffing at
the doorway.
This one
isn't unusual.
This one
casts the
same shadow
as the
other dogs.
I stopped.
I will
walk past
this god
and take
my first
real breath
outside this
lonesome hole.
That dog
will follow
bury bones
sniff privates
carry on.
sniffing at
the doorway.
This one
isn't unusual.
This one
casts the
same shadow
as the
other dogs.
I stopped.
I will
walk past
this god
and take
my first
real breath
outside this
lonesome hole.
That dog
will follow
bury bones
sniff privates
carry on.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Short Sentence
The whine from
the cellar ceased,
but there's an
echo from a jailer's
clanging keys and
the rattling of bars
from a prisoner
pleading to be freed.
the cellar ceased,
but there's an
echo from a jailer's
clanging keys and
the rattling of bars
from a prisoner
pleading to be freed.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Happy Birthday, Kurt!
I can honestly say that Kurt Cobain is the most influential man in my life. It's time to let you guys know that I am unoriginal and everything I've ever said or done is just derived from something Kurt said or did. The last chorus of "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" gives me chills every damn time I hear it.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Live From Detroit
I
Lords of punk rock.
Fathers of rebellion.
Conscious of syringe
affliction. Noisy
dickhead posture.
The charade is
likely tiring;
Purple hair,
Purple coats,
Purple chords.
Mini-van for hire
to chauffeur ambition
of young-old formula,
sold to commodity
consumers in suburb
mall Americaland.
II
It's funny how
everything works out.
Heroes die young,
or they become the
same old crack
in the shattered mirror.
The one you picked
up the pieces for.
The one you cut
your wrists for.
Culture left you
blue in face,
red in wrists,
with fingerprints
where contention held.
Punk rock:
all the filthy,
unclean,
dysfunctional,
dead children
inspired by black/white
photographs.
Aspiring
to be expression
in their purest form.
III
You are the howl.
Still piercing in a
dark, dilapidated
basement, existing
in disembodied fury.
You are the trauma.
Shattering the bones
we'd use like toothpicks
to dislodge echos
from our teeth.
You are the dissonance.
The inhumane growl
erupting between
sound and silence.
You are the sound.
You are the silence.
You are the color.
Lords of punk rock.
Fathers of rebellion.
Conscious of syringe
affliction. Noisy
dickhead posture.
The charade is
likely tiring;
Purple hair,
Purple coats,
Purple chords.
Mini-van for hire
to chauffeur ambition
of young-old formula,
sold to commodity
consumers in suburb
mall Americaland.
II
It's funny how
everything works out.
Heroes die young,
or they become the
same old crack
in the shattered mirror.
The one you picked
up the pieces for.
The one you cut
your wrists for.
Culture left you
blue in face,
red in wrists,
with fingerprints
where contention held.
Punk rock:
all the filthy,
unclean,
dysfunctional,
dead children
inspired by black/white
photographs.
Aspiring
to be expression
in their purest form.
III
You are the howl.
Still piercing in a
dark, dilapidated
basement, existing
in disembodied fury.
You are the trauma.
Shattering the bones
we'd use like toothpicks
to dislodge echos
from our teeth.
You are the dissonance.
The inhumane growl
erupting between
sound and silence.
You are the sound.
You are the silence.
You are the color.
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