it’s taken me
nearly forty years
to learn to say
NO
to fear
to vice
to vanity
to unhealthy people
to intolerable situations
so to hell with
fake it ’til you make it
i say
fuck it ’til you chuck it
Tag: Behavior
Categories
key strokes
Writing
asked Poetry,
“Who
are you trying
to convince?”
he could not hide
his twisted psychology
behind his volunteering
his social networking
his name dropping
his poorly translated
banal Japanese poetry
his social work
and his damned bonsai trees
that he was a control freak
with a volatile temper
and a duplicitous nature
that he is the man in the bar rubbing his
chino covered cock on your thigh
condescending
manipulative
overly solicitous and hell bent
on getting his penis
into your vagina
anyone’s vagina
perceiving female poets
as emotionally compromised
easy targets
and if his unfortunate victim muse
was able to see his monstrous nature
through his kabuki mask
she was condemned by him publicly
as a crazy woman
of course
silence eloquence
heroism villainy
martyrdom betrayal
ecstasy disenchantment
.
all in that first moment
your bones sense
the coming of spring
and you think to yourself
i feel like fucking something
.
tennis, anyone?
do not blame the beasts
this night
father
they know not
what they do
it began to notice it midsummer
when i initiated the ritual
of my daily
life affirming
early evening
bicycle rides
.
my perfect aerial
machine so blue
cutting through
a synthetic mist
of suburban dryer vent exhaust
lavender lilac and vanilla scented chemicals
emitted from the latest
maytag gag-o-matic
into one bastard cloud
.
i decided
.
all of suburban cincinnati is covered in a
gently revolting incidental smog
of old lady perfume
.
in this gloaming time
the cul-de-sac wives
huddle into two groups
.
those who drink wine and smoke
while waiting for the pills to kick in
and those who just drink wine
while waiting for the pills to kick in
.
bitching about their husbands on cue
as they stand indignant
in various shades of pink velour yoga pants
at the end of their driveways
.
just far enough away
so the enemy
won’t hear
.
the hot-boxed group
of matching husbands
wearing
“i pay the mortgage and the only place
i have any privacy from that bitch and these kids
is the fucking garage”
t-shirts
whist drinking middling domestic imports
in a town whose pricey micro brews they can’t afford
.
all to protect the delicate sensibilities
of the lord of the flies children
playing between them
on tonka battery powered humvees
bedecked with
nerf machine gun turrets
smuggling
duct taped half-chewed barbies
with their eyes gouged out
to tiny-tot thailand
.
i get the sense
there is death in the water
a key mineral lacking
in our national diet
.
the country is filled
with these fleeting nightmares
.
communities of sheep
vying for space at a diseased trough
.
american wastelands
.
where the coffee tastes of bad choices
and everyone is waiting
for the kids to be old enough
to get a divorce
.
Categories
No. 2
over the partition
he kept staring and craning
shifty-eyed and beady
to the point
i felt his glare must be sunlight
intensified
by a world’s fair sized magnifying glass
with the intent of melting my face off
well and often breaking
my
“you can’t check this relic out
so the research must be done here”
concentration
so finally he works up the gumption
saunters over
clears his throat and says
i’ve seen you here in the library before
over in antiquities
why do you always tie up your hair with a pencil
you should wear it down
i can feel him
he’s got creep emanating from him
on the inside he’s ted bundy quaking
i don’t look up
all hard
keeping my eyes on the line i was reading
because i may take a notion
to write a poem
or stab someone in their jugular vein
Fucking labels
taped over my mouth.
Three years ago they called me sentimental,
then punk thereafter,
now i’m accused of being transgressive…
You know what i am?
A poet in love
whilst simultaneously horrified
with the times in which I live.
What are we?
Stunned. That’s what the hell we are.
The world as we know it, post 9/11.
The evening news is pornography.
Journalism is an old whore
leaning against a statue
of Edward R. Murrow.
How could any thinking, feeling human
with a modicum of awareness
not feel a bit disgusted or depressed?
We must be the agents of our own happiness,
twas always thus.
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for horse shit.
I’m simply documenting the beauty observed along the ride,
and that I mostly want to kick
human civilization’s lingering ass.
Categories
no less fire
the opposite of love is not hate
it is glorious indifference
hatred requires no less fire
so i want you to know
that i hate you
i hate you so much
my bones ache
Categories
psycho
it’s like watching someone live their life
trapped within
the black and white terror
of a hitchcock film
where without fail
every six months
the madness returns
so he puts on a dress and wig
sharpens his knife
then finds a way to become both
his mother
and the screaming
chocolate sauce covered
victim in the shower