Stupid Poems
settle down clouds
the moon is rising behind you
and i'd hate to see what would happen
if we let this go too far
it's the old story of bird meets worm
told too many times
softening in each retelling
as it crosses countless telephone lines
and the white crescent serves sadly
to remind you only
of what might have been
a glowing circle beating intensely
behind your eyes, full size
every man alive glorifies
the height independently
its equal reached unknowingly
again. again. and again.
and they've taken root to the ground
stretching greedily down
the men caught eternally in transition
their arms reaching for the stars
their screams scratching silently
in throats dry and cracking
i see orion and say nothing
all words have lost their meaning
an the great grey forever rises
indifferent. certain
the birds get out of the way
the humans dig their claws in
sure of the correctness of their position
then sure of nothing at all
then becoming nothing at all
then never having ever been.
come here my son
i'll show you some happiness
just as soon as i get rid of this
hundred ton expression
you know, i watched you on tv the other week
and you look so much shorter in person
i can make the sun shine on command
and look at it now behind those clouds
oh man what a shame
i guess i'll just hide my head in the sand
and wait for another day
but waiting is an addictive game to play
pause. time out. i need a break.
everyone's eyes turn and watch me
their mouths moving blankly
like someone stole what they had to say
and it's easy so easy to live this life
just put one foot in front of the other
(and swallow, swallow
these round little saviours
my personal heaven in a 100 count bottle)
heaven help me, i'm falling again
and this time it's not in Eden
and there's no snake
it's just "me and a gun"
and a knife in my back
(i put it there myself
you need to keep track of things
you don't want to lose)
you don't want to lose do you
just keep it in bounds
stay close to the center
but the center will not hold you
this circle was never true
but it's easy to fight
and it's easy to win
and it's so so hard to lose
i just won the lottery
incidentally
i think i'll get me a double wide
with a mountain inside
these are my rivers
and those are your lakes
and they'll never meet up
why do we keep trying anyway?
everyone is and will always be alone.
my tank is low now and i think i'm going home.
goodnight sweet world. i think i'm going home.
the monkey is on its own back
three inches below the floor
hypotized by a light
that keeps blinking in a room
that keeps freezing in a
no purpose building
in a town that forgot what it incorporated for
and between the short bursts of blinding white
it's darker than night
the time the moon forgot to rise
and all the wisdom of the sun's supervision
failed to hold back the black
seeping in through the cracks and the vents
crowding the corners
of the only space that used to make sense
the monkey shivers and looks around
his eyes rest on the solution
and the darkness begins to close in
the flashes of light joined briefly by a twin
and there's the sound of breathing
slowly ceasing
leaving only the deafening
empty roar of the winter wind.
this is probably a poem
it has words and phrases
it takes the conventional form
i might even put a space
after every five lines.
now i'll talk about something else
i'm going to bring up
something that happened
to me yesterday
and philosophize on its meaning.
tying it all together now.
three is a neat number
i hope you read this
with an appreciative, reverent mind
and it will stay with you forever.
next to the cafe and around the corner
but i can still smell your muffins
from a mile away
my nose will lead me to you someday
and i will discover
the other meaning for brother
my ears still hear
but the curtain is drawn
on the eternal dripping shower
and what i wouldn't give
to get near your budding flower
but i am frustrated
in my quest for nectar
as i float ever farther
down the river of consciousness
father forgive me, for i have sinned
and bless me in this
my inexplicable happiness
and i open my eyes again and again
and the sun is in the same place in the sky
and there's your voice in my head
forever and ever with no end
like a tape that won't rewind
and no one will ever know why
uncertainty is a most faithful friend.
now get the fuck on my bed
and out of my mind.
where were you when sanity landed
gently and kindly in the mind of the masses
and the man screamed inside his mind as the
iron curtain closed over his bifocal glasses
when they say it's time to move on
do you pack your bags and go?
can you watch through the blinking red light
as your constituents sit on their asses?
and did you really think no one would find out
how you know what you know?
it's the cut grass smell
and the floating sharpened pencil dust
as all your magic and confetti blows
slowly out the window
and there's nothing to do now
but just watch the picture flicker its story
absorbing into the eyes of the watching
blank and eternal
unblinking and unflinching as each frame passes
to go, though, where to, no one can know
now the blinking red light's become
an applause sign flashing
but no one's come by to even witness the show.
what scares me
is your hands on the chair
and the words that are spoken
hastily
like meteors
crashing into my dinosaurs
and the acid reign of
flower power
sparking and arching
an afternoon delight
hours before the fight
and miles to go before daylight
and is it your foot or mine
in the windowsill
just marking off the time
line after line
and a cross for a day
and a prayer for the dead
and whatever i said
i'm sure i meant to say
at the time
and you're marking off the time
just marking off the time
and biding your time
and making up your mind
and faking you're alright
just a simple slip of the foot
it can let you know
if you're right or wrong
if the coal is just snow
if the song of the phone
is the only one you know
are you faking you're alright
still shaking off the light
and the dust mites from their home
you have many stones to throw
and many hours to go
before daylight
and many hours to go
before the light.
America did you take that holy sacrament
Under your tongue like a thermometer,
Did you hold it there or did you
Let it work its magic dogmatic
And expected, did you wind the string
Around your finger
Like a library card in a town you never visit
And the physics are surrounding,
They're controlling, the car is speeding
A vulture just circling around the dying
The spinning bleeding mind of the unfortunate
The artificial intellect apparent
Your meaning is translucent
Your semi automatic writings parading
The establishment. Imagine this
Enantiodromia. America, the disco fever
Now praying for a cure. The final solution
Obscured by the shutting of the door.
America, you look so familiar.
I think I may have seen you
Around this town before.
i'm feeling somewhat regicidal
today and tomorrow i might just let it go
let it crash and burn all the way
down the stairway thrown like a
neatly folded paper airplane
or a discarded and unwanted
shiny tiny watermelon seed
fold it in threes
you, i, and me
like a triptych of disease
coming out from dimension two
and threatening number five
but never know the show
that falls below the radar in your mind
and never know the gold dust that blows
in long sparkling streaks across the sky
and never know the show that plays
behind the red curtain closed
behind the heavy doors locked and bolted
and the empty chairs folded up in rows
and never hear what i'd wanted to say to you
before it blew away out of view
unrescued, unconsidered, conservated
proactively manipulated
by forces that fancy themselves
greater than our own
and never know the bomb that never exploded
on a town that never incorporated
in a world we'll never call home
where the unfelt presence of some
poor lost soul or energy
floats forever,
cold and alone. cold and alone
and totally unknown to me.
I am the Whom Who created the Word
Soaring and diving on the wings of the herd
and teaching at the very least
to cease to exist
to resist the time you have
the lost and greatest bets of the damned
to become sub natural, self afflicted
an intraneural axe shaking actions
at the head of the lamp
and the hand of the class
Cut the law of the lamb
by the dawn of the dead
and the hand will be read
from the palm of the glass
where the tea leaves are waving
making subjective suggestive shapes
on the lid of the chest
and the handgun is taken
the apostrophe of a nation
meets the period through your head
or skull. a sentence
neither meant to be served nor read,
a trail of tiers
a genetic aberration
a neoiconization
inconstant inconsistent proliferation,
sick from the medication
and dying for a Fix or a Cure
Or at least to be sure
for Thou art That
and Less is More.