Category: poetry

that one curmudgeonly leaf

A poem.

i’ll have the news on to catch the top stories
but after a few minutes it’s purposeless –
they’re all the same bullet points from yesterday
through a perspection of passing time:

some people died
and one famous about to;
displaced persons from a camp removal;
one’s a terrorist about to be tried;
another one biding to be penalized;
global warming at an all-time high;
random attacks on the rise;
car pile-up on the ninety-nine…

by then all i feel is empty inside:
it sounds like a Saturday night of gaming
than a generation’s place in humankind.
i put a CD i’ve heard a thousand times in the drive
that doesn’t come standard with new models of that type,
because i’d rather hear Morrissey whine
than to face my own materiality of being alive.

when my world ends,
i don’t want it to be from a shot to the head
or an environment that kills me in earnestness
or even just peacefully laying in bed:

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the position of my said

A poem about driving somewhere specific very early in the morning.

mary-jane and acetaminophen:
that’s what i’m on
as i’m cruising one-hundred-and-ten
kilometers-an-hour
through an atmospheric storm…

yeeeEEEEEEE-HAAAAWWWWWWW!

i’m wearing year-old prescriptions i’ve hardly had on
to increase my vision like 8K VR
as if ’twere a simulator of Schrodinger’s Cat
and if i’m speaking unequivocally,
i can hardly see.
“where’s your position of safety now,
Mister Ex First-Aider?”

my radio is supposed to tell me what song is playing
but the signal is shit in the valley
as the RDS for the country station proudly declares
the Taylor Swift marathon is never-ending.
i suppose there’s a part of me who’s proud
he can’t differentiate between her works
like a true Swiftie could avow
though i still know what a Chalamet looks like
behind that bottle of Chanel number bleu,
interrupting a new episode of “Hot Bench” on the tube,
as much as i don’t want to,
and stand in observance of Lynch’s
over Villeneuve’s “Dune”;

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my weenis is on the table

A poem.

not all femicentric stories of woe
have to include their version of Romeo,
but the fact my fantasy mind upholds
is that every straight male tries to manifest that one
who will get on their hands and knees without
anything needing to be
said or done –
a natural proclivity to procreate

that still will take
generations to satiate.
i won’t be around that late:
when sex is either so criminally problematic
or we’ve all turned into reprobates.
oh wait…

on the news there’s a reprint
about a local school district’s teaching assistant
who got fired for her OnlyFans account.
keeping in mind this is a story involving children,
the real brief was the outlet shared her online pseudonym –
ladies if y’all wondering where yer dads is at,
’cause now the damn media has me thinking:

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no sooner than later

A poem.

it’s 2006,
right after my surgery
lest anyone ever lets me forget;
poor me, poor me, poor me…

i’m staying in a RMCH-like for
horny seniors & teenagers alike,
and right outside my bedroom window
is a double-wide trashcan transients treat like an idol –
big enough to catch a flying fugitive Keanu:

i’m up late at night writing over the phone with a friend
whilst friends of the garbagepeople do their job for them.
bio-waste probably didn’t go in there –
one hopes –
but i can’t imagine it was loaded with lacquerware
when 90% of the co-tenants were lucky enough
to be off of the street themselves –
with library access to a fax machine to sign up for MSP –
to die affordably
and at their own pace within the year.
at least i could say that my mother was there.

now it is the hard, cold future
of 2023:
there is no free parking on the street
of the residential body
where my wife & i look after a furry family familiar
for two weeks.

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milking male monkeys in heat

A poem.

now i’m sitting in the living room of our Airbnb,

beady-eyed bloodshot and tired –
so tired –

but like a wild misimprinted baby
– i just thought i would give it some pets!
whoopsie-daisy! my bad! –
i’m followed constantly and i can’t take it back,
its steps so loud because the built-in surround sound
can’t pick up the reticent tones of
metaphors unrooted-out

and now i’m sitting on the toilet taking a shit

and i’m very weary and it’s very padded
and she cries out that she’s going to bed.

if i say it for attention it works.
people turn and give me the usual looks reserved
primarily for the patently undercooked
and chock it up to all the antidepressants i took

and the weed,
and the booze –
too much drink and i start crying
because by then i have nothing to lose.
“everyone can leave ANYTIME they choose!”

and now i joke about seppuku.

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