Forgive

breaking bread
drags back
me
to you,
last time you ate,
and drank
your vampire tonic.
dirty silver for bloody kisses,
earless warrior leads the way,
primmed for the grand
home on the dogwood.
snugly fit hat, new bracelets, and
meals served on a stick
which you reject.
skip ahead a few,
now i -
you.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood. – Jean Cocteau

At least I don’t have to focus too intently on the admiration caveat.

Day One: Perpetual Four Minutes

how long is the day
determined by the time you wake,
get out of bed,
brush your teeth.
measured by the sun,
does the moon guide your path
or do you ignore both
from inside a coffee can
or bottle of gin.

12 hours since rise,
5 since tired,
12 more to go, but
my hair is too long
again
this keeps happening to me.
just a little off the top,
i say,
and rub my fingers over that
ten cent plastic comb,
making it sing
before i snap off the fat end piece
and chuck it to the floor
with my mounting pile of hair.

this was the day to till the earth,
to grind the leaves
into soil,
make everything one
again
for our food can grow
or to make a flower show
a little slice of beauty from above
yet lately i think below,
but i’m now 7 hours past tired,
i can’t do the math,
how many more to go.

dodge traffic on the way home,
bus, truck, too many SUVs to count,
gas went up 8 cents in 30 minutes,
Tesla told us so,
he told us,
but there’s no money in free,
you can’t sell free,
no one’s buying anyway.
neither am i,
i’ve got no time,
it’s been… something since the last sometime.
where’s my pillow,
i haven’t seen that guy in years,
eyes are always closed,
i should try to look him up,
wonder if he’s listed,
no luck, no book.

time for a shower,
wash this away,
these clippings from above that
fall and nestle into skin,
inflammation of muscles,
back, neck… spine too,
the dope lords at the hospital
sell me the latest cure
but just a shower will do.

too far since the last time,
the sprinklers march on
aiming at
passersby, lawn mower men, that one kid on a bike,
everyone humming the ice cream song,
i don’t think there are words
or maybe even ice cream.
ten minute stare out the window,
water still running,
back still itching,
naked for too long,
i can’t find my towel,
did i already take a piss,
i’ve got that sensation
again
a bit more i guess.

wet zombie craving fabric softener sheets
which prevent cling
and yet cling
to everything,
air dry and fall over,
no wait…
fall over and air dry.
undead wake to regular dead,
dead for too long,
perhaps unlife can wake to regular life,
pass
sounds just as bland.

Reverse – A double haiku

I liked doing an introduction last time for Plan B so I’ll think I’ll do that again.

I had a piece all lined up for today. I was rather excited about it. I knew it needed some editing, but for the most part it was solid. Then I took a look at it and cringed. I must have wrote it blindfolded and in the dark. Yeah, it was that good.

Then I remembered this double haiku I wrote. I’ve never written a haiku before and I may have just coined the term “double haiku” but the piece had promise. I proceeded to tweak most of it, and many times at that. It was a long process for just 6 lines of text.

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again. – Oscar Wilde

I think that about sums it up.

Okay I decided to do a little study on haikus and quickly realized that I know absolutely nothing about them. So I no longer know what to call this piece. Screw it. I’m calling it a double haiku.

Okay, now that sums it up.

-

-

Reverse

single white snowflake
finds blue lips of my lover
melts away summer.

race me to winter
with orangest tulips and heat.
kisses defy fate.

-

-

The Monkey Ninjas

The monkeys are all staring at me from the corner, brandishing their katanas and headbands of various colors of citrus. Lime. Lemon. Orange. Grapefruit. Coconut. Coconut? Yes, coconut. It’s the latest citrus in the blade-wielding monkey-ninja community. And they are here to enforce the new citrus laws. I, for too long, have been firmly on record as saying that coconut is neither a pea nor a nut, or as the case may also be: a citrus. George Washington Carver would be rolling in his grave if it weren’t for the fact that he was cryogenically frozen, later revived, taught the ancient monkey-ninja arts, and now standing in the corner of my living room with his coconut colored headband, becoming apathetic to his cause and turning on my television with the power of his mind. Unfortunately for him, he was only taught how to power on TV sets with his mind and cannot as of yet change the station, so he is stuck watching bass fishing on ESPN 5 which is only available in Sweden, but I have a special Sweden-transmission-interceptor satellite dish on my roof. It’s the only thing that helps pass the days.

It’s actually proving quite useful in distracting my would-be monkey killers for now they bicker over who turned on the set and little George the monkey is admitting nothing – not to be confused with Curious George. He tried out for the super monkey team, but failed his preliminary exam when that guy in the yellow hat showed up and interrupted George (of the Curious variety) and got him banished from the race and thus turned into a coconut.

It seems the lead monkey had discerned the culprit and has now executed justice all over my new drapes. It’s going to be hell to try to clean that up.

No time to dwell on that subject, my monkey-ninja-coconut-is-a-citrus-propaganda-pushers are now focused back upon me. I need a new plan and fast. Wait. I need any plan and fast. If only I could somehow prove the non-citrus nature of the coconut, perhaps that could stun them long enough to call the hippopotamus police, but we all know that those things are worthless. They just sit around all day long and eat ice cream out of the carton, stopping only occasionally to set the dial on the scales farther to the left so when they measure their weight the next day it will not have increased too drastically.

I do have a watermelon and four pineapples in my basement. Pineapple is citrus, right? I don’t have time to know that, so I’m going with a firm “yes.” I’ll have to make my move now. Those monkeys can scamper off pretty fast and then: bam! You’re hit in the face with a coconut cream pie which is, as we all know, the second favorite weapon of the monkey-ninjas. One of these days I’ll have to find out where they hide so many pies in those little outfits.

Oh no… The pies are already coming at me. I must avoid this delicious destruction and find my watermelon. Nothing amuses a blade-wielding monkey quite like cutting a fresh, juicy watermelon in two as you toss it up into the air. I find the marbled green melon of water and heave it up the stairs at my pursuers and watch as my plan achieves the first steps of fruition: sending monkeys in random mid-flight panic to be the first one to slice the melon directly and exactly down the center. It is working masterfully as monkey collides monkey, but I receive an unexpected treat. Each perfect half of watermelon is now hunted down by another monkey and sliced again, precisely in half, in an effort to continuously keep the fruit airborne and in ever smaller pieces. And since we all know that you can divide something in half forever AND that ninjas are impossibly fast, then they will have no trouble continuing their adventure for the rest of their lives.

Now I just tell my friends to watch out for the indefinite-watermelon-slicing, coconut-is-a-citrus-propaganda-pushing secret team of monkey ninjas in my staircase as they head down to get a kiwi flavored beer.

Plan B

It’s that time of the week again. I haven’t been looking forward to having to find something to post as I haven’t written anything in a while and I would most certainly need to drudge up something from yore. So drudge I did. I’ve had this “piece” on the back burner for a while and always thought it had merit.

I don’t consider this a real composition due to the fact that I did not directly create it. I, however, was indirectly involved and have edited it a bit for context.

(I have the log to back this up.)

Plan B
but i’m not into this anymore
to have it further go
from what we have.
and not right now.
especially not now.
i cannot.
not to be harsh in any way
just honest and now
it’s out there.
to figure out what i have,
or what i had,
isn’t really real.
and that feels good.
and my days keep me busy.
and it’s funny how things
happen this fast with me,
but they tend to.
working so much for a few
(weeks away from you).
no time for anyone but me
(that is everyone but you).
i’m just gonna be selfish for a while.
i have to or i’ll lose it.
but don’t take this in a bad way.
(cuz she’ll use me and lose me and keep me Plan B)
…she said.

Only Smile

Only smile
as the smell of rotten roses
fills the senses
of the crowd from which I’m escaping
and hanging on the fringe.
These 40 days are up
and the desert has decayed
everything
in sight,
on me,
to the masses
that still drink from the putrid well
and feast on the rancid meat.
The sights and smells force the purge
as I pop and stop,
but not too long
before I continue along the edge
of this horrid masquerade,
avoiding the faceless half dead flower girl
telling me her sale,
selling me her tale,
and I must swallow compassion
and be on my way.
The city’s been marked;
I cannot stay
to witness the disease,
the death,
the decay.