Tuesday, January 29, 2013

We Are Not Fooled

ribbons and bows
buttons and baubles
everything wrapped neatly
for the Christmas parade

rainbows painted cream
in perfect arch
says all is well
fair winds to all dwellers

hot air balloons
red white and blue
sails to the mast
bright clean and flying
across placid seas

beneath it all
lies corruption
motives of murder
plans of deceit
the dagger of betrayal

life is not a decoration
on frosted birthday cake
nor the frills
on that pretty white blouse

life is the day after Christmas
the storm that shreds our sail
while the weakness hidden
deflates our balloon

this is not bad, it just is
and the knowing
of storms lurking danger
should not stop us
from taking our flight
against all odds

it's what makes us human
and animal, and alive
defining hope on bent dreams
by illogical desire

Friday, January 25, 2013

The Non Poet

i have been accused
wrongly and unfairly

maybe one, maybe two
have labeled me a poet
out of kindness

i am no poet
have never aspired to be such
and will not serve if elected

i use not the words of a poet
because my heart is a bloody muscle
that i butcher every day
then leave for the flies

poetry is an art
where words are crafted
and woven to impress

i'll not play puppet master
to paint pretty the gore
bleeding from my soul
for such small gain

i write my thoughts, just as they fall
and if poetry they somehow
ridiculously and accidentally
appear to emulate
i hereby apologize
to all poets everywhere

so please, accuse no more
lest i believe the lies
and be cursed forever
only to be found
a sham, under scrutiny

i am not a poet
i am a butcher
and a poor one, at that


susan dey was in a movie, the title eludes me.
but she was on the steps talking with a boy about fucking.
the boy said, "don't you mean making love?"
she looked at him hard, then looked away before answering.
"you make love~i fuck"

and so it is my friends. You make love. I fuck

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The Haunting Waters

the morning is clear, bright, and silent
as i walk the little road to the bridge
the deaf dog of no understanding walks
by my side, that being enough

from the bridge i look upstream
to the waters roiling down
then turn, to see them roll away
and never return

some days, after a heavy rain
the stream becomes a raging torrent
other times, after endless sunshine,
it barely trickles the timeless stone

today, it is what it should be, temperate
song to my soul

this land is ancient and unmoving
unwavering, stoic and strong
the morning is big in stillness
and it's boundaries speak
of passages beyond

high up on the ridge, light bleeds
through the bulwark of leafless trees
falling slowly down the hillside
spawn to an awakening

high above me, geese circle
searching for direction and
i watch them while the hawk
who so often has wondered of me
sits perched, and wonders some more

there is much this morning has to tell me
of life, and what is, and what surely
must be as it always has been
-but it's the waters i hear

soon the light will flood the valley
stirring the sleeping reality
into the convolution
i'll carry back up the road

but just now, it's the waters
which haunt me, like the winds
upon mountains
and the cry of the lone wolf
deep in the night

these are callings spiritual
which i've chased on earthen legs
only to be left behind
with the deaf dog
the wondering hawk
and the ghosting light
upon waters that haunt
my humanity