margarine's lament

living life like butter
would be so divine
to be turned and churned
over and over again
and spread on a muffin
melting making mouths water
without a care in the world

The below

The poems below were reaped from my notebook this morning. Some I like, all are still works in progress. The top two are the oldest, back a year or so, from UVM. There were more, but they were either shiyt or require more than a whims worth of work.

Apprehension

Tension grips the young men
Tight, where any noise overwhelms
The space between friends

Fooling into fighting night
Fools hating day
Bitter towards the sunrise

Stomach in the Grass

Green tongues licking
Lapping at the wind
Wrenching hard on stubborn roots, holding back the sky

Breeze declaring its charm
Rattling
Leaves
Dives
Swallows

My eyes along the stubble green

Clearly

Dark eyes from the gap between a Yalie and the wall

Dark hair that curls and waves her handkerchief train

Dark skin that sticks and roofs my mouth molasses

Irrelevance equal to her name

A far corner out of sight

A couple words to remember

Free Three Musketeers

To walk away from the audience gathered here for make believe
I can pretend as well that I am walking along some promenade
Somewhere in the whole of France
Or some such European nonsense

The cement sculpture
Fountain basin and orb ornaments
Adorning these suggestive railings

Shape this park
Long ago
Somewhere in the whole of France

Isnt that somin

The meter of the spoken word is broken on the page
And pain is flat like numbness

Shapes of things are cold suggestion

The sound of bound and gagged

Callous
A case of self-serve cadence
to write this cantor down
Stuck
Inside my head

Picture the Beach

One hour to get to State Street
And I’m thinking of post cordial bullshit
The kind of hellos that feel like have to’s
and bi-annual acquaintances

It’s a question of intimacy and an answer in gin
Ideally she and I would sip it quietly and dark
About old times and giggle over cheese like grown ups

But she’s gone west now
and, anyway, I think she quite dislikes me
I’ve Got 30 left to get to State
and I'm Not sure how I’ll make it

Sailing to Sleep

The starry procession of the albatross
And how it hangs in orbit

Is it not peculiar?
When he flies
And how he’s put in books

sense of it

Shapeless men and callous women
Have become the dominant figures
Among the skyline. Fountainheads
Wet my collar in cold oil spittle,
Fashioned by the palette of a faceless
Grin. Faith – a simple reduction of
Each image. Hope – a pillow, blanket
And the coming day. The factories
Dead, landmarks smokestack paper
And Joan of Arc can be found outside
The museum selling flowers –
Selling her fake accent as freely as
The prostitute.

The Nile from a curb

Crack fault tributaries
Sandy delta flats
Old paint corrosion
Bisecting the fractal relativity of it

A black tar ocean
pouring up an inch

Backwards relief
geography painted unconsciously
by some city Worker/cartographer

The splitting road evidence
He forgot to fill the Nile

how to keep it mad real, a step by step guide

die just a little on the inside,
before they catch you,
or it starts to hurt.

then you think about it all the time.

tell your friends and laugh about it.

call your dad and play it cool,
he will never know.

write it down on paper
to help you figure it all out
in your head.

type it up for the digital friends
that you met at college
a while back,
and swore to stay in touch with.

drink until you're happy.

smoke until you're sane.

if that still doesn't work,
don't lose hope
or forget to call your mom on sunday,
she's always so happy to hear from you,
even when you don't know why.

learn to play your new pink guitar
electrical white stripes and cover bands,
or another song you still like enough
for your roommate to play on the radio at night
when no one is awake to listen
because you're too cool and too old too.

take a year off
say you're just looking into it,
so they never really know for sure

or not to keep the last two lines, to keep the last two lines

the clouds are big top sombreros
buttering my lips and slick highway
eyes locked broad and breadth and in
and out a transfix cross hatch
bend that cafe bus stop where i sat when fall came all at once

my book and I imagining to topple summer through inference on the wind

chilling gusts
chilling gusts run back
that swept as changing clouds above the changing,
present air unsheathed (unbridled
(multiplying
(mountain air?

and desert bones
and oceans
to arms
a pike
a whorish parasol pressing its edge against a rim of glass
to lift itself, in suspense of wind, a moment possessed by rising

and sun pushed clearly
The umbrella
looking down from wings like dandelion imprints
ate wind like breath to fuel a burning bush

Shatter, table ice came down my boot cuff
and vigor swept clear as sky above

my red morning juice spilled in shards of patio glass
like blood from a bad day that wasnt

the new black

oh dip, here I go again
this time spinning and laughing
thinking out loud with my keyboard
glued to my melting mind
which can't complain about
everything it still can't forget

i wonder what these days
is as real as i
think

i guess i don't let it surprise me
when i wake up still sleepy
checking calendars for the year
month and season

it's always fun when
i try to let it surprise me
and how it does

i sleep like marmalade
bitter and dripping on toast
and looking for a rug
like its my job
to fuck up your floors
when i fall upside down

tonight i'll dream that i can sleep for a year
or two or three
no one has ever died from sleeping too much
and if they did
doctors would still blame unknown causes
so i digress
but i refuse to admit defeat on this claim
but who cares
you could sleep a whole lifetime and still find yourself
waking up
so tired and smelling like shit that it would stop your
heart

i hate my poems
but at least they don't rhyme
or make any sense
even to me
and i still write them
sometimes.

Canned under the authority of the Monster beverage company

Vitamin b and roboflavors
blech every bit
of my cheek tongue grimace
and a-yeck like medicine

g'morning

thats 12 minutes
left for home
work for you

gRadiation Poisoning

I have three shades of blues
I do nothing at all these days
I live on a couch
That is three states away
I always ramble on and on
I have nothing much to say
I drive a fast car in circles
Still I can't drive these blues away.