the rubbish bin

"you're so silly", she said
while laughing. "I
never thought the bumblebee
would drop the gnome."
"it didn't," said the jester.
he was working left arm
down,
broken.
he always killed the mood
when he brought up the
bassoon.
the thief smiled and
pet his purring porcupine
while he knifed the
chevrolet.

scandalize this

I woke up on the 14th
in a bed too
big for just me, cinderblocks, left middle
eye blinded by sun
I pushed her aside
and went to maytag
to pick up a beer.
walking down the hall
to take a
shower.
I turn it on, hot
bullets
making Coors disgusting,
the same way a summer
day would make the
idea of a decadent chocolate
cake
revolting.
my phone vibrates,
and I step
out from behind the
curtain to pick it up,
leaving a trail
of water
behind
me.
"where are you? you're with another girl, aren't you? do I matter?" (hang up)
she'll call back six,
maybe seven
times.
I'll ignore it.
she said she
loved me
I love loved
you love loved
he/she/it loves loved
we love loved
you love loved
they love. loved
but that is there
and I am here
but she is there
and she is here
she is here
breathing up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down
with her
head there, so still,
so
perfect.
I'd need to call
back sometime.
need to stop living in
fast world
a la motel 6.

"please forgive me if I stray, but you knew which magazine you subscribed for. the chirping heart is muffled, drowned out by liquor and tall blondes. you blind sun himself, but I won't realize that until it's too late. get better, you deserve better.
(I love you

not a test

this is not an experiment.
this poem has nothing in it
that is not blatantly obvious.
no hidden meanings or
clever syntax or
metaphors
images
diction
figurative language.
no, it is very normal.
a normal poem.
normal mcnormalberg that takes the normal train to its normal job at normal corp. in normalville, normalvania in normalcountry.
everyone can read this poem.
everyone that is still reading this poem
is reading it in vain.
they will be disappointed.
sorry.
everyone that is doing close readings of this poem
will fail their tests.
but someone, somewhere
will find a meaning to this poem.
a meaning I did not
intend.
and this person will be
the best literary critic
ever.
this person will have found something
inside of me
I did not know existed.
because this poem is
normal.
unassuming.
accessible.
maybe my writing days
are over
because all I have to
write about now is
how normal my poems are.
this is a normal poem.

the men

today I was walking through the park
full of dandylions and grass
and dogs and couples
kissing.
there was
football and soccer practice
and I noticed
out of the corner of my eye
a homeless man.
he was dirty
god was he dirty
unshaven and
dirty
and it occured to me
that this man was once a child.
he was once a child,
with a mother who fed him soup
on cold days
and
a father who taught him how to be
a man.
he was once a child
wide eyed on his
first day of school
with a bed
and a baseball bat
and a red backpack
and a favourite game
and a crush
and a teddy bear.

today, I was looking through my book
full of presidents and dates
and ancient civilizations and
artists.
there were names
of important people
and I noticed
out of the corner of my eye
a photograph.
he was hanging
god, he was hanging
from a tree
with a rope tied around his neck
and
people underneath him
observing.
and it occured to me
that this man once had a life.
he was once a slave,
who earned his freedom
doing god knows what.
he had eaten an untold
amount of food,
consumed gallons upon gallons of water,
and had gone to the store.
he had purchased his suit
a full three piece suit
as well as his top hat
from another person.
he decided to wear that outfit
that day
and now he is in
my book.

love

anxiety
mad heart pound
flutter
dovelike,
climaxing
steady downhill
electricity in your hands
reality check
odd solid in your
sternum,
swallowed words up the
back of your throat
into sinuses
out through the eye




shes beautiful.

barber shop

there is a man outside
of the
barber shop,
smoking.
the billboard on
santa monica boulevard
says
two million
seven hundred sixty three thousand
nine hundred and forty
two
people died this year
because of
smoking.
so the man will die,
the barber will die,
the scissors will die,
the swirling sign will die,
the red and blue will die,
the street will die.
the tobacco companies and
their employees are not to blame
working is not a crime
but deliberately wasting your life
amongst so many deliberately
wasted lives
is.

to cheat at poker

say, say,
say, say,
say, say.