this
steadfast love is like a dove
soaring
in the skies above
see
how bad poetry can be?
i
prefer a fetal beetle
crushed
by a fallen tree
morrison,
morrison
what
did you die for?
morrison
says,
“nothing
at all”
set
in my ways i never pray
except
when i wake from a bender
feeling
like dust on a fender
somebody
wipe me clean
plants
aren’t really green
the
color is what light allows
everything
is an illusion
(bloody
red sun of fantastic l.a. – j.d.m.)
found
a flyer
a
modern day crier
the
event peaked my interest
even
though i know i will never go
had
a pbnj for breakfast
it’s
always good
to
have something in your stomach
before
your 9 a.m. beer
voice
mail from a girl i helped unfurl
i
could tell she was drunk
the
message was a childhood prayer
to a god
i
pressed 7 to delete
when
the doors opened
everyone
filed in
baaing
like sheep
mooing
like cows
desperate
for the entertainment inside
i
walked by
wearing
a shirt that read
even
before we die
everything
is meaningless
(well
i woke up this morning
and
i got myself a beer – j.d.m.)
my
cat died
i
remembered the time i cried
“i’m
so lonely”
he
came and curled in my lap
l.a.
is dripping sap
and
no one realizes
they
are nothing more
than excrement
(forgive
the poor old people who
gave
us entry. taught us god in
a
child’s prayer in the night – j.d.m.)
you
know what?
fuck
you all
a
shadow changes its length
from
short to tall
depending
on the angle of the sun
everything
else said about shadows
is
a lie
stray
dogs beg for a meal
i
pour out a bag of potato chips
because
in my pantry
there
is nothing else to offer
morrison,
i drank as much as you
maybe
more
yet
i’m still here
to
buy more chips at the store
and
another case of beer
did
you gets wings
where
you once had shoulders
smooth
as raven’s claws?
angel
of death
why
did you pass me by?
there
wasn’t any lamb’s blood
on
my door post
if
i spent the night in an abandoned
insane
asylum
would
i be a believer by morning?
heed
the warnings i wore
while
i was being paddled?
(all
my friends got flowers in their eyes
but
i got none this season
all
of last year’s blooms have gone and died
but
time don’t give a reason – a.d.)
i
called her back,
“are
you o.k.?”
“not
today”
if
she had said
“my
neighbor is pulling weeds”
i
would have proposed marriage
she’s
thinking about a baby carriage
and
i knew she doesn’t know
that
the sun is a hole
ripped
in the fabric of the sky
leaking
blue onto
a
three dimensional canvas
wednesday
is open mic night
at
a place with no name
i
never go
well,
i went once
i
got a standing ovation
from
the poets who are
the
princes of local print
i
fled into the arms of a girl
who
wanted to share her bottle
of whiskey
as
things got worse
i
felt better
moved
to a land of the illiterate
where
no one has ever read a poem
(cars
hiss by my window
like
the waves down on the beach
i
got this girl beside me
but
she’s out of reach –j.d.m.)
once
i wrote about a boy
who
use to play with all the toys
but
then i learned how to discern
that
i’m not into manly ploys
i
like books and making rhymes
stand
there silent while they chime
about
the manly toys they have
they
wouldn’t think that i’m a man
petting
cats while words i utter
reaching
up to touch the gutter
no
interest in the engine size
the
perfect poem illusive prize
and
don’t get me started
on
the novels written
in
the middle of last century
the
bible says to be satisfied
with
your wife’s breasts
oh
how well the writers knew
the
simplicity of men
and
when they sinned with women
it
was the man who was judged
(riders
on the storm
into
this house we’re born
into
this world we’re thrown
like
a dog without a bone
an
actor out on loan –j.d.m.)
while
they pontificate on their
next purchase
i
feel the emptiness of the garage
filled
with growling men
and
reflect on how existentialism
influenced
the writings of
james
douglas morrison
toes
on the roadside
thumb
in the air
cardboard
sign reading
“anywhere
but here”
did
robert frost really write a suicide poem?
stomping
in on those sturdy old stumps
choreographing
the dance of diction
making
us free versers wonder
if
we’ve really written a real poem
then
i pass by a place
that
has a statue of mary
facing
the corner like a punished child
and
its effect is so disturbing
i
realized i must be a poet
even
if all i really write are
the
meanderings of a morose mind
‘the
meanderings of a morose mind
maybe
i’m bright, maybe i’m blind
but
i’m not impressed
your
exterior is just your best guess
it
doesn’t matter who you are
whether
you’re seen as a bum
or
sold as a star
in
the end
death
makes all things equal’
o.k.
that was a really old poem
written
around thirty years ago
back
to present day
where
everything i say
shows
i haven’t made any progress
just
checked my p.o. box
jim
thompson’s
the
killer inside me was there
i’ll
use the paper the doctor wrote
a prescription on
that
i never got filled
as
a bookmark
someone
i passed just muttered
“tweaker”
i’ve
never touched meth
but
i have become a skeleton
i
rarely eat
i
still walk incessant
and
the partying doesn’t help
speaking
of which
i
need a refill for my flask
***
No comments:
Post a Comment