Blood Rush

the head spins

with a hippy speedball

keeping a rhythm

around an echo

as the snake

grips a tree-branch

 

i’m either

a coward

for the sun

or victorious

in solitude

as the summer

fan blows

 

waiting

for a coin to land

in some determination

 

waiting

as it all

spins

up there

 

Here We Go Again

it’s a never ending

kick in the ass

 

waking up

having to piss

having to eat

having to have

and everything else

 

someone has to go to work

and

someone has to go to bed

and some go to work in bed

 

this lonely connection

 

it shows up in the mirror.

shows up in the mail,

in the laughter of the rich.

 

the champion taking a knee.

a dog walking off to die.

itches

and

taxes

and the relentless stare

of the sun.

 

the earth spins

on one more try.

 

 

Dreaming Reality

we never

notice it

because

it’s not

coming from

or going to

 

we overlook it

but never find it

like ourselves:

the inside

with no

outside.

 

separated

disempowered

degraded

and at war

with life

 

we struggle

to get it

we struggle

to get there

we direct

and dissect

and try

to point

at pointing,

name art,

and balance

the economy.

 

we overlook it

like watchtowers

but we never find it—

 

as if all this

movement

were equally

still.

 

 

Gutrot

the rotting

decay

of my growth

 

another page

done in

 

another line

put down

 

like an unwanted

guest

who’s finally gone,

it comes out good

because it went in

so bad.

 

the stomach

goes both ways

and

not all of me

is worth

digesting—

 

sometimes

things

come up.

Might Maybe

the simple act

of sitting here

entertaining possibility

and the absurdity

of eyes

ears

throats-

 

everybody

taken in

and out

like the tide

 

lonely dogs

scratching

at doors

 

traffic

dying off

in the night

and

lost people

finding

each other

under

the same dim light

 

this spiral

turns

to lose

itself

 

only a fool

would try

to name it.

Without A Belt

we make death

a dishonorable thing.

something

you ought to be

ashamed

about.

something

like nudity.

like pain

or homelessness.

like words

that came out wrong

or pants

that don’t fit

or a sneeze you couldn’t

to hold.

 

“bless you”

they say,

for keeping up the lie

 

that restraint beats death,

that you ought to

control

yourself endlessly.

 

most go out

without ever letting go

to live.

letting go

to humor.

to humility.

 

see,

the world stands

because

it’s always falling.

 

drop your pants

once in a while.

 

 

 

The Long Short Story

that space

we’re all sitting

in

when loneliness

begs to question-

 

some of us are

in cars,

some are

in homes,

some are flying

cardboard signs,

 

and

some keep it away

through substance,

or through sex,

or never feeling at all.

 

the story

never becomes

reality,

yet we

cannot stop

telling ourselves.