Landing On Two Feet

i guess it
works out because
i don’t care
if i fall down.
whatever the task,
whatever the glory,
it’s being able
to eat shit
that allows you
to shine.
if you try,
if you grip the wheel
too hard
you crash the car.
it’s those
un-resisted movements
matching rhythm
without naming
yet somehow writing
a poem.

ALARM-CLOCK WARFARE

beat off,

run out,

and

left like

dirty clothes

to the floor–

my head

still sticks out

from some

neck.

 

i wake up

to headaches

or hard-ons

and rarely

pick sides

anymore.

the day will have me

according to its distance

from the sun.

the power-hungry

will remain crooked.

the species will overlook

self-recognition.

and war will maintain

a reach

farther than governments,

deeper than cultures,

larger than gods,

inseparable as

bees to flowers.

 

life rages on,

but i win

this battle

just by

staying

in bed.

 

Life Moving Around Dead Inside

walking

at right angles

i North

East

North

my way

to the scheduled

train

station

and the scheduled

life

hours

days

 

the wasted keeping

of everything

that was never ours

to begin with

 

we sit under

the robot voice

telling us

“two minutes”

 

before taking a seat

amongst the

fellow strangers

to ourselves

 

 

 

Walking The Fence

unclassified

unholy and

unrehearsed,

the cat

stalks

its own

play.

 

a dog

sniffs

some asshole,

and the business-man

counts

his receipts.

 

we kill

each other

with the best

intentions

 

and love

from selfish

angles

 

while it all

goes to shit

in a frying-pan.

 

most of the time

we’re not sure

whether to step out

or step into

our lives

 

but at least

the cat

doesn’t hesitate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sun Burns Insane And The Planets Follow Accordingly

i’m an

empty reptile

inside a candy

wrapper.

 

do you want something from me?

 

writing

is life

at its finest—

 

does it feel good?

does it feel bad?

 

it’s a movement

of the clouds,

a type of

hunger

giving back

what’s already

gone.

 

you know

how we chase

without capture.

 

here it is,

another pencil

tracing

an echo.

King Nothing

rain

comes down

outside and

i thought i would

write a novel

tonight

or at least a

sentence.

but these damn

poems:

things i could

throw like paint

at a wall.

they’re all

lovely distractions

amidst the distance

of the dream

as my ass

simply sits

in a chair

unknowing.

Simplicity

life is like throwing

a rock

into a pond

 

it runs an arch

giving a brief

reflection

and then it’s

ripples

having made

whatever size

splash

 

it’s not about purpose

it’s not about direction

it’s not about reason

 

if you wonder why

be tossed out like that?

 

it means you missed

the music

The Daily

the crunch

weighs in on you,

tries to

flatten you out

 

but the spectacle

can’t understand

that something

as simple

as taking a piss

or walking

across the room

is a victory

 

that life

is its own

and belongs

to nobody

 

a shape

that is shapeless

and not to be

contained

 

yet there’s

all this talking,

all this

naming

 

so, we just

zip up

put on our shoes

and pretend

to mean something