Quantum Kiss My Ass

i can’t tell

if i even care

but i suppose

that’s the approach

to writing

unless you want

to try.

no, no,

i know better

than that.

this drink

and this smoke

is all

it has to be.

as the 3am sky

folds in on itself

only to laugh rain

on the already homeless

and horizons line

impossibility

to the length

that we can see,

i’d say this

written accident

has gone

far enough.

 

 

 

Back To It

i stare

down the center

of the sink

spitting blood,

letting the stomach make up the mind

as to which way

dinner

should go.

 

i taste the iron.

i am patient

as the body

decides to keep

its contents.

 

a glass

gets filled with water

and here we are,

words to the page

after a near-accident

that never connected:

business as usual.

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