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

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

 

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.

Daydreamless

sitting here,

quiet,

as the windows

glorify the sky–

 

it appears

the day

is open to visitors

 

meanwhile,

i’m dressed

in solitude

sweating an imagination

of 26 letters

and hands that pass

for a mouth.

this tongue

licks

an empty plate.

 

 

Sometimes Always

this waking up

having never

gone to sleep

state of forgotten–

 

sometimes

it’s sad

the way

we dream.

 

the way

we postpone,

the way

we act as if

life were only

in the next room.

 

we are

imitable as loss

discarded like an empty shoe

removable as a t-shirt

 

life being

its own consumer

 

this waking up

having never

gone to sleep

mystery to itself–

 

miracles

aren’t always

happy

 

misery

isn’t always

ugly

 

the old man

has his cane

and laughter

takes

many forms.

 

 

 

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.