180715A
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My writing poems
has become too menarchic.
A once a month
more rarified blood letting,
bleeding out
of persistent misfortunes.
A reopening
of the same wound,
in tight confines
pushing against walls
where the writing implement
has tried to penetrate.
The too familiar scab work
of scratching at the surface,
as layers peel away,
onion skinned flesh,
staining the purity
of white surfaces.
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180715B
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Doodles of alphabet soup,
played with on my spoon,
while wanting to spoon
differently,
taking up one or another
forbidden position.
Letters sent
in soup to mouth
attempts at resuscitation,
as if letters
can bring anything
back to life.
Wondering if anything much
has ever really happened
since alphabet soup
was last spooned
sometime during my youth
when I was impressionable.
Mister Alphabet keeps saying,
(despite my telling him
to shut the fuck up,
and to go fuck himself ),
that he has it all figured out
as to what all the letters mean.
The alphabet
has become so very difficult
since then,
and the spoon has melted away
along with Dali's clocks,
leaving an empty chocolate box.
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180715C
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Umbrellas are there
to keep the heavens above
from looking too closely
at any of the little details.
The growing sense of fear
that the sky might really see
what we secretly are,
wherever we might hide.
The persistence of belief
that if we bury ourselves
deeply under anything,
we can escape the sky's notice.
A mushroom umbrella,
suggests a sort of comfort
against the blank cold stare
of an always interrogating sky.
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180715D
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It is that endless series of tests
that no one ever really passes,
but some fall into trying to please.
One thing leads to another,
in any chain reaction,
domino game of crash.
You get so tired of falling
that you feel like running away
to one or another wild ride.
Something to break the boredom,
of the same old machine,
that pushes you in and pulls you out.
You want to smash the mirror
as if you can get through,
to anything that might be on your mind.
You know that you have no choice
when you are presented with bad choices,
rattling metal across the bars of your life.
The desire for a semblance of parole
that you never really found,
and hoping it might still get you out.
The only duty of any prisoner
is to try to find a way to escape,
trading one limitation for another.
You know that you love beauty,
but that beauty never loves you.
You know the scent of death.
It is not really about what is true,
but only about trying to fill the holes
that chanced to happen in your life.
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180715E
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People drift away,
in all the strangest sorts of ways.
There is always letting go
of the remains that you did not want.
Catastrophic beginnings
only lead to catastrophic endings,
and the illusions that they give you
mean absolutely nothing at all.
Nothing to really hold onto
in the deluge of misleading information,
that bends, spindles and mutilates
whatever was actually in mind.
The holes punched in our thoughts,
become the data stream that programs us,
into being sorted into something
that we could never really wish.
One thinks of all the lives
that one would rather have lived in,
and all that bad luck of could have been
that never really ever was.
If one could ever get past the tease,
that blurs the surface
making it so impossible to see
anything of what might be beneath.
In the end we are left with only the lie
that finally buried all of the truth,
as to what was wanted and what was felt
in some moment of forced decisions.
It is always what is not in my life,
that makes all of the difference,
as the difference engines calculate me
into one or another sort of unfortunate place.
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180715F
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This sack of bones,
sewed up as if by angels,
in a bag of skin.
We lost our chance,
because you did not want anything
the way that I did.
That happened many times,
taking all the years
and making them dust in my eyes.
It is not that you really cared,
about anything that would happen
to my sack of bones.
It simply was not that sack of bones
that you saw your luck in,
as to reading their meanings.
The fractures of my broken life
read as the I-Ching bones would be,
tossed into your flames.
I had wanted you to care about it
as something more than that,
but you only wanted your fortune told.
That is all the attention that was given,
as to what the bones were allowed to say,
sewn up in their sack of skin.
That was all that ever became of us,
as to the auguries of disappointments,
as if the flesh was already stripped away.
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180715G
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There was a time when I thought of you,
as someone coming to me,
but now I do not think that way anymore.
I got weary of waiting for someone,
and exhausted by the interrogations,
as to who and why and where, and when.
These are peculiarly generic times,
so I hardly dared think of anyone in particular,
always having to put you out of my mind.
It becomes a habit similar to a narcotic,
making something numb that used to feel,
while inserting something else straight in.
There is always that feeling of displacement,
as if being pushed completely aside,
while someone else takes on the role.
Eventually the world is merely placeholders,
for the perpetual absence of the real thing,
in nearly everything that we come to.
It is all about filling in, and doubling for,
and I am only a stand in, stunt man, myself,
as foolish as any side show freak.
So many relationships feel like they are placebos,
that I can no longer really believe in,
and therefore having no real effect.
How to kill the perpetual desires as to being
something else, in a different sort of relation,
than any of the contrary options that intrude.
It is all about finding that elusive satisfaction,
that I dreamt that you might have been,
even if you really were only a stranger.
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