Run Little Poem

Indefinite exposure to indefinite peace

To rest and awaken to something to eat

And dance in the starlight of common ground

Without the sights, taste, touch, smell and sound

All pinned to the answer with no question anymore

The wind blows leaves in the opening and closing screen door

And run little poem they read no more

And run little stream of words they read no more

Given to bless to guess to best, the sour opposite

The opponant gone

To his death

And out the river sad flows with badly chosen rows

Of tombstones and gloom poems

And run little poem they read no more

Run little stream of words spill all over the floor

And in the vocabulary pool

Drool

No more

No more

And dance out the nightmare like it was a gift from God

And out with it however grossly and boastingly odd

And run little poem they read no more

And run little stream

Of words

Pour

And live now and then no more

No more

A Few Words

Let me begin with a few words

About the wisdom of a few birds

That whispered things so soft

Only I heard

Let me billow all fraudulant into a hot air balloon

And float away into a big grey moon

Death calls and calls and waits and I send word that I am coming soon

And with me dies

And sighs

The hundred thoughts that reside

In my mind

In quatrains of rhyme

Such is the soul

But my destiny is a hole

To forever go

Maybe

I don’t really know

So –

writing for birds

No one likes me writing

They rather I do dishes than steer lightening

No one likes a poet

They have too much time on their hands, their writing will show it

And it’s lazy to sit in a chair tapping away when real men work at jobs that pay

No one likes me writing

They rather I dream inside a machine

To leave the earth as ignorant as a rock that talked a little too much talk

Or a plant that grew and grew and knew and knew and blew and blew and two by two went into the new

No one likes me writing

They say it’s a waste of time

But I don’t say that I find it meaning to rhyme

And suck out my soul with a vaccuum inside

Before I’ve slammed the lid on my coffin and died!

A Perfect Mess

You heard me correct
I am (perfectly) a mess
A nerd in a dress all ready to confess to loneliness
And destined to death
Less than a blessed baptized and forgiven congregation
I believe no honest person will come forward with the information
So
I will reveal the revelation as desperation
A kind of odd
And stark
Pestering of investigation

You heard me right
I am the screw all screwed in tight
With lots to say and sing and draw and write
But
I differ in my approach because I reproach the idol that hides as higher power or God
And is indeed mostly an age old con
And people swallow it
But are wrong
I put it to words, to picture, to song
And it won’t be long to it’s gone
Good riddance to the doubt
And don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out

You heard me and I didn’t stutter
What else can this poet mindlessly mutter about humanity
And sputter
From the gutter of atheism and rationalism and insanity?
I bun up the time
Cherish a mindful mine and spirits that think I am missing out
With my doubt
And truth
And going without feelings
I felt anyway
And bide my time in rhymes that come and go like snow
Melting away
The lines between days –
Into a craze
A perfect mess
Of a perfect guess cast into an abyss –

The Combustion Of Souls

They danced in nights all busted into pieces
Like dried and crushed roses they still
Still
Praised Jesus
And built like engines
All to combust and bombast and destroy
An evil
Even a saint could totally enjoy
And envy
In a can with hate
All standing ready like a wine crate
They worked at tasks no one asked of them
And made relationships no one wanted them to have with animals, beasts, aliens
And even robots
Their truth not obvious
Latent
They still
Still
Feared Satan
All after their death they broaden
They
A team of suicidal teenagers grown old as a group that fears the end
Far past the high school where they still
Still
Remain friends
A largeness of thought
All odd
And caught in the net of bronze age poetry
Blotted out in a blot
Of blood
Clotted and rotted and jotted down by a pothead –
They all nod
Agreeing that it all all is too odd
And they still
Still
Believe in God –

Spiraling Desiring

Spiraling
Desiring
Filling my time with time-wasted firing
Beguiling a girl
To disguise the world as God
In a most mundane and horse-driven fraud
Belching
Quick
On the cliff of my own descent into hell
With no friends as well
Out like a flame and only wick
A desperate task
To drive me sick
And wild – drawing my own face like a child
With your shoe print
On my heart
All draped in gold you call art
And don’t start
Evilness bunching up in folds of brain
To give to each his own insane
And dive down into souls
Again and again
Until nothing and cold and pain –

Come Out Of The Closet Of Devils

Come out of the closet of devils
The trouble
Is all around
It climbs and pulls and bangs out your mind
Like metal
Jump
Break the storm
Come out
Blind from a closet of devils
The problem
Is all around
It floats in the air six inches above ground
Hovering
Smothering and sneezing pepper
Put on your onsie
And somehow do better