snipehuntpotatosack

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The Crunch

The Candidacy Campaign Caravan has struck town a full nine moons ahead of its natural term, broaching sewer mains into Student’s Lunch-Milk, into their Lunch-Milk Reserves –

Following incorrect emergency instructions, I skirted the most heavily-advertised zones only to find myself skreeking in pain as the lurid yellow bile sloshed everyone’s ankles - but my protests brought only sad sneers of surprise to see, to see I had failed to inflate my Official Pontoon Shoes

#poetry

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runaway

Lost among the nymphs of Halicarnassus jet black pupils, viking hair and toenails rimed with salt from panic splashing through the harbor-fingers, chased by mad ecstatics rising from the thundering late-day nimbus, a chilling gusty chaos in the fairground’s pebbled bloody downslope –

The same bright sunburnt face comes reeling out of manzanita dust devils, beating out sparks, arms flailing wildly to flag a truck ride in the smoke, knocking bleeding bare-kneed on the doorstep headlong red-eyed into the suffocating cab gabbling wildly in dialects from three continents get down, down the hill –

In warscapes bent and drilled into rat mazes where only breathing matters and it’s only good for running just keep running, twist and dodge the bright hair’s burnt off keep on making for the clear air don’t hear see just with side vision stay on the bounce and if slowed up crash through it but don’t fall down –

That same half-grown strong scarecrow cut and running (can’t be refugee for lack of refuge) I’ve seen her now in three successive nightmares by miracle un-maimed, time after time, but nothing in those eyes but grabbing frantic motion and cracked reflections of a world with the brake lines cut

#poets on tumblr

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“This summer is so much sadder than the other one.”

- Ada

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Elephant Times

Elephant foot, tromp, tromp, knows not how to step but only stomp. How many delicate details squirm down in the brown mud with the trodden worm. When the soul gets shaken and rattled enough, the body can only strike out rough. Blundering cross a landscape dim, favoring one corkscrewed limb.

I once imagined the best I’d seen lived in the tiny spaces between. Could never make out what they was, just a quick glimpse and a soothing buzz. But usage, distraction, and elephant time wore down the edges of real-world rhyme. No matter, the New York Times just said it's a century since poetry’s been dead.

#poetry

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fantasy

Tired hours are spent on rummaging through my poor soiled stock of memories. But if I could bear one touch of your hand, we’d turn aside down golden ways.

If you could follow me round this bend, I’d reveal for you the uprising of clear springs that glitter in early light that give all living things their love.

Were you to sing me one slight song we’d find a clearing among the trees where in the whispering of the boughs we’d fall in wonder on our knees.

If you could flip one shiny coin to me in the mystic blue of dawn, we’d climb a hill all veined with silver and come up where sunrise is born.

Were you to run and I give chase we’d splash through rushing rapid streams, stirring up storms of fishes and birds to swirl round us like crazy dreams.

If you laughed in my sweating face, the echoing cavern rocks beyond would ring like bells with your high sweet voice and build cathedral clouds of sound.

Were we to creep among the grass where secret mysteries lurk and spring, we’d know as only the two of us could the inner fabric of each small thing.

And if we jumped from the highest cliff, you’d find we would so easily soar with the willfulness of the current winds you’d chose never to walk no more.

 And if then with the setting sun I had to watch you leave me there, my tired memories would weigh no longer dispersed in the vast encircling air.

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Newsprint

It used to come off on your fingers, but now it shoves spikes in your head. The measured opinion of all editorials Is that we’d be better off dead. You tried to suck up to the working class, but they know you’re not their kind of folk; for fun they poke holes in your noggin with hammers, and then act as if it’s a joke. The more they spin round at the ballot box, the deeper we get in a hole; the world has decided the monsters are here, so it’s rock bottom cheap for their soul. Just watching your neighbors destroy themselves was supposed to have gone out with the Flood – but these maggots with hammers and zip ties will settle for nothing but blood.

#poetry

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Fragile links

You have to give a password first, if you expect to give close secrets and be getting in return. A kind of pledge that you have something real to spend. Look for this gift down where you store your own mistrust, where creaky suits of armor guard embarrassments and shame - the fragile things that really weigh you down.

 When I review my smallish stock of mine-to-give, facetious misery seems the closest thing to hand. But if I think of trimming that with glitter, so to turn it into something more spectacular – get this, I swear you haven’t heard it more than once - I’m guessing that your gloom will fail to be impressed.

 We lived on top of one another, miles apart. The pain to you was chutes and ladders, mine looked more like Esperanto Scrabble. How can telescopes see into each the other when their coordinates don’t match up even slightly? Two deaf mountaineers on a midnight cliffside, each with half a rope.

And if we now bump heads together under cover, how would it be if our realities, jam-packed against each other in the middle night, might then turn out to be half-real, disguises and maneuvers… Like our early rounds, the sly duets in which the winning or the losing felt the very same.

 So much for what experience tells us not to do. We’ll trail off, like before. We’ll roll on separate rails. Of course, there is the other, senseless way to go: say screw it all, butt noses, and then actually try to look each other in the brain. And if we reach critical mass, and blast free of our minds, amen.

#writerscreedchallenge

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Frowns

I am the kind of person who brings out in others some dependable misgivings. They’re frowned upon – my habits, tastes, loose living; the general take on me is full of doubt.

 I’ve let my earthly corpus go to pot. My manners don’t impress an alley cat. I don’t smile much; the reason behind that, two teeth are absent simply due to rot.

 The funny thing about that – when you frown, it don’t expose the frowner’s faults a bit. I often use my face for disapproval; cause when I take the time to look around, I think a lot of people look like shit, regardless if their teeth have had removals.

#poetry

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lubricious

glistening

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multiple moons

(To set the scene, you are outside the towns.) This one same moon discharges light below in countless tones depending on the eyes -

bone marquetry, the dispossessed princess; a vixen’s breath, the grey fox sharp with lust; the sunrise, dying soldiers in the mud; a sneaking path, the murderer for hire; a sickly pallor, priest of little faith; a failing torchlight, gatherer of grubs; a lying ladder, boy caught in a dream; a ghostly lantern, miner’s widow poor; a false complexion, lover who’s a fool; a wink of mocking, old man lost at sea.

She takes her palette from the scene abroad, since everything’s reflection of all else.

#writerscreed #poetry

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A LOUD IAMBIC STREETCORNER AT NIGHT

Loose-lipped and loopy liquids mix into a goddam Brooklyn streetcorner at night the laughers drift away from Farrell’s first and clog up in the nooks and sidewalk bumps in range of the dismally stage-lit Park

It's hard to tell what’s funny just by listening except they’re doing it right under your window but you can hear these far-ranging discussions that need to be hashed out right now at volume till some sloshy old synthesis is reached

The last act is machines rattling to life of which some are the private local carters but then right in the belly of the night the buzz saw sharp thrombosis of the engine the hogchopper that lives just down the block.

It's like they’d do anything but go home Like their place is the final square, you lose

#poetry

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nobody home

Fat fingers across the sun meddle in and out my window these pudgy digits wave, mocking is there anyone in there anymore

#poetry

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Moonlight Sonnet

The aura of our most exquisite song, the vision where love holds its bated breath, the dimness which so often guides us wrong, the pallor that resembles most a death;

That mystic air, it rules our highest dreams - the casting of the moon’s bright candle round, and in the spell wrought by its limpid gleams our nearest hopes may founder, swirl and drown.

I’ve lingered underneath your sovereign sway while sunk in music, poems, or surmise; and found myself after the break of day that much more sure in love, that much less wise.

Oh lustrous semblance pouring from the sky, is there no moon on which we can rely?

#writerscreedchallenge

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Poem muttered around a $10 Hoyo de Monterrey

The two of me don’t see eye to eye possibly coz there’s each t’other side of the head.

times I think they shoot white vs black except all the targets are shades of bland or beige

Is it just a woman/man gap in me that phony enormity but then am I stuck with an ersatz freak totem stead of a man

The concepts don’t settle anything the symbols stumble maybe if I could get this stinking paci outa my mouth

#poetry

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Money Changes Everything Except Character Defects

(and the population count of intestinal fauna)

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a rare invaluable life

intricately parallel

in which everyday events are

somehow the stuff of dreams

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Unsaid Sonnet

So there’s no chance of new things from our head, of having missed one something since the Fall; since all the things that can have all been said - except the things which make no sense at all?

What if this moment is a starting flag, not muteness but the final verbal craze? To string all things together with no gag, a rule-less, shameless bursting end of days?

The species’ last tremendous raging shout, each pore, each stoma yawning gaping wide - the final word that is what it’s about, the last roundup where streams of time collide.

If unsense outstrips sense, can it be bad? Just deal with it, people, or else go mad.

#writerscreed