Tag Archives: poetry

All the Way to the Dump and it’s Only Tuesday

I open one eye
the other has fallen behind.
In fact, it may not get up today at all
and I would be forced to wear a patch
or explain why it is that I look like
I’m having a continuous stroke:
“Oh my eye? No, it’s not lazy or reluctant.
It’s dead.

That’s okay. Things pass.
Would you like some salsa?”

Dates would be awkward
because if there is anything wrong with your eyes
it’s because you stare at porn and small children
who also stare at porn.

The one eye that I have opened
has landed on an empty wine bottle
that glares back at me accusingly
like it’s my fault.
Wait, I took a wine bottle to bed?
Jesus, what does that mean?
That I had to bring it just in case
I couldn’t make it upstairs and to my bed
without having a drink?

That speaks volumes about something
that I don’t want to think about
without taking one.

The sadist sun outside the window
is the most aggressive thing I have seen
in billions of years.
It’s like a supernova that is purposefully
reaching into my brain to incinerate
everything that I have ever learned
about happiness and sanity.

It will soon blind my one good eye
and then there will be no point
in doing anything but continuing to
lie here
for the rest of the year.

I check my phone.
I have a single text from Katy:
“You’re such a fucking asshole!”
is all that it says.
I have no idea who Katy is.

The garbage trucks outside
are applying their squealing brakes
every two meters and it is as grating
as my ex off meds and it’s like
they know that I’m in here
in this room filled with darkness
and self-loathing
in pain from boozing so they’re moving
extra slow today and they’ll be back
around for the other side of the road in about
fifteen minutes
hooting, hollering, screaming at each other
likes sailors at port or children
on the first day of summer
jeering, winking, carousing
slapping asses, making faces
honking their horn while
applying their unlubricated brakes
laughing maniacally
all the way to the dump.

And it’s only Tuesday.

The Tree From Which Robins Sing (For Sariah)

This is me in here
trapped, tragic and tearing
out life in words
worlds whittled
out from sadness
out into the dark from light
out from my hand
out like a melody
from the tree
from which robins sing.

I speak the language of birds
calamitous
harmony in my happiness
when I am alone always
beneath the tree
fielded and frankly forgotten
with no other human in sight
I can breathe
finally
breathe out dreams
and this is me this is really
me.

In a moment all at once
all together the birds
leave on impulse
a unified cluster arcing over the
wide wondering blue
shimmering singing
painting my sky with wings
powering through the air
cutting like a
whispering wind
and I laugh and take joy
as in a moment I realize
that this is the sound of
God
and if he smiles at all
then this is him
smiling.

In This Summertime

The breeze blows in from unknown places
it sails my paper plane
into the wide open sky
of a child’s eyes
wild with dreams a soft kiss of wind
remember remember what it was like
the living sky enchanted
the evening it comes it drums alive
drowned in summer chanting
as crickets dance beneath
the sun the colour of robin’s breast
while I’m so in love
with all this loveliness…

and your warm breeze of breath
mingles with mine…

so into the night
Let’s run let’s laugh
let’s dream

let’s hide

forever,
in this summertime.

You Don’t Know What Love is Until It’s Beaten You to a Fucking Pulp

Did you love it?
To keep hitting
like an excited child
what has been hurt
as it tries to crawl away?

I had never loathed your biting
because all that you are
is teeth
and your teeth are
still in me.

I could feel you inside of my chest
like a heartbeat
and I didn’t know how
to get you out.

Well,
you just don’t know what love is
until it’s beaten you
to a fucking pulp.

Through the Moon / Best Ideas

Through the Moon
Run your hand through your hair
Silly Child
and you’ll drag my heart through the moon

I am a far away star unventured
cocksure
and fiercely bright

But there are things left out in the cold
unchained
that can ruin a feast

and I am sun-drenched with shame
to what I awaken to sometimes

Best Ideas
I always find that
my best writing ideas
come to me when
I’m right in the middle
of doing something else
that I cannot neglect.

Monday’s Out to Kill Me Kill Me

Monday is a duplicitous treacherous whore
a midnight murderer (you’re next -it will find you)
a useless begging in a dingy alley
Monday is going to kill me kill me
dead

just like my brain -dead
just like my soul -dead dead dead

Monday is an old man
that doesn’t want to get up
from behind the counter
in order to serve you a pack of cigarettes

Monday is a beautiful girl
without a soul
or a friend
without empathy

Monday is a late cheque, a mechanic’s estimate
a slamming door, a hung-up phone
a push, a shove, and sometimes a fist
a hole in your shoe or the side of your skull
a sister on crack and the
sewer that just ate your keys

Monday is a waiting room full of uninteresting faces
or a cigarette burn on your cheek

Monday is the spineless coworker
who just won’t stop complaining about the boss
until you want to brain him with your industrial stapler
but won’t because you would probably go to jail
and then Monday’s
would be the least of your problems.

I usually despise Monday’s
but today it’s a special mixture of resentment and
existential hollowness
my gut is still rotted
from Friday night
I can’t find my phone
and I’m stewing at my desk
like bad soup
overly angry
about my untied shoelaces
again.

Listening to Bukowski Speak

Listening to Bukowski speak
the way he finished his sentences
his enunciation
and emphasis;
he was walking through a poem
when he spoke about
everything
and it makes you realize
this one thing:
that we are always writing
thoughts
even as we
walk
even as we
talk
we are

moving

living

being

dreaming

singing

art.

Dry your tears
and then hang them up.

Amazing documentary (The Ordinary Madness of Charles Bukowski):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=4fxJCb8WZ7Q#!