You might had better catch me outside then.
Good luck finding me in the places I hide in.
Where I kept hidden and high.
Committing the cardinal sin of keeping alive on my own supply.
When I could have looked outward. Outbound. Outside.
Trade a bent roof for a bowing sky.
A soft couch for a sore backside.
traded for nonetheless than happiness.
The best deal I ever regretted making.
A real adventure.
To replace the one I’ve been faking.
These words are for the morning.
Quickly fleeting. Almost gone.
And this line is welcome for the sun.
Welcome, to your own inspired realm.
God, you have done it now.
Burning, manipulating, brightness invested,
inspiring the delicate overlapping folds of rosy reds,
too many arms and white legs off daisies
thrown out in attractive upheaval,
the very green coat of grass wrapped tight
around the shoulders of warm fields,
tenderly torn by grazing jaws,
laid over teeth.
God, it is done.
Over. By the end of morning.
Your righteously spiteful muse of a sun,
like a flag, flung soaring oppressively overhead.
Truth. Reality. True enough to descend
and touch my skin.
A Poet’s Heart
Poet is eyes, mind, life wide open. Poet pays attention.
Emotional. Sensitive enough to achieve retention. Knowledge. Theme.
Detailed wild and free. Poet stays a child.
The only path to remember is purpose.
Consider those antiques up on the shelf.
Have health. Then risk it.
It is not enough to know existence, yet fail to play along.
A poet’s heart is full with dancing, moved by every song.
What About Love?
Bukowski, through Carver, asked me.
What do I know, if anything.
Bukowski thinks I don’t, and if I agree,
his words through Raymond’s writing, is he right?
And if this next line begins with an answer,
a tight, poetic retort, am I?
Or is knowing love saying nothing?
How I could write nothing,
not another word,
and still know mountains about love.
Liars dance to fire, not music.
Liar, liar, pants on fire, must be coming out your ass. How you think of stories so fast, to avoid living your own past. And use the future to suture the wounds that don’t suit you so you can plan a brand new stance to post up in the club next weekend. Erased your search history, so just what are you seeking? Because you don’t seem to be peaking eating the produce you’ve been seeding. Almost like you didn’t see what you buried in too little fertility. Grand abundance of shit, you didn’t compost any of it, growing fuzzy and fly buzzing but not a single tomato on it. One thing the lie seed never seems to grow. Anything edible. Something so simple. As living in a world instead of a nation, responsible for choices but not for creation. On your throne like a flea on a dog, like a God, no kingdom on earth so you trespass heaven. Three thousand eleven. You will have no more children in this place. The you part of you will be lost to outer space, because you can’t remember which planets most familiar. All the stories you told made you cold keeping you old though you were young enough to know better. Liar, liar, get a grip like a pair of pliers. Come to terms with your own past. Fast. Or you will always live like there is fire under your ass.