Said I’m not poetic
You insist I try this thing
Gave it my best effort
All its brought is pain
I can’t write like others
With depth and blue despair
My rhymes are very silly
As if I didn’t care
Sometimes I don’t get
What others try to say
It seems complicated
And so out of the way
I’ll stick to writing prose
It’s the best thing that I do
And leave the heavy lifting
To poets, such as you.
How much is too much?
When a long, grueling day
ends with a crash landing
in my bed, sleeaping
all prosperity away?
When the difference between responsibilities
is hardly sufficient
for a full night’s rest?
Looks like we’re cutting
into the reserves again.
When waking up
from a short-lived dream
reveals you’re still little more than a whore
taken advantage of
because you’re here and haven’t left yet?
That’s if the dream
was even pleasant in the first place.
When late night sacrifice
to things deeply cared for
gets repaid with nothing
but the sublimation of the rock
upon which you stand?
When saying, “I’ll be fine
as long as I have you,”
gets forced into, “Goodbye.”
I once heard the story of a man
who gave so much
to friends, family, and probably
strangers on the street
until he gave himself away
and followed that by giving up life.
Like hell,
will that be my fight!
That’s a line to never be crossed,
an end that won’t be mine
but how close
is too close?
When you know the value
of compassion so well
it’s literally impossible
to get mad at another person
for failing to show it to you?
When you recognize the goodness
of selflessness
as a thing to be guilty of
as a self descriptor
while simultaneously
misunderstanding the cost.
When you’re so used to losing
in the end, that if death
happened to greet you today,
you know your last word will be
“Whatever…”
Was I born to lose
or have I made myself into that
by failing to find
a way to say “fuck you!”
to someone.
Anyone.
I’m not there yet,
don’t really plan to ever be there
but I know I’ll find that line someday
when somebody pushes me into it.
My only prayer
is that it won’t be so gradual
that I won’t see it
until it’s just a regret in the distance.
Kentucky is it’s own worst enemy
and it’s drunkest fan
yet, yall halt all traffic
to let a family of geese waddle across a four lane road
here, the mad farmer writes in his diary
all the things he’s always wanted to say
here, nepotism rules
yet, yall are so far removed from the reach of riots and protests
that even when you do have them
they have all the action and drama of a middle-class family reunion
here, university sports dynasties are cherished
by and above the working class
here, good magicians brew liquor without questioning the outcome
hypnotized and intoxicated
we all love what they do without asking why
yet, we’re all addicted to coffee and tea here
so at least we all have that in common
Here, beware the coming and going of basketball season
for then, wild drunkards
possessed by school spirits
riot when victorious
and if they should lose
a primal curse cloaks them as they walk
yet, I can sit on my buddy’s porch
and have a “how-dee-do” with passerby
or relax in a borrowed chair
and pretend to be asleep
Here, the average person of the hollers and the big towns
will happily appoint the same man who they never trusted
because he says “coal” in a voice they want to hear
yet, people here are well read
there’s not alot else to kill time with and the people here
are renowned time-assassins
trained from an early age
we are masters of porch sitting
naturals when it comes to deep thoughtful staring
at nothing in particular
and everything all at once
Here the bodies of relative unknowns
float bloated
down the river where it meets Clark county
and they tell us someone’s looking into it
on the evening news
while someone’s family wails and wants for blood
yet, people here are good listeners and could empathize on a dime
without any demands made or hard feelings had
Kentucky, there are few greater ironies
than pride without merit
although I could name quite a few more
yet, you are your own mother
and only true friend
you have to be
where good and bad
are as common as giutar players and cigarettes
I should tell you though
wherever you may be
that the “sun shines bright”
on all our old-Kentucky pride and shame
and all we got goin for us
When the simplest possible universe was created…..
Created? Yes!
In the first few trillion trillionths of the first second
The universe expanded so fast
That in order for nothing to travel faster than the speed of light
Light had to be 60 orders of magnitude faster
Than it is now
The Creator created, then manipulated the variables
And light became a constant
The universe rested for 8 billion years
Until it started expanding at an increasing rate
What do we call expansion at an increasing rate?
An explosion!
The creation is failing
Amber lights are blinking
Warning sirens squawk
Danger!
That switch shuts it down
Don’t touch it!
Not yet!
I’m not ready!
He calls me up,
somewhere around 2 a.m.
to ask why:
My body can’t give him space,
why his won’t leave me
alone
He begs me for answers.
I don’t know-
because I am afraid.
THE SWORD AND THE SHIELD
We are the only species
roaming the earth
with the nasty habit of
creating lies
to shield us from the
unknown
and to justify the violence
by which we live.
One more time
One more time
Just cut them eyes at me one more time.
She’s acting like
I’m fixing to
dip my paw in her beehive.
A hungry weasel at the
Chicken house door
Looking for a neck and a vein,
Leaving nothing but a feathered carcass –
A hint at the taking.
Calm down girl.
I don’t want what’s yours.
Why do we compete
For them that are never ours anyhow?
My Aunt Olie says they’re no count,
But I guess we can’t help ourselves.
The need for that blood runs
Right through us,
Surely as the hunger of that old weasel
She will cuss about come morning.
I didn’t hear the drone then applause after
name after name after name.
All I could hear was
the ptang ptang ptang of the basketball on the driveway
giggles muffled by blankets on sleepovers
C-G7-C-F-C from Edelweiss on stage.
I didn’t see tassel on mortar board.
All I could see was
thin hair on the back of your head
above the words of Make Way For Ducklings
over-joy on your face as you ran to me, jumping
the team mobbing you in front of the goal.
You are not next to me.
All I could feel was
a small hand sweating into mine
the bobbing of sobs into my chest after the first breakup
the tightness of my hand on your arm for some trivial offense.
As you walked,
pride pressed up, a fire
spreading from first floor to apex
doused by the sink of loss draining,
rainwater spiraling down gutter to sewer.
All I could do was
watch
listen
feel
I did all I could
until they called your name
then all I could do was cheer.
Etch on my headstone
above what’s left-over,
a contrary Oscar, a yoga
stick-figure, torso
rising up to toes
head held below,
a woman balanced doing
all at once, nothing
and something–counter-posed,
reversing the flow
of her own gravity.
