Posts for June 3, 2020 (page 2)

Category
Poem

Pride and Cruelty are brothers

Fresh Blood sits stagnant 

On bullets    
On unscratched shields 
On dog’s savage teeth 
On badges stripped of numbers
On cameras that were never recording
On shaky screens from a dozen different angles
Soap and water alone can not remove what has already been saturated. 

The brotherhood of injustice pleads mercy from onlookers 
We didn’t know 
We were following orders 
We made a mistake
We stand with you, wearing platitudes and crocodile tears. 

We regret that this happened
( and tomorrow we will do it again ) 


Category
Poem

Boromir

he laid there
so full of arrows
holding his hand
as he died
and when I think
of those two
in that moment
I know that
if I were one of the two
I wouldn’t be making it  
because
I’m already
a fallen
man


Category
Poem

To Find Peace

Making names in the sand,
a finger trailing 
lost in thought
but thoughts were lost 
in the oceans of self-doubt
of unecessary concern
of unfulfilled desire. 
It is hard to put a finger on
this particular hue of confusion. 

But it’s just a name, 
nothing special about it. 
Except that it repeats over and over
a record worn with time
never connecting right with the needle. 
Eventually you have to let it go
Her go, him go
Whatever go. 


Category
Poem

2020

The year of guilt. 
Every time I start to enjoy something,
I remember:
Someone somewhere is dying,
And you’re not doing enough to stop it. 


Category
Poem

June

chill air mocked the summer
while you held my hand and
I named the stars,
Arcturus, Vega, Antares,
one by one,
as many as I could remember
and some made up
I would have given anything
to have known them all
that night


Category
Poem

Cataclysm

Thick evening air
presses against my skin.
One lonely whippoorwill
calls out, and I know the
history books won’t matter
in the end.

I ride waves of
unpredictable weather
and even more erratic
politics – the riots for
change decades too late.

We’ve spent too much time
mad for the wrong reasons
turned on each other while
the world burns, and those
with money placed their bets,
growing richer.

We wait for it to settle
back to normal and back
to our daily grind, but
Mother Nature has other
plans compensating for
the holes we’ve made
looking for our fortunes.


Category
Poem

strategy

the black
and white
image
I sent you

I changed 
back to color
once sending
was through


Category
Poem

Old English Letters

The only connection is lost
But we never really connected anyway
Our mother has told you
 Lies about me, I’m sure

 She isn’t a good person
She’s fragile and bitter
With constant thoughts of herself

 I hope you are okay, and not sad
I hope addiction doesn’t wander back in
 Please continue to kick its ass

But I worry with her in your life
That woman will drive anyone to sacrifice
 And laugh as you are scarred
She’s not really rooting for you

But now I cant even text you
 My family prefers an Old English letter 
For their departures
I never fit in 
Because my handwriting is Primary at best 
I’d rather them just call 

I’m always expecting letters
 And sometimes I hope for them
 But my god, I hope you are alive


Category
Poem

Beauty to Rely On

How the river carries light, at night
elongates shadows violet, chartreuse, champagne,
a golden flame shaped by the bridge’s brick pier.
Reflections quiver wavy at the edges, overlap
to create new colors trembled by the current,
disrupted by passing vessels
until they re-form
shimmery prisms.


Category
Poem

Cowl of the Colorful Crown Redressing Clearly What No Title’d Touch

Some hanta-riddled pellet fell
or so i thought
a pill bug maybe
filliped from my pocket
pip or pill bug
putrid pellet plucked—
i pressed my pen’s matte pate
exposed of a marmalade’s tone
or a marigold’s lickerish hue
the sun still stickily sweetens
smooshed ‘twixt tempered pane
and a squirrel’s chest

pressed its saccharine pate upon the pellet
pip or pill bug maybe, maybe
a weed’s wry petal charred
roast artichoke green or a murky olive
straddling now my pen’s orange pate
mere threadbare lengths from flickering fingers—

nitrile, maybe Mylar
cinching spindly wrists,
red grooves betwixt
lanugo parted somberly
as sickened citrus stocks succumb
and collapse among canker’s cross, 
necrotic busses; caustic peroxide gnawing
pink and puckered flesh to shrieking rime incensed
like glaucous dandruff stinging scalps erupt in,
picked and scored, or, more so, erode to
prickling plumes that ransack supple shafts of
starshine, farrows of niggling vermin blearing
much as constellations scar a sky akin,
above ocherous street lamps, 
more to obsidian denim than sequined satin
some may say it whilom was ‘fore erstwhile fires sprawled,
like dusty tussocks clot and loiter ‘long burnished linoleum’s curling coolth—!

this astringent promise flesh inflamed,
raw worries wrinkle, chew, and chafe;
that swears at a langouring lordship’s
pale and shaven peplum’s hem unstitched,
from wizening gleams of a horse-hide halter’s creases,
gromets gouged from blood-lacquered buskins,
knots among groped and splintered flax
some’d sworn once stoked Germanic roses
dark and thick as pulses’ viscous cruxes;
from a fine ivoried crow’s nest
storms, redundant as laces loosen,
wheedled to be but a coracle creeping—
‘Swears! by a marbled god 
or some stuffed Quagga lost upon trumps 
and waves of hearts and cups, or
silvered slugs deaf, puddingheaded buckshot
flaccidly flees from, swearing, “Bundling
boards, by G-d, ‘ll be back in spades
come cold October’s end!”
—bemused amid the mortise cuts.

Why giving a beggar a light illumines
prickling probes and opprobrious inquiries,
throbbing mortality’s meekly measured inseam,
steals its broken breaths some many miles shy
of old Ararat’s peak or the Bedouin shanty 
Yeats once sniffed at—flickering fingers froze
before but a tender hunk of darkened pigweed. 

Just scrub strange skin from disinfected thews
and shimmering tendons bubbles buff and disabuse
in pop and peal, debriding pure and pearl-licked bone
of dingy dross no polished stone should gather;
hypnotic moire of mottled fingers’ fat
a candle’s fuming blossom flenses,
shell-frail shale some stammering shoreline’s 
skirmishes cud, foment, and cripple;
suppuration froth incensed from bayed, rare, reticent,
superstitious sands our Aloads’ shaper smeared:
such extravagant monsters stretched from sullied stone
i’ll scrape from waning nails i’m here afeard of nibbling 
for a wile, ‘fore erstwhile flickering fires sprawl
to boil these greasy seas and oceans clear as inviolate Mylar.