August Poem 35: Shadows of Life

By the time of the fresh green pine. The trees.

They stood in their full spring. In their tender

Branches. They reached straight up as if pulling

Some unseen mark. The years of new growth seen

Only with time to look. Both the new green

And the two men in dark suits. Of man. Birds

And eggs. Frogs. Mice. Rats. And snakes. Existence

Pulled out of their jacket pockets. Hidden

In plain sight. Circumcision. Prayer times. Day.

The sharp black and green parallel lines. Black

Copies of playboys. Off the top of my

Head, they don’t exist in nature. But they

State, come with us, the black and green of life

Your eyes can only pick out when it moves.

August Poem 34: Mistress Death

In the Holy Sepulcher. She ran them.

And settled them burnt offerings through the

Angry gauntlet of existence of Acts:

Saw. Hammer. Nail. Acts that don’t exist. That

Can’t exist. That brought little beauty to

The world. But brought about the pollution

Of the spirit in the luscious red of

Her lips, a deck jutting out the

Side of a falling down house. They fly hot

Her long nails, bright red with being. The spot

Where they moved back and forth while they dragged

Over the bumpy road worn threadbare. Angry.

On the bridge of his nose. Blemish. Open.

Raw. Red. Dripping. But he would see much worse.

August Poem 33: Words in White

It was bound to happen. And one night it

Did. The scratch, click, and thump of the hammers

Pulling nails. The excess holes. The drywall

Was pocked with them. However, this was an

Entertainment. The same cigarette. This

Anecdote. This pulling across and out

The utility knife to serpentine

Over the guide line. Know its purpose. Like

The poison smoke. We lift and snap hoping

For the line we had scored out without my

Other buddy. We had stopped. Wasn’t it

Word burn? And I push away my readers.

Even if I felt meaningless words out

A black and red end squeezed. Roll them in white.

August Poem 32: The Old Itch and Blister

Straight. It never was, by stories. He had

Some type of “toothpaste” if it fit the wall.

If it wasn’t too small. We’d prop it up

On another piece of scrap and smoke it

As if it were more. When I had tried to

Split the slop we had left. Bent hanging. It

Wasn’t like weed. But they were supposed to

Expand and contract with the weather. Or

You know. Something like that. We figured it

Would work. I told him that. But that is how

We did things. We took a stab, and it showed

In our work with the itch and blister and

The biting our lips. But in the end,

It got done. Didn’t it? It did. It did.

August Poem 31: Do You Hear What I Say? Do You Notice?

The partial eclipse. A humid day in

August when your eyes sting with sweat as you

Pile more trash on the fire to find

The cutting edge. Do you know how bright and

Opaque in nature and work? Does your skin

Know how to find the answers? Does the

Ash fall down like snow melting into the

Sweat in your eyebrows? Does each drop mark you

In long streaks? Does the lily in the field

Fill your lungs? Burn your eyes? Does the bee know

The angry communist to be happy

When she has subjugated the world? Will

I notice? Does it matter? Do I care?

Doesn’t the bullfrog song lull you to sleep?

August Poem 30: Batman, the Very Dark Knight

Would you believe Batman a murderer?

Murdered a goon or three. In cold blood. And

Encouraged Robin’s murder spree as well.

The campy Adam West version Batman

A murderer! World’s greatest detective.

What did he think happened? Batman. You split

Their atoms right out of existence. Hard

Water infused henchmen. Now nuclear

Fallout. Batman, do not their lives matter?

Working for the Penguin should not be a

Death sentence. Having the Joker reduce

You to dayglow dust should not be a death

Sentence. Should all henchmen dread the Batman?

The judge. The jury. The law. The Batman.

August Poem 29: Speaking Meditation

Worker who has to make up the public

Violence. Words are not sticks or stones. They are

That glass’s condensation as working.

President Trump. If he were eloquent.

Wouldn’t be bad if the poetry gets

Cold. Speaking meditations. On things owned.

Directed out of the static essence.

Pine trees. Pickled pig’s lips. Anything sold.

Solid. Delusioned. Private. Growing like

Weeds. Walmart garlic flavored racial strife.

Once gave the mid-morning the second day

People that speak those vile and evil words

Fried emotional nature. Destroyed.

This as a work for you to recreate.

August Poem 28: The Buddha’s Brain

Well on his way to waking to the world

As a speaker. President Trump fished in

The deep water. If more people would have

The spark to understand his points. If he

Weren’t so eloquent. The best speaker.

Never over the line either way. The

Biggest vocabulary. That’s a word

You might not have heard “vocabulary.”

It’s got the same root as vocation and

I am going to create millions of jobs.

The best jobs. Because taking Trump’s side on a

Subject makes small thinkers lump you in with

The fiction that even “The Donald” would

Have any trouble being understood.

August Poem 27: Never Over the Line

To be triggered at your lectures. Doctor

Peterson just say our words. To threaten

All reporters. Can we get some muscle

Over here? To break windows and burn trash.

They’d run the bases, if not they would shift

Their heads as they left early. And the game,

That rambling word salad they might have.

Supremacists. Asses with adaptions.

And I really hate to think that in all

Places all over the world they are there.

With lefties just a bunch of anti-speech

Storm troopers, aren’t they stronger and far-

ther righter than the Nazis that they punch.

August Poem 26: Inherent Violence

By your privilege alone you will speak and

Words are violence and lefties read your minds

As Triggly Puff rocks back and forth screaming

Over you, so you can’t be heard at your UMAS

Lecture. Words are violence and you have just

Lynched someone with the words you couldn’t say

Because they wouldn’t let you speak. Words are

Violence and lefties have been hurt screaming

With their fingers in your face as Chanty

Binx tells you to shut the fuck up for a

Second. Words are violence and lefties have

Their rights to preemptive self-defense strikes.

Words are violence and lefties have a few

Choice words for you: Baseball bat sneak attack.