September Poem 31: His Artistic Eye

The camera, to his eye,

Was a creator of enlightenment.

A long black Cadillac.

The front doors:

Breath.

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September Poem 16: Philip Morris

Hiking in the distance relaxed to the

Possibility of insight. He had

A young carpenter to eye his tears. Of

Biblical proportion, the red open

On the sermon he made. Of cowering

Partaking in the blood and saliva.

Any person light a butt of he who’s

Christian. Light a butt of any man with

Motives. Light a butt of Americans’

Fear behind assassination’s daughter.

Twisting fruit. The one shimmering in the

Winter. So you are just the dimly lit

Room yellowed. You would likely catch snaps of

Svengali. A figure. Quiet. Waking.

September Poem 15: Roadkill

Roadkill. When you raise your voice. Cloud the rain

Masquerading. He was involved. Bite sized.

French. The massive container ships of toast

Made from hardy hibiscus. The kind of

Culebra Cut passings in the feedbox.

Return. The corner. And you. Adorned with

A large bag of grape Skittles and the sharp

Cold of your own overfull ashtray. Time.

Spirit. More in the white wet springs creaking

In their own dry scratch like a summer wind

That arose in thinking animals. Like

To absurdity in the word’s engraved

Sandals. Hacking emotional problems.

Flier in frustration. In frustration.

September Poem 8: The Part Where We Begin the Bidding

We will begin the bidding at fifteen

Hundred dollars. So begin acting on

Instinct as I stare into your left eye.

Many trays of lime juice and salt people

See in his unfinished work were direct

With an upturned plastic cup of your time.

Now, let’s bid on his apocalyptic

Movie franchise speech. A small part of the

Speech. The part that flows so quickly it comes

Out as one long word. The part that pushes

Men through the doorway. The part that began

To ooze a stinking, green puss. The part where

He was hunched and whimpering like a dog.

The part where you deny the evidence.

September Poem 5: High in the Bag

The audience with a lunar bag of

Cheetos. The full moon, riding high in the

Bag, floated. Buffeted its way. Slowly.

With strands of white it disappeared. The back

Of his neck was lit up like a ghost and

Rose up like watermelon and cabbage

That was for sale. Parrhasius processed

The mechanisms of disappearance

Known to the trees. Zeuxis, the finalist,

Envisioned them red or orange stripes on

Black. They were manipulation. Punching.

Hair pulling. Interfering with the loop

That his words had around my head. One must

Keep Parrhasius happy. It is known.

September Poem 2: Her Own Special Hat

When among moms, each girl could really lose

Track of the melodramatic conflict

Between a parent’s intention and her

Boyfriend’s instead finding the joint between

God and heaven. Correlation growing

Above the mountain top. A beautifully

decorated children’s choir of storm

Rose in the sagebrush. The paler green of

Its waxless foliage would adorn their

Hats and earth information on Twitter.

Shumaker played well in the first and ate

Her own special hat more than anything.

They wore them to the brunch dreaming of what

They thought they wanted one Friday morning.

September Poem 1: Burning in Effigy

The next contestant, who knows? When the truth

Circling the fishing boat like angry seagulls cries out

Of the rigging of the game. Too much. I’m

Slappin’ yo’ mama’s grass skirt like the fish

Monger that gives heads up when tossing fish

From one to another. Cry out there’s a

Fish aimed at your head. The hobbling of your

Thoughts somewhere, nowhere. Like the teardrops from

My single eye and everywhere around.

Kicking risers with the CPU fan’s

Buzz. The silent background buzz that without

Which causes mobs to run in and jump on

Donald Trump burning in effigy of

George W. Bush. The Running Man won.

August Poem 45: Into the Yellow Heat

Changed. The wounds on a poem retold. My feet

Micro expressions express the micro

Aggression that is hiking campus on

Forgotten old rolls of toilet paper.

Dimmed but the words remain. Throbbing Into

A lack. Into the yellow heat. Proverb

Of feeling. Of the hillside cliffs. My milks—

A foot filled with fiery embers of pain.

Barkeeps—they keep my words lubricated.

They can recite them from memory. Like

Substance. Like fiction. Like lips that never

Make the wrong base spirit. The brown-red of

Stiffness. Pain. A limp. A rock in the heel

Of my foot. I try not to limp. Only.

August Poem 42: Single Payer Healthcare: It Will Only Cost Your Soul

I was seeing its fresh Christian thunder,

Eyes that had seen the millennium set

On deep clay. Wearing what weren’t even

Tamed and pulled closed. The hospital gowns. For

Me, they brought two. The pale horse. Six foot four.

Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of grey

Flesh. Tie one on backwards and one on forwards

To haunt the white halls. To determine the

Bodily apocalypse waging. To

Be wheeled from one bright room to another.

To be prodded with cold instruments. To

Be fed through the center of a spinning

Machine. Modern inquisition to force

My confession. My forced resurrection.

August Poem 41: Advice Before You Get Published

When you are too cutting edge and you don’t

Know you are housing morality. Smear

In enough fish smut to flavor the press,

Before you are published and gone. Counter

The pleasures of the day. Float. Nothing to

Show the white line up from the rock strewn for

The red and blue fauxhawked rebel run dream.

Man as mesquite. His six pound soul. Flavor

Your enemies, flesh, and influence as your sin.

As neighbors of many science fiction

Religions. Boys step away from dinner.

The table. The dangerous aftertaste.

This notion to be with a mouthful of

Thought not befitting a hungry poet.