The camera, to his eye,
Was a creator of enlightenment.
A long black Cadillac.
The front doors:
Breath.
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Category: Experimental Poetry
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.
