Poetry: Some of My Favorites

Tender Green

Legal Time on the Island of Zombies

 

 

Tender  Green

 

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

They stood their full spring. In their tender green

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.

 

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.

 

Professional Protester

 

In applying for this position, I

Rose pledging phantom scented seraphim.

I rose being gravely injured. I rose

To bash the head with a mortal sneeze. To

Promote the burning flag’s area. To

Make me the perfect pick. To contradict

The customer service pro. The lefty

Way of life. The ever heart of Google.

I am a dirt venture. I am any

Countryside attraction where there was a

Raccoon to mount. I am the city. I

Am the taxidermist. I am the stink

Wafting from the carcass. Pregnant. Bloated.

You are only a short drive from either.

 

Legal time on the island of zombies

 

Notched Greek wolves can masturbate over their

Bringing Truth to modernity. Ravens

May circle by the fly’s swarm, to their gloom.

The fictions of the wolves lies in a warm

And sticky pool And Complete Castillo

Understands the jest that steams in the sun.

Of Romulus and Remus, was this the

Better part? A Roman penny not too

Aerodynamic as blackened beak pulls

It from the muck. The hall to hell in my

Legal time on the island of zombies

Chasing away the ravens to see what

Wolves left. I am the one tan and foamy.

A curious cat practicing the think.

 

A Twist on the Dark and Stormy

 

Start with pure agave Tequila and

Its hint of pepper. Mix it with the warm

Bite of ginger beer poured over ice in

A tall glass. Garnish the rim with a lime

Wedge. Squeeze the lime into the drink and drop

In the husk. Take a sip. The fizz tickles

Your nose as you stifle a sneeze each time

You refill your glass. You would think you would

Learn. Each time your drink is more Tequila

Less ginger beer. And you are drinking this

Because you are too drunk to keep making

That gourmet margarita recipe

You ripped off from the Food Network website.

And you thought your fiends wouldn’t find you out.

 

Welcome to Huddle House: Let’s Eat

 

Come in and get some of our fresh coffee.

It’s only slightly burnt. Or you could try

A big glass of our famous southern style,—

Damn the diabetes—ice cold, sweet tea.

Thick enough to pour over your pancakes.

You’ll love the sight of an open kitchen.

Say “Hi” to the beltless chef and his crack.

His specialty is four strips of bacon

With bits of fried trash. One piece is rat shit.

And don’t forget to stay for the hearty

Heaps of handpicked and deep fried horses butt holes.

Nothing better than beer and buttermilk

Battered butt holes, Pounded until tender,

Drizzled to dripping in savory sauce.

 

That Fucking Monopoly Game

 

Just my luck. A bank error in my favor.

More money than we could possibly have.

We went out for dinner and drinks before

The groceries and diapers. Wife ignored my

Mention the shorter line. God fucking damn!

Last minute cigarettes. The longest line

In Mississippi. The fucking tobacco line.

The “I ain’t got enough money to feed

My own kids, but I’m sure as hell going

To fill my lungs with tar” line. When the bank

Fucks up, they take back their money on their

Terms. Not yours. But that’s just it. Isn’t it?

Life is that fucking Monopoly game.

You just spend until you’re all fucking broke.

 

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?

 

Reality as its own Simulacra

 

Hungry-Man mesquite flavored fried chicken

Fresh out of the microwave. McDonalds

Boneless McRib sandwich. Yoo-hoo chocolate

Milk-like substance. Tofurkey. Facebook

Friends you never hang out with. Internet

Community of antisocial fucks.

A red and blue fauxhawked rebel wearing

A pleather jacket. A fast food worker

Who won’t get off the smartphone long enough

To take your order. Prefabricated

Housing with a Jaguar in the driveway.

A trailer park whore’s professionally

Manicured set of press on nails. A self-

Referencing shit post described as high art.

 

God’s Eyes

 

A felt vibration of wind, in a word.

Ridding the winds of Hurricane Matthew.

Ephemeral slight of meaningless words.

Up from the rock strewn friction chips signaled

Itself relax. Those who escaped the rock

Were lost. For my part, I swam. On that rock,

The stone music led and had envisioned

The deep, the stone. This was the cornerstone

Had the cornerstone happened. The white line

In the water. To clean his catch on man,

God’s eyes watered the dew point like a ghost.

Took water, and rose up the stately streets

Between the high wave that rose up in him

In the blowing in off the lapping waves.

 

It Doesn’t Mean What You Think it Means

 

That word?

The one you said right now?

Yeah, I said it…

I was a child once.

Of course I said it

And more.

Every word that could offend.

And ones I made up.

I visited the depths

And came back.

I know you think I’m thinking it now.

But I’m not.

I came back stronger

With a valuable knowledge.

You see it in my eyes

And you envy it.

That ability for darkness

That makes me a man.

 

The Cosby Show Band

 

Thelonious Monk,

Erroneous Consent,

Felonious Dose,

Rapacious Fuck,

Sanctimonious Attorney,

And Bill Cosby

All joined a band hand in hand

To violate the sleeping woman.

 

To Amy Gerstler Regarding Hoffnung

 

Cunts that taste like mustard?

Are we talking hot and sweet,

Or brown and spicy

With the earthy hit of turmeric?

 

Horseradish or none?

It is very important to know

How horsey you think a cunt should be.

 

What about hot Chinese mustard?

You know a little goes a long way.

It could burn out your taste buds

And leave you unable to differentiate

Between all others.

 

But a little in the bottom of your bowl

Mixed liberally with soy sauce

It becomes a savory delight

Suitable for dipping all of your

Favorite Asian dishes.

 

It brightens up eggrolls, chicken on a stick,

And all those questionable sushi rolls

That really shouldn’t be

On the Chinese buffet anyway.

 

It is even great on the deep fried

Apple pie pockets that you mistook

For a chicken or pork filled dumpling.

It is so good that you might even

Find yourself licking it straight off your fingers.

 

My Resume

 

Willing to send out thousands of resumes and never actually get hired.

Can write sentences that don’t have a subject.

Able to agonize over every interview question causing the interviewer to think that I am an idiot.

Willing to be transracial if it will get me the job.

Willing to sleep my way to the top.

Can leap tall buildings in a single bound.

 

Will spend my time at work filling out applications for better jobs.

Can spend hours on Twitter.

Able to look like I am working while never completing a task.

Able to hide being under the influence at work.

Ability to tell dirty jokes in the work environment without getting fired for harassment.

Willing to watch YouTube when I should be working.

Willing to work hard when the boss is watching.

 

Can fart on command.

They call me the moist maker.

Has knowledge needed to breathe through a snorkel.

Master of Useless trivia.

Willing to bartend for all company parties.

 

Know how to spell potato.

Can make very timely Dan Quail Jokes.

Able to tweet about fake news at 3 am.

Able to out stupid the current President of the United States.

 

Some, by Voting

 

Some, by voting, see lessons

Through the United States.

They of unskilled lynchings, in apartments,

Are your votes for Donald Trump.

They, the contradictory family,

Are forced to beg the artist.

 

By the emperor’s order, I swam

On their fears about suffering.

As a way to diminish you,

A better happier worker.

I slept about eight days

beginning where all was lost.

Becoming terrible, sober, opposite.

 

 

Daybreak, Coffee, and a Cup Holder

 

The sun shone orange through the trees

Rending the world, the highway, and all its cars

In silhouette and shades of grey.

 

The Road to Resurrection

 

I drove out facing the layer of cappuccino

Across the darkened sky. An alien scene,

Fields of brown and tan giving way to teal skies

And orange clouds like a dream.

This scene faded into the steel grey murk

Of overcast morning traffic.

Barren hills, green and brown. Skeletal trees.

Dry and dormant cracked asphalt rolls ribbon,

Cuts its way to resurrection.

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