The Modern Epic

Virgil pumps the bellows. With tiny rings

Of smoking death escaping the mouth of

Hell through the pillars of lost hope. The pit

Darkens to a glowing black heart. Our

Bodies corrupted with scale. Removed. Scraped.

Beaten. Shoved back into the furnace. Souls

Bare again to the flame. To be shaped. To

Be burned. To be beaten into rings and

Quenched in the still falling rain. To be worn

On the fingers of Sitwell and Osborn

Alike. Each ring a blast of flame black as

Coke and clinker. Coal and ash. A postwar

Deconstruction. The world, blank and godless.

The Antichrist suffering from old age.

October Poem 39: These Four Walls

These four walls with their white textured surface

And the wooden strips that cover the seams

In the presurfaced sheets of drywall. These

Four walls, the blank canvas painting my life.

These four walls, will your shabbiness leach in

My morning cup of coffee like so much

Leaded paint? Will it fill my lungs like the

Black mold that brings men in hazmat suits to

Cover the neighborhood in plastic tubes

Only to have the anniversary

Release with FBI men’s guns replaced

By walkie-talkies like E.T.’s PC

Police run amuck? These four walls that give

Me support. These four walls blocking me in.

October Poem 26: Cloaked in Darkness

You flap for open water to give you

Enough speed for your low angled assent.

The fluorescing against the unexposed

Film. And the new chemical exposure

Of early childhood impaled below

You. And the hallucinations to save

Yourself and the end of the Indian

Summer. And poetry is the last thing

Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting

Imagery in an elegant poem. To

Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.

And attempt similar tactics to hear

The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.

The path that turned sharp into the darkness.

 

 

 
Cloaked

October Poem 9: Poems of Mass Destruction

My poems are farts read on the whipping breeze

Of morning designed to contaminate

And chase off all those who come within their

Sphere of influence. My poems are among

The list of chemicals forbidden for

Carry on commuter airlines without

Proper radiation shielding. They cling

To form and edifice dissolving like

Liquid mercury into an aircraft’s

Aluminum frame weakening it with

Only the smallest of contact. My poems

Are noxious and debilitating. And

Designed this way by me to destroy all

With their weaponized poetic warfare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deny

October Poem 7: Manufacturing Consent

She looked at my TV to say, look at

All that sex. To bring me out of my work.

To peck the eyes pumping in a grotesque

Caricature. And I said, what sex? That

Isn’t even what sex looks like. To pull

My mind from the growing ashes off the

Burning end of my cigarette. The burn

And urge of my male being. The subtle

Give and take of mental combat. I reached

Out to brush the tops of my fingertips

Against her cheek. To take deliberate

Each step to sooth the sting behind my eyes

With her wet flesh. Like the blood drained from the

Exotic verities in poetry.

September Poem 57: Magic and Elves

Flashes of green and red pouring across

The canvas in bristly brush strokes. Basest

Instinct to disconnect and forget the

Earth. Richard Braxton. Poet in his own

Mind only. Emerging man. The bridge troll.

Rapaciously existing to chase your

Goats. His work won’t be published here. My god,

Unearned expectations. They must have grown

Verdant coils around my pretentious

Heart. The stupid heart that I cut out of

Plywood and nailed to a wooden stake to

Place out in the garden to make people

Think I cared about that Saint Valentine’s

Dinner. Except there was that one time. Once.

 

 

Coincidence

August Poem 39: Internet Tofurkey

Work. Pleather jacket. A fast food worker.

I had this idea that I was going

To add something poetic to the scene.

I had something new no publisher would

Touch. Take your order. Prefabricated

After college. An independent in

Facebook. Internet Tofurkey. Wouldn’t

You know it? Friends you never hang out with.

Community. Antisocial fucks. One

Accomplishment In letters, and there is

This living. Fresh out of the microwave.

I could do McDonald’s. A Bachelor’s

Degree in the McRib sandwich. Boneless

Yoo-hoo chocolate English and victory.

August Poem 2: Crumbling Brackets of Black

Looking strange, he legged to the bathroom stall.

Corona.com caters to his mind.

Characters’ minds: Crumbling brackets of black.

Lost. Your other last time. The sense of smell.

The sewer rooms cannot exist. You were,

Vestiges on the gold age of highway

The life of watered ice and liquored drink.

Walked stiff from the balcony. All corners

To try the manuscript book. The mounting.

The driver drives the registers and lives.

The glover gives the register of loves

Ambiguity lay. The transfer of

Industries. Of the poem. Of my old balls.

Out of the one side and out the other.

July Poem 30: In the Student’s Poetry

But you feel the loop. The pain. The pain is

Back. Afford insurance. The pain is back.

Angry mother. The pain is back. Holding.

The pain is back. Here. To create texture.

You can no longer better the bet

But its indigestion. But you feel so.

Advance and rise up. Hands apart. Saying,

I’m going to change the symbolism.

In the story. In the marijuana.

In the San Francisco sex on the beach.

Beaumont lives in the student’s poetry.

Melancholy as a fake dick standing.

Melancholy dick above a hundred.

Melancholy. Melancholy as fuck.

February Poem 2: The Poetry of My Asshole

My farts are a societal problem.
Like the hum of the walk-in freezer
Which also increased to twenty the gassy bass hits,
The fart artist knocks three times.
You can still hear me doing something
To fix, to recreate this as a work of art in taking a crap.
When I fart, the voice of the sea lifts without murmuring,
Inviting the soul as though I feel them not.