So Silly Inept Concept (Thanks for the Stories)

I haven't written a poem in close to a year, until now that is. I don't know if I lack the knack,

or if I just

am not nearly as fucked up

as I was in the eighth year of the millennium.

I mean,

don't get me wrong,

I still don't feel right.

I am not covered.

Its rather hilarious, really,

because if I was it just wouldn't matter.

I get to giggling occasionally,

by my lonesome.

Those wild fits of laughter

where Spy Cobb turns purple.

The Spy ain't here right now.

Neither is the Goon, the U.N.A., the Doctor, the Prophet, the Decay, or the Lummox.

I wish they were.

This Virginia shit was stupid. It's like I am still trying to fix

something that was broken, thrown out, and now resides in the

landfill back home. Turns out it was biodegradable.

It turns out that the news of that is going to help me in the long rung.

I mean run.

When they walk me out to the gallows in several years

I want to know that I wasn't liked.

Already I can feel comments and critiques heaved from across

the frogger like four lanes when I walk to the metro.

I was high and out of my comfort zone.

You were high and at some festival I have never even heard of.

The founder of Islam asks,

"Man, are you alright? You didn't say a word back there."

I follow suit with,

"Were you alright? You wouldn't shut the fuck up."

Folks call me Richard, Rich, and the occasional Speech.

That last one is a real hoot.

I spill my beans when its over a beat,

but I keep my mouth shut under a boot.

A 2 A.M. Sidenote on a Lesser Individual

Perhaps the wording was wrong?

Line to hook. Hook to worm. Hook to gills.
You ripped that motherfucker out with one thong
pressed for leverage.
No mercy.
At least I got to taste the worm.

Prayers. Butane, and Palm Sweat

Someone once said to me:
"When it hurts,
you know you're alive."
To which I replied:
"It hurts when
you know you're alive."

Go fuck yourself.
I don't need some neerdowell
like yourself
who has failed at
more than I have
to upturn the corners.
I am happy.
I burned note cards with a prayer
carved between the lines.
I screamed to the skies.
I begged for a catastrophe.
Begged.
And pleaded.
I peeled the proof of purchase from
every bottle I drank.
I saved the can tabs.
I saved the bottle caps.
I sold my scrapes to the scrapeees.
I fed my roaches to the wasps.
I threaded needles with a tie off.
I picked solids from snots.
I am everyone of those sitting so patiently
below cross eyes save for the fact that I have yet
to succeed in failing.

Return to Sender

I have mastered the art of seducing a pin tumbler. Excuses tumble off
of the pages as pages divorce the binding. My ears are ringing.
I sleep to the glow of a brightly lit couples only
skate-a-way sign propped cleverly against my
window. My mail comes in stacks wrapped in rubber bands
with no return address. When I say wrapped I mean encased.
I mean more rubber than paper. I mean that karma could sit on it.
Every letter reads the same: "Doesn't it feel great to be alive?"
Each message differs in type. Its strange. I swear I can smell
perfume spritzed on each letter. Something exotic.
I wish I knew the sender.
I want to give you an answer.

Pill Dust and a Recycled Cotton Shock Absorber/Volume Filler

Observe with me the binding
of means and ends. I
stapled each finger and nailed a pair of palms
to the same plank.
I sat, bemused, in a room with one door.
A room with two windows.
A room with no floor.
I sent my regards.
Then, I took it upon myself
to send them again. And would you
take a look?
Fuck that.
Fall for deceit in two leaps.
There is a pounding in my temples.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
For my next trick I shall saw my assistant in
half with albums on wax.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
Ladies and gentleman, we now present to you
a live execution reenactment.
I want to send it hard.
I want to rattle those teeth baby.
When you can hear the surprise in
a voice over the lapse of time
you know that
you haven't marked a gouge in
the totem poll.
I have dawned my tree spurs to
the tune of a whistle torn from a western.
This is all green screen.
All smoke and mirrors wing splint.
Friction sparks fracture.
Friction spells disaster.
I am anxious.
I am angry.
I am spellbound.
I am overloaded.
I am a hypochondriac.
I have walked the plank
at a fast pace and stopped
dead in my tracks to push pin
my abdomen.
Bow your heads.
The brief cough spelled
celebratory but
the muffled mutter of the crowd
spelled otherwise.
There is a bulge in the carpet.
A hump on the putting green.
What we lack is slack,
leeway, thumb tacks and gingerbread don't
pin point our tracks.
These dots dance over maps and
diagrams
in a hot flash sobriety collapse gasp
contract diaphragm.
Bellows grow in bounds,
loud in a power outage.
Words saved by battery labor
and savagery penciled on paper.
I have been growing my nails
and plugging the wounds from my
selfish stigmata.
I plan to still be able to see you
when I cover my eyes.

Shift in Drifts, Ebbs and Flows

Cushions to mattress transfer
happens
in the blink of an eye.
Uprooted.
Replanted.
Awake.
This land mine
trigger is sensitized to
respond to a dust bunny.
Its profitable.
Inadvertently invest
and increase exponentially
your lunch money.
Tooth pick prop the shades.
Two years to this day I penciled in
a week without sleep.
Last night was close.
Tonight I might
find myself
smoking a cigar in the morning.

I Bespeak

I have been driving these city streets

with a bottle of whiskey, a pack
of cigarettes and an urge to answer
a rhetorical question.
I am halfway through my Windsor heating
element. I am smoking stogues in sets of
two, with the windows rolled up. Its great down
here. Imagine: up is up and the reverse is impossible.
This city looks different when its frigid.
This city looks different when your insides
are being simultaneously warmed and torn apart
at the same time. No chaser.
I inhale, swig, hold, release.
Harden my arteries.
Blacken my lungs.
Moon roof release, not to breathe,
but to see the stars and the clouds
and my breath. Smoke and water vapor.
Its beautiful.
If I could blow a fuse or a circuit breaker or a generator or a power plant and
see these streets sheathed in black I would freeze.
Find a bench to lay on and drink my drink, smoke
my smoke, eyes aimed towards the heavens.
And breathe.
And breathe.
And freeze.
This city would look different if we put out the lights.
This city would look beautiful if we put out the lights.
This city would look dead if we put out the lights.
Ive the windows down. Down the hatch. Hatch a plan.
Hatch an easel. Paint it black then paint it white.
What they don't know won't hurt them
or do them any good. Its like it never happened.
I need another cigarette.
And another belt.
All means of communication are kaput.
I'm downing telephone poles and flicking my
cigarette butts into newspaper vending machines.
I don't want to know what happened tonight.
I don't really give two shits about the shit
I have missed.
I couldn't care less about whatever it is that
people are saying.
All I care about
at this moment in time
is getting drunk,
staying whiskey warm,
and getting you fuckers to out the lights.