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.

Bright Lights and Social Standing

Its not looks. Its personality. It
has nothing to do with your smile
or your laugh.
Its friend counts
in four vertical
and one diagonal,
off the charts.
My father cracked jokes
at one of the charmed sisters because of
a lopsided face. Fuck the mirrors.
Fuck the fuckers and fuck the lovers. I
want to be
alone. All alone. The jockey rides
the horse who
rides the bottle.
This is a perfect photo-op.
This is the blood pressure test with
an injection at the end.
I write to impress myself. I used to have a
companion who craved for an explanation. All I gave
was a defamation of character. You
were right all along. Who am
I is you. We find light. We find it to be glow
sticks shipped from
Bigglersville. We find fights.
We find them to be the cure to
withdrawal.
We all find nothing
where we thought something was
cleverly positioned.
Its midnight.
Its morning.
Its December.
Its over
and over and
over again.
Have you ever heard of R.E.M.
sleep?
I believe those to be
the dreams you cant remember.
I pray for tonight to be random.
I pray for the thoughts to access
the deepest alcoves of my memory.
I pray to forget.
I don't have anyone to pray to.

December Aint Much Better

Vomit.
Now I know why writing is better than typing.
Sleeping next to a time bomb
is why I sob.
Lets sleep.
Her name was name and her game was
365:
everything you want to hear.
Its an "Im sorry" and "I believe"
dry heave.
Yes,
money man,
I have stumbled upon infinite series.
Add and add and add.
Is that the wrong mathematical
attitude
aptitude?
I tried counting steps
and misspellings and
wound up with
a frown.
I deviate far from the norm.
I remember sky watches and
a corn field filled with
giggles and laughs.
I experience time and
eye twinkles that
trickle past.
Please.
I have but one request.
Fill me in on
the need and pin spin to
declare the best.
When you deny the top of the charts
for the bottom of the barrel and regret it
where is it that you are left?
Last breath,
Twenty steps past death,
Ahem.
I clear my throat to clean the scene.
I clean my virus to
bleed clean the reams
of writing.
I fucked up a gross
post
most
grown moss
unforgiven.
All I wanted was an I love
you back.
Two thumb tacks hold
the weight of
a moron.
Sleep while running in
place.

Lines

These lines,
they call them character lines.
I call them canyons
for I lack character.

These lines,
they call them gibberish.
I call them sanity,
for I speak I.

These lines,
they call them almighty.

These lines are
in 6 to 8 coils.

These lines
are lies.

These lines?
What lines.

Never Remeber November

I've been pushing my teeth into my lips. Canines
sharpened on a grinding wheel enter and exit
in snakebites. "Writing too much?" body 1 inquires.
"Right!" proclaims body 2.
The biggest elephant in the room
has us pressed to walls.
We're blowing smoke
and breathing heavily.
I never wanted to want
anything more than a want.
That could prove to be a problem. When I
think, the gears and belts sound like
power steering failure or an automatic car wash
internal mechanisms.
There is a young boy on my corner dressed
like a Newsy
shouting "Extra extra!". The bad news
comes at an even worse time.
Letter to the editor:
"You HAVE changed. I knew it".
I carve another line in my headboard
and anticipate the day I can lay
a diagonal. I push another notch in my
belt and wait for the day I wake up and need
the extra slack. I press another digit. I dig another
hole. I write another poem.
Remember I once mentioned repetition?
Turns out that delirium is on a high test line.
Turns out that sanity is more than just your mind.
Turns out that they won't turn me out in 2009.
Fuck it.
The trees keeping the outsiders out are
still green.
This smiles tiles are yellow but at least theres a smile
to be seen.
Between you and I are black miles and miles but we're as close as a dream.
Fuck it.

In a Relieved Tone

This communication has faded past the point
of flipping a switch. She sways her hips like she never
has when she takes that short stroll away. She doesn't
remember why
she was
crying.
Maybe its a good thing
to be hoodwinked. Close the glove too early
and miss the catch. Close the glove too late
and drop the ball.
Create and destroy.

I send my congratulations.
Please respond with condolences.

Currency

Flipping a steel penny I am consistently calling
and landing, all the while calculating probability and
creeping past odds. People ask me why I keep a buffalo nickel and
a liberty dime in my wallet. I tell them its for
luck. I tell them its because my great grandfather gave them to my
grandfather who in turn gave them to my father. Now I have them.
Really its because you never know when you are going to need
fifteen cents. I once knew a man who stumbled upon large quantities of old
bills. Red seals and blue seals. Silver certificates that read "In Silver Payable to
the Bearer on Demand". Little did the bill bearers in the days of yore know
what would transpire some seventy years later.
Its still got the mint luster on it baby and every flip,
every call,
and every time I beat the odds it is wearing away.
Sixty-five years worth of wear to show you that I never guess
wrong. If I ever find a one sided coin mint error I will sell it
because I need it not. I told you-I never guess wrong.

Dotted Lines

We all have those packing bags.
Au revoir's and white hankerchiefs
fumble out of locomotive windows.
I tried laying pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and
half dollars on the tracks in hopes of
a spectacular derail. I just
wound up with money defaced.

Woodwork

I am attempting to drop
back into the woodwork at her
request. Soles of the feet
to the knees,
then she comes a knockin'.
I'm working for knees to
the teeth here. Teeth to
my halo, but she comes a knockin'.
She comes a poundin'.
On nights like these an
apparition can really appreciate a
drunken slumber.
Shes got one hand laced through
my thick hair and the
other hand set for leverage
on nine letters that compose one word.
Teeth to knees.
The back of my eyelids tell a story. Its validity is
unknown, but its probability is high.
It is a hasty escape and a
hesitant return.
Knees to soles.
She spits the truth
in the same fashion as me:
lies.
What would be all the more
riotous would be if she kerplunked her means of
communication in
the toilette and then
rinsed it off in the sink.
Or if she pissed on it.
Either or would apply to the
joke I am applying and either
could occur in her location at that time.
Soles to chest.
Splinters fly from the jackhammer beat
of my ticker.
What is done can be undone
in the most uncomfortable of fashions.
I know that in roughly a gross of hours
she will be in contact to tell of her wonderful
week.
The candy and kisses and presents and laughs
and flowers and movies and even dinner perhaps.
I long to be privy to such information.
I yearn for nausea.
I beg to be the unsuspecting victim of a pitfall.
The sticks are poems
and the leaves are letters.
Chest to teeth.
This hole covered over is the woodwork
and its got no bottom.
When its gone its gone Babydoll.
Its long gone for a long time coming.
Teeth to eyes.
Eyes to halo.
Back into the woodwork,
for you.

Appointment Required

Day three is
oil funnels pressed to tongues
in a test
of pressing luck. The major
problem is stream of influence
insolence.
Question and
answer. Its fun turning down those
who need the denial. Its a blast not.
Ask not what you can do for yourself,
but what your school of fish
can do for you. Live and let live
your lifestyle.
I quit.
I spit my internal organs
in the sink.
I quit.
I lit a wet fuse.
I quit.
So should you.

A Night Cap for the Confused

These lines
are lies.

These lines?
What lines.

Relearning to Reword

One letter can change completely
what it was you were attempting to portray.
And it will.
And it has.
Unless I am the mistaken one.

Take the one extra letter predicament
and lets apply the first two fills
to a different situation.
Take, for example, gunshot
wounds. None is plenty. One is
much too much.
Take things meant to be put out of context
out of context
and you've got yourself a double negative.
All is well.

I have mastered the art of the sleight of hand
(léger de main in Le français).
I use smoke and mirrors,
camera tricks,
fancy angles and
anglers to distract from my true intent.
I am conniving.
I have a poker face at my disposition.
I have the ability to save face at my disposal.
I am not detailing an inward description.

Spirits were high until this morning. I find it
disturbing how fast things
change around these parts of the heart.
This smile is hung slapdash,
with gaps and corners botched.
It looks tacky,
I know,
but the before photo was atrocious.

Close the curtains.
Lock the doors.
Its time to relearn the alphabet.
A B C E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Whiskey and the Worlds Smallest Man

The forewarn preceding introduction
painted the us as forlorn.
I think the word used was "scumbags". I think
that made a first impression before an impression
could be made. I couldn't care less. Maybe
we are the scum. We make crude jokes. Chances
are we don't like you and the reason is
because we don't have to. This gaggle of
gentlemen are my chums: Musicians. Drunks.
Poets. Writers. Rappers. Artists.
We are the hangmen.
We are the horsemen.
We are knocking on your door armed with pitchforks. We
want you out of this town.
Its you or us and
we're not fucking going anywhere.
Theres still whiskey to be drunk
and cigarettes to smoke. Theres stories to be
told and laughs to be had.
Maybe being a scumbag ain't such a bad
thing.

Condolence for the Confused

These lines
are someone else's.