Amish Cognac with a salt cube

thinny thinny plastic
holding my fantastic
jingle in the entry ball
darky darky you're so tall
there right there is fourty-five
cars ahead slow drivey drive
Putin sayeth something
but I never listen ever...

...never ever.

The Stranded Light

His beaten fist
was wrapped with gauze,
swaddled like the virgin jesus.
And noticing an unfinished cigar,
he corked his mouth with it
and stood.

The broken light pole out front,
it hadn't worked in six years.
The city kept forgetting to replace the damn bulb.
But every year they'd tangle a
strand of white christmas lights on it,
just for the season.

These lights were the expensive kind.
One can die and the others stay lit.
But with the poor lights,
if one light fades out
while its mouth is gagged
with homemade napalm,
and its chest is being pounded on
with every blunt object in that damn pub,
then the other lights go out too.
Hopefully.

He tossed the cigar
and headed south.
Illuminated in neon,
a fire-breathing dragon
marked the window of a tattoo parlor.
The sight of it made the man smile
as he constructed a joke to tell Harrison.

in wintertime desperation

beautiful sunset smile,
one with novels for eyes
and a dozen bookmarks for my choosing--
but which question will I pluck first
to best understand her?

i wish to clasp at
your cloud-soft coat
and be drawn through the sky
as you journey 'round planets.

in wintertime desperation
i wish to see you more
and share a thermos
full of warm apple cider.

but how will you receive it
if i fasten the zipper of your cloud-soft coat
as we prepare to leave?
would you prefer to do it yourself?

and will you perch
by my side?
or would we just abide?

as the valorous trees
release galleries of leafs
toward the ground,
i hope to spread the designs
by marching through,
and being happy.

who's doing it?

another high school poem

off zoloft
and killing time
by taking naps
and finding rhymes
to clarify
the full-fleshed ghosts
that now revived
with scars draw close.

and all their thoughts
and all their plans
are spoken by
their writhing hands
that clasp the pains
i left with them
when i forgot
when i condemed
a past i once
was drowning in.

vengeance was
and vengeance still
embodies all
their fateful will
to strike me with
my memories
so long forgot
so long at ease.

but now i face
in this dark night
these ghosts enraged
which i must fight
and battle with
as my strange sword
some dreary songs
with steady chords.

in empathy
with these great bards
shall comfort me
as i'm rescarred.
their woeful tunes
i know them by
and in their chants
i will reply
that i'm a corpse
with clinging flies
that land on bone
and fill my eyes.

alas in pain
i realize
that i've been dead
unlike my guise,
i've been dead.

implications of adulthood

flickr believes there's a distinction between friends and family, but i don't buy it- especially not today.

digging for common ground

elephants danced to the ivory piano
yet asked not from whence it derived.

disillusioned pedestrian

death,
lean a ramp upon the horizon.

then husk a body from its soul
and walk me into oblivion.
i'll reincarnate as petrol,
i promise.

perpetuated aroma

Far up on the meadow stood without sight nor sound, the moseying craggily dark grayish hound. He stood with a boldish and adamant stance, dreaming so deeply of that forgotten chance. The chance that the deep breeze would bring him some news- the three tribes of Thackus would finally fuse. The fires would vanquish by order of wind, and ages of fighting would suddenly end. Oh how that hound wished and longed for as much, its nose scraped the ground in its last earthly touch. Far up on the meadow stood without sight nor sound, a silent and motionless dark greyish mound.

yeah, it's insanely epic.

digging for air

i dream of writing a love song to a girl i know, but i don't think i'm ready.  i could write verses about her cheeks, her hair, and her eyes, but the risk of being cliche is too scary.

stalagmite sofa

the world,
broken upon my skull.
and how shall i choose to mend it
this time around?
for how i mend it
is how it stays,
until it breaks upon me again,
and i mend it differently,
and it looks new.

two friends have found lovers
in each other.
another has found the navy.
and here i sit
upon a stalagmite sofa
and want to move.

indian tribe nicknames

the first time i whittled a stick, it was exciting.
so i enjoyed it,
until a man told me it was evil.
so i stopped,
but i've returned.
then today i whittled my stick.

this

to do these things to me,
it's policy.

while in ecstasy of celebration
for the achievement of mislead judgment,
but ecstasy nonetheless,
rent-a-cop at door
finds beer.
possible probation.

in deep buzz we share complaints
in a circle.
finding we agree- it's bullshit lame.
to say it fancy- unjust.

it's times like these i feel convictions,
daydreaming myself into a courtroom,
confidently prepared,
with smirk.

the fire in my stomach,
it holds a flame to the jittery uneasiness
i feel there too.
i attempt to cremate that which is not yet dead
but instead has just been awakened.

judiciary hearing?
i'm not sure how it will go.
strangely, i don't care.
it's not me to say this,
but with expulsion,
the harshest of words,
does not weaken my knees.

what a boring life i have lived,
confined in small division.
to travel the country, the world,
would be a dream.
to be alone throughout
and ascertain life, independently.

and what is the significance
of state-funded lectures,
and mislead clubs,
and unamusing gatherings
on couches,
and health-promoting handouts,
and mobs of drunks with synchronized colors,
and interesting people to talk about once,
or twice,
and attractive people to talk about once,
or twice,
and busses to ride
to get to undesired places,
and food to fill
an undesiring stomach,
and surging waves of academic apathy,
steadily issuing unconfessed superiority?

i walk steep hills
to get to places i don't want to be.
why is this?
family tradition?
is it for future success?
all shit excuses,
unappeasing to the waves
which have been gentle,
mostly,
except for now,
when they rage.

i should pretend interest
for writing bullshit essays
about bullshit chapters
in bullshit books
for bullshit classes
because one moustached white-haired professor
gives bullshit excuses for why its not such.

i hate it here.
a sister then brother both voyaged off,
adjourning connection to me,
delighting in the parades of milk and honey,
they were distracted.
then here i come,
and slowly realize
that not even a diamond could sparkle here
even on the brightest day.
but i'll be patient,
and i'll wait for a sparkle
with colors i've never seen before.

high school poem

touching,
gently touching.  while these pills insist on punching.

pounding,
so resounding.  please just fix this bleak surrounding.

gripping,
all is slipping,  and these legs can't keep from tipping.

face against the wallpaper: so i say again,
"pattern of the fleur-de-lis,
can't you fix what's wrong with me?"

unlike god who's fast asleep,
you're right here to bring me peace.

newness divine

i've got new comics i made.

making new blog blog blog

lunch server
Originally uploaded by mosquitoman88

"ya gotta hold it with two hands or else ya might drop it."
wise words to all.