Sunday, February 24, 2013

Murder Hotel -A Poem

Carpet stains, an odd mixture of
puke,
blood,
jism,
and grave intentions, a cocktail
of misery

only a few know the taste of.

Watch out for them,
the lowlifes that cling to life out of habit only,
the pimps who see dollar signs in smiles,
the hookers whose smiles are as vacant as a
bank parking lot on Sunday,
devil dogs of powder, fire, and spoon,

the harbingers of the American Dream's
after effects

the putrid afterbirth

a rancid placenta

who act as unwilling guides
for a blind populace 
still dreaming.

Drains and Holes -A Poem

At work, I'm stuck
between 3 ghetto hens:

bwuk-bwuk-yo-yo

but I dont mind
(most of the times, they're harmless;
the rest, they're capable of 
instilling the need to commit
crimes against humanity)

I ascribe it to youth
and remember
I was just as energetic
(and obsessively obtrusive
in other's sanity)
as they are now.

Give them time.
The world will drain their exuberance
like a battery victim.
There are little joys
like schoolyard candy
and everyone's pockets 
have holes in the bottom. 

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Jewel of Sol -A Poem


A cinder floats in the void
of space, with putrid green waters,
like the mantle cracked and released emerald
vomit.
Angry cyclones the size of continents
rage and batter radioactive landscapes,
spires of rock and asphalt and glass
decay and crumble from erosion. Achievements, accolades,
all wasted on a petty feud now forgotten.
No being in the universe will find
a brilliant blue jewel slung by gravity
around a mid-range star.
Instead they will find a testament
to gullibility
and a grave marker in a war
over who had the most powerful
imaginary friend. 

Exception -A Poem


The first man-robot was lost,
unable to locate his position
inside the suit of armor.
The pieces of brain left in the neuroprocessor,
the mind of the metal man
(for if the soul exists, the brain
is its residence).

A sexta-core and the human brain,
firing and processing every possible variable
except
whether the suit should continue the journey.

So the metal man stands, lost inside
a recurving, revolving riddle,
the same riddle that plagued him
when he was only flesh.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

County Road 574


     It had been a Tuesday night in April when Malorie let the tears fall without wiping them away. She needed her hands for steering the car. Beside her was a half-empty bottle of Bacardi rum, 150 proof. The proof hadn’t mattered when she purchased it, though. After drinking most of it, she realized her error in selection but that didn’t matter much either. Her thoughts drifted from the road ahead to how he could have done it. The first time had been an accident, she swore to herself. A brushing touch against her hip while she was standing at the counter doing dishes. In the small kitchen of their Plant City trailer, it was easy for the sixteen year old to brush against her father Rick haphazardly. This time, like the five others after the first, was not an accident. She could still feel the imprint of her father’s hand on her ass; still feel the digits kneading her flesh with disgusting lust. She tried to focus on the road. At least the road didn’t make her want to vomit as much.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Fossils -A Poem


Dying from this
Dead from this

We are the lost generation, stranded in a sea of flaming debris
The giants, whom we call parents and grandparents, linger on

Dying from this
Dead from this

Stillborn children, we are; far from breathing
where we will, with whom we Will

Dying from this 
Dead from this

Dreadful meals, irradiated by micro waves, 
consumed with mindless fervor and unhappy grunts


Dying from this
Dead from this

No longer born like Bukowski but left behind
lifeless but in the middle, the half second between

Dying from this
and
Dead from this

the lip of the event horizon, the space inbetween
tick and tock where one can be both

Dying from this
and
Dead from this.

Profane and Worldly -A Poem


The treasure is under the trash bags,
perhaps even inside, lost beneath piles
and piles of shit.
Not useless junk or leftovers no body
wants;
actual shit, the pieces your body
doesn’t need.

The floorboards creak, mistreated
like an abused bride on the honeymoon,
by the occupant’s
obsession
with collection.

Stained, structurally unsound, like a universe
made from a fresh bowel movement, the house
must come down.
It cannot stand as a monument, a sacred
sanctum, of these profane bodily fluids.
Your sanctuary must be torched
and the ashes must be scattered
for fear that it will reassemble.