Category Archives: Poems

Words that rhyme with other words and usually mean something sappy.

last one

I struggle with identity, hustling my friends for fees, like my posts and like my feed and if it’s not enough I flee, I see these flaws, these traits I treat with such distaste and patient greed, every friend who cared for me I push away, I vaccinate, I take a hit you take the bait, I call for absence, call for space, silent contemplation’s mate, but damn I sure do miss those days, writing for that small Crusade, banding up to flip the page it paved the way for so much praise I fell addicted, felt the rage of falling short on certain days and so I left, turned my back and kept the pen inside my chest and that’s the day I started fresh, wrote like fire, read like the wind (like flipping pages) Vonnegut, Pirsig, Hemingway, print, the pages in my fingers felt like grace before a drink, the education every writer needs contrast, contrast, exposure, risk. But I was playing it safe, wasn’t I? Writing for myself was safe, my inner demon wasn’t praise but a lack of feedback leaves you strayed, a desert full of endless words and sure it felt so good to be afraid, to be alone and avoid the race, to anchor down inside your mind and float yourself into a glaze.

But today I went back and saw what I didn’t let myself see and I regret acting so selfishly, delving deep into the wells of grief, self pity is a tunnel and I was driving it at top speeds.

Heal Me

[PROLOGUE]
(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)

But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.

It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.

She’s the waves under my boat

and if she stays

I remain

afloat

and if she wails

she’ll drown my sails

with her nails

at my throat.

We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.

The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.

If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.

(Pun intended).

Art By Leonid Afremov

Donald Trump

If his words are a prologue to his actions then we’re asking for disaster, we’re distracted ‘cause we’re laughing at his lack of tact but that’s just what he’s after, he’s mastered and crafted this personality of fascist charisma, apparently desired and insisted on by the average white American, he’s a terror and hysterically irrational, a national symbol of the unfair persistence against a system of equality, his standpoints are extreme, like his hair, and he doesn’t seem to care that he stares right in the faces of other races and raises them to hate him, he’s oblivious to the statements every news anchor has made about the stupid revelations we have created for other nations, we cannot sit this one back while we parade a mascot for America who’s racist and berates other places whose names he probably can’t even say, these are mistakes we’ve made with Sarah Palin, all I’m saying is that we deserve a president who can go one day without alienating an entire country and calling them rapists.

To summarize: there’s just some guys you can’t trust to drive the change we need right now in our lives.

Writing @ Starbucks

Sometimes it’s important to shut your fucking mouth, like in public places where your faces are busy misplacing the pastries you’ve paid for while the air escapes your veiny throat and what’s more heinous is the fact that you’re draped with the same shit that killed your uncle James, kid, and you don’t even savor it, you favor it gone in a second like you came with a mission to slay shit, to eat more food than a buffet filled with different stages of diabetic patients, my patience is thin and the more you linger the more anxious I am to flip the one finger on my hand capable of distinguishing me as foe or friend, you annoy me to no end, you’ve destroyed my trail of thoughts and that is my last strand of straw, you’ve ended all my plans to stay calm, I’m erupting from the skull like my cranium’s gone, you pathetic scu – oh, he’s leaving. Ah, back to writing.

Navigating Your Sea

This dark room
became endless
the moment we closed our eyes

every kiss you
leave on my skin
is like a drop of melting ice

every taste of
yours I get
reinforce my
habit
ease, comfort,
the force
comes after
like a storm
or fire
like a whisper
comes in forms
of moans and
laughter
fun and anger
collapse, adjourned
for moments
while our bodies
conform to
desire, your form
is contorted
and I resort
to your thighs
like I’m holding
the ropes to a sail
and we’re floating the highs
and lows like a boat
and you’re steering us
straight for disaster
to thunder and lightning
drowning our bodies
in bubbles and tides high
currents deep enough to
lose our footing so we slide
into each other, like floods
we are consumed in the water
in the motions and moves
of two lovers, it’s beautiful
war as our bodies compete
for a truce
as our speed tops
and your jaw drops
and your eyes roll
and your moans stop
and the pitch of your voice
peaks and my hips
seek one final
lone thrust

completion
comes from feeding
your lust.

 

Art by This Guy

Vow

Sam, here is my vow:

I’ll love you tomorrow more than I do now. I’ll raise up our kids and I’ll adopt a few cows, you farm loving freak, if compassion is sound than your soul is muziek, that’s Dutch and rhymes better than music, you’ll learn one day and then we’ll both speak in a secret little language unknown by the publiek, haha, I’ll stop now, keep English on the sheet, not that you understand poetry, but you know me, I can’t help but be overly lovey dovey and I’m supposed to be, that’s a husband’s job, yours is in the ovaries (just kidding!), this is my closing piece, the final paragraph keeps it short and sweet, but I’m going to turn it up like I’m about to peak, here it is:

Enter, enter.

Isn’t she a spitting image of perfection? You can hear it, catch it, like prisms in the sunny air and when the sun sets we’ll be married, damn I can’t wait to be married, rings upon each others’ fingers, promising each other years and songs of memories will bring us tears and smiles and laughs and paragraphs of laws will bind us then but until then I’ll bind your hand with all five fingers, that’s the plan, intertwined like a web, like the lace on your wedding dress, like my place in your shade in the face of whatever comes our way, give me just a few more Mays and then one day we’ll be bound in matrimony*.

*Matrimony should be pronounced like matrimonaaaay

1st drafts

Give me a shot. Of espresso, I mean, not a bullet, just the bean, just a cup of drugs to keep me in the scene, to keep my writing mean and dirty, filth on a white page is worthy of a screen: the pale white of your computer light will scream my words until your eyes are sore and wide and you begin to dream of more in life, I will inspire your entire worth tonight, with promises I never keep these sentences will sound like war and strife, an aura of gore and knives and the dot on every “I” is a pointed spike, that’s what I’ve got in store, alright? A poem written in the shortest time.

That was bad.

Let me try again, every sentence spliced to reinvent, my intention is to right these rends, to at least attempt, to appease and mend and treat my ends with periods or at least an “and”… blegh.

I’m not on it today.

I haven’t written one for her for some time. For the girl in my life. For the only source of worth… I’ve used that word so instead I’ll say the dirt to my earth, I want to be the worm in her soil, hahaha, make her squirm and ache and be her birthday cake, blow my candle like I’m burning late, like the starry night is hers to take, like our hearts and lives are yearning fate, like…

ah fuck it. I’ll write tomorrow.

Editor & Writer

Splintered rhythms schism and prism into a million little missions, tiny little rhymes glisten in crimson from edits at the lines, like a flint catching fire from the split of my mind, one half is vision the other quite blind, the editor and writer in me are forever in fight, but the conflict is right, I might comply to signs that I should resign but the fracture in my brain will keep me in line, so they’re assigned, each part take claim but my heart remains in reign.