Tag Archives: poetry

ttyl driving

popping ichor laced lashes open,
salted tears stinging their freedom through
swollen vision.

sterile white, burning breaths,
in, out
searing reds rip through my fingers,
screws. Finger screws.
Trapped in this broken body.
Tubes as though my doctor is Frankenstein.
If humor is not dead, neither am I.

4 sleeps from now, I’m entreated to see
the slivers I look through in a mirror.
The only bits exposed through the plaster cocoon.

10 sleeps later, I am cut loose.
my limbs are still jelly.
I am not a butterfly.

I won’t ever walk again.



My slow scraping shoes…

marking time like the drummer boy
of an army awaiting the inevitable,
but soldiering on anyhow.

Those shoes

they’re mellifluous white noise,
juxtaposed with the honking and
and the coughing and the shouting
and the gray
and the smothering cold and blinding gold
of the breaking of the day
which seems it will never end as it bleeds into
the hundreds that made up yesteryear.

skrsch, skrsch, skrsch.

skrsch- they drag,
skrsch- they slow,
skrsch- they stop.

Everyday staring at my shoes,
satisfied by every passing pair,
because they were carrying by eyes that would never catch mine.

Until today.

Before me, a pair of sensible black leather shoes,
stopped equidistant from what was between the tips of my brown leather brogues and hers

-cracked ground-

ruptured like a cinderblock by the hand of a practiced artist from one of those movies I watched as a kid.

“Sclerenchyma – strengthening tissue in a plant, formed from cells with thickened, typically lignified, walls.”


“Sclerenchyma, it’s how plants, break through the concrete. They’re little, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. Tiny, little guys can break through damn near anything.”



I was never struck so dumb as the moment I slowly scanned my way from her sensible shoes-.. Oxfords
if you were wondering,
to her too tight, blue jeans, gripping her thighs
like my virginal little fingers couldn’t have even known they wanted to at the time,

for a moment to her black leather belt and golden cherry tree buckle,
my stomach bluttering like a million flutterbys as I passed hers,
my heart stopping as I realized I’d reached the bit of crop top skimming her still breasts, unlike mine, which were heaving because I finally realized that the desert in my throat was from hyperventilation and like a fool I’d stood stunned for-…


“Are you alright?”

I was just admiring the little flowers growing out of the pavement

“Yeah. Sorry, about earlier, sometimes when I don’t know what to say, I just start spouting facts hoping I say something interesting. But somehow I felt I had to say something.”

I get that.
I never know what to say
usually I just say
what I’m thinking and
people leave if they
don’t like it

“Oh? Well what are you thinking?”

flecks of green
shattering ubiquitous gray,
gave me hope for a future
where each day we are not the pall-bearers
in a corporate sponsored march
to the industrial dirge, playing
at the wake of freedom,
as the other virtues mourn her loss.


Yeah, I’m sorry-..

“You’re beautiful.”

When I Tried Courage.

One time, I told my friends not to egg a house,

And so they didn’t, but mischief on their minds and in their hearts and hands,
they egged me instead.Mother said, “Better no company than bad.”

There was this other time, I stood up to the girls giving Sarah a wedgie,
And they stopped.
Unfortunately, their will to wedgie did not cease with their actions.

Beating like my heart, my feet hit the pavement thud after thud. I felt my blood pulsing through my toes, and all my air passages were raw with the erosion of the wind I greedily scraped into them to fuel my escape. Speed or tears blurred my vision, I couldn’t tell.

Three blocks I ran.
Three blocks they chased. I faltered, and there was no mercy.

I’ve decided that being the hero is hard, and that maybe I will only do it on occasion.
Apparently a lot of the work is pro-bono.

At the end of the ordeal, my face covered in tears, snot, and my granny panties which I now wore as both hat and harness, I looked proudly at my reflection in the puddle I had cried for myself.

Mother reminded, “Being a hero is it’s own reward.”

Daily Post 6: Tripping

Hey guys,

I didn’t run today. I rode my bike somewhere twice because I forgot the key however, so I think it makes up for that.

Speaking of biking… cars are fucking horrifying. As a driver, I know just how much you hate not knowing if I’ll fall in front of you and cause you to commit manslaughter, which in turn infuriates you and makes you want to commit murder.

You want to run me over. I know you do. I’ve been you. Tomorrow when I can drive I will be you. You want to run me down and I’ve accepted it. Please don’t. People care about me, or so I like to think.

today I did not do any of my planned structured work outs or study languages. I had a job interview and it was over in seconds because I would rather see the love of my life than work for Best Buy. It sucks. I almost didn’t do this post because I felt I had nothing good to report. But like I said earlier, not finishing the run doesn’t mean you quit trying that trail. I have something to achieve. I’ll get there. I just have to stay on the path.

I did however make an artistic change to a project, get out of the house to hear some poetry live, and finish this damn post. Good for my soul.

Always look on the bright side. Take pleasure in the little things

Poetry: …Parte tres

So guys..

I went to the open mic. It was… ok. I only stayed for about an hour and then left to go watch TV with the friend I dragged along. Most of the poets we heard in that time were… strange.

Don’t get me wrong, I love strange and poets are a kooky bunch… But some of these guys just felt out of touch. Some tried too hard to conjure imagery, one had a need to be liked, another was just plain dull.

Granted I heard some fantastic stand-up style humor and a few witty observations… but I must say that I wasn’t the only guy there to nod off a bit and one of the performers(who wasn’t very great anyway) got off the stage and started checking his email while the next(much better) guy went.

The experience has made me realize 3 things:

1. Want to write better poetry.

2. The problem I had with poetry, is that it is too often inaccessible to those who aren’t poets themselves.

3. A lot of bad poets, like a lot of bad actors, perform masturbatory acts that mutilate the beauty of the work they could be doing.

I saw a lot of verbose bullshit that, instead of conjuring imagery that evoked anything, just made me scratch my head wondering if there was a reason to be saying anything at all. I heard people stroking themselves, thinking they were sounding intelligent, all the while offering nothing even remotely mentally stimulating.

Where are the seeds that sprouted into inspiration this young man’s mind oh so many years ago? Contemplating the transience of existence in “Nothing Gold Can Stay” and the extended metaphor of life’s difficulties in “Mother to Son.”

What happened to clever limericks like Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse”?

The hookingly eloquent, intuitive nonsense like “Jabberwocky”?

Since everyone I listed is dead, I’m adding Sherman Alexie. “Fire as verb and noun” is amazing. If you’ve never read it, do it. The man has been published for a reason.

I’m issuing a challenge to artists, to really make art.

Poetry: PARTE DOS!

So, after bitching about how poetry is a shitty medium for reaching lots of people, I realized that I should probably go support my creative writer brethren.

Tonight, I’m going to an open mike event in San Francisco on Hayes and Cole at the Sacred Grounds Cafe at 7:30pm. It’s all spoken word and I don’t know if anyone who’s reading this will actually show up, but I’ve been once before and the quality of the work was fantastic. There was some audience participation and I think you can even get up and present if you’ve brought something to share. It’s a great place to test out spoken word.

Who knows, I might even get up there.