Talk about hard knocks. This marble countertop really banged up my knuckles.
Who told me that marble and marbles are the same material? Was it Edgar?
Edgar is nothing but trouble. I don’t know what possessed you to take him to that ball game.
I mean, I understand he just lost his dog, but baseball is a strange substitute.
You could have taken a date to that game, you know. You never think of those things, do you?
It’s not all just going to magically ‘work out’ for you. You have to make those efforts.
Category: Poetry
Stream 1
A potential for anything is really what I’d like to see around here.
Anything less just seems halfhearted.
Take a leap and risk a plunge, there’s nothing wrong with it.
Well, utter failure and death are dubious rewards.
A bank teller, a swamp monster and a demon from the sixth level of hell walk into a bar.
The manhole cover by the playground has been slightly ajar for six or seven weeks now.
Kevin went over that way yesterday after school, and I haven’t seen him since.
Too Far
There’s never an excuse for laying it on too thick
unless it’s completely out of necessity, and then
since you have to go for it, you have to push it
all the way or anything else will seem entitled
and reek of insincerity. You have to be so sincere
that it hurts, or your point won’t pierce. But
you’re popping a bubble that was floating along
and made it above the clouds, sailing free and blissful,
never once assuming that it would ever burst
because it didn’t actually know how fragile it was
or that it was simply made of soap.
Question
The mockingbird takes its time in preparation.
It sings its little heart out with borrowed tunes.
Tumult is the only way to describe it.
The burgeoning crisis that resolves itself
if only you can relinquish its pound pound pound.
Where in the world is there a break? Is a break even real?
There’s no stopping the life cycle, there’s no stopping
the turbulent reaches of inner existence.
Where does fancifulness let you off? Will it?
No questions can be answered in two words.
Two words have the floor. Two words take the cake.
Two words steal the bread and feed their family.
Two words fight and scream until they’re black and blue.
How can a sparrow fly for so long? It beats its wings too hard.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to divebomb the pavement?
It must consider that alternative sometimes.
If there are indeed answers, they don’t come often.
They present themselves from a distance, in a sunset.
Storm
Flash photography captures
the stingiest faces.
Fluorescent bulbs flicker
in tired corneas.
The dirt needs a friend.
It’s dry.
Institutional, sterile,
narcissistic and lonely.
It’s dry.
Crusty, burnt, shallow,
immediate and sporadic.
It’s dry.
Duchamp, Zappa, Einstein,
frustrated and aware.
It’s dry.
Creation takes time.
The dirt needs a friend.
Victorious
We each experience our own inner hell
and peace whenever we want to. Those
feline emotions, fickle and furry,
inexplicably adorable yet sharp, clawed.
How have we made it this far? Someone
or something
must really love us.
We take the world with a grin, but shudder
at the notion of a cold slab of stone,
the way others access us; facades.
Emotions hold truth, sure, and feel good
sometimes.
NaPoWriMo (13)
The seventy-seven wavelengths
passed me by
on their way to their
equivalent of God:
the unending line segment of every crest and trough
equally infinitely spread across existence.
WHARVED 