Archive for March, 2015

Stop pretending

Posted in art, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poet, poetry, portrait, prose, Uncategorized, writer, writing on March 31, 2015 by unsensible

Stop pretending
You don’t have a choice
When choice was always there for you:
Hate the life you live
Or live the life you hate

Say you’d do it differently
But history disagrees you
Protest you can’t go on
But heaven knows you will

Genuflect before the truth
The only one that’s clear to you
Whatever doesn’t kill you
Still really hurts like hell

Till Morning

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 28, 2015 by unsensible

She beguiled in inquisitions that bore no truth
I discoursed in ciphers no one sought to solve

I fondly recall in our smoke-yellowed slice of discount heaven
Not a moment of truth disturbed our vaporous sleep

What a Piece of Work

Posted in creative, creative writer, creative writing, lonlieness, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poems, poet, poetry, portrait, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2015 by unsensible

Consider this the basis of your daily affirmation
Acceptance and endorsement for excessive masturbation
Inalienable permission to drift sidelong into traffic
On opiates, and delusions, and a constant buzzing laugh track
Be utterly assured of your festering uncertainty
Of healthy suspicion and apoplectic insecurity.

Man, what a piece of work we are
Infinite in rocky reasoning espoused in shady bars
Expressed in the universal belching of frustration
Devolving deniability and lusty admiration

How like an Angel, flightless, drunk, and apprehensive
An ersatz son of God comes home when drinks get too expensive

Old dogs

Posted in Uncategorized on March 22, 2015 by unsensible

The tongue flaps stupidly like an eager dog
On my right worn shoe where the glue gave way
It scoops the dying snow of march in eager gulping gasps
As I drag the slush from my driveway

Everything has an animus and my dogs are tired
Worn too long for work but trudging along gamely
Lustily sucking the snow into cold water against the toe of my sock

Till I kick them off again to change into something dry

I should throw them away
But it’s hard to let go of habits that have seen one through so many miles

Argonaut, 20 years after

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, original, original poem, poetry with tags , , , , , , on March 17, 2015 by unsensible

Cut to: 20 years later
Our hero (the best we have)

More angry
More sorry
Frightened and cruel

Cataloging horrors by order of relevance
“I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He has more than a few to spare

New ghosts have gorged and grown fat on the old

A Coward’s Cadence (Keep Emergency Exits Clear at All Times)

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, creativity, lonlieness, original, original poem, original poems, original poetry, poem, poet, poetry, Uncategorized, writer, writing with tags , , , , , on March 14, 2015 by unsensible

I’ll fall into you,
if you want me to
make your breath the atmosphere of that moment of my time

But I’ve got your back (while I’ve got mine)
With fine schema of all the fire
escapes, steel doors, and emergency signs

In an age when nations, loves, and creditors boldly
Draw retroactive boundaries squarely behind me
In practical, unemotional Maginot Lines

Marching backwards, hold your arms out and I’ll show you mine
Bearing firearms overheated in the fullness of time
May you and god forgive me my shamelessness of candor
if I insist cowardice is the finer part of valor

Blame the hopeless romantic

Posted in art, artist, creative, creative writer, creative writing, original, poetry of the day, poets, prose, writer, writing with tags , , , on March 9, 2015 by unsensible

As a young man, I loved love
and the idea of love
everything about the ideal love
and the humming, golden idol of love
so I did everything in my power to avoid its reality.

If only I was a conniving, greedy bastard.
If only I’d wanted to use women for their bodies,
Or their money, if I’d only wanted money,
Or their time, if only I’d wanted to waste their time which is more precious still.

If only I’d developed a heroin addiction,
I could have woken up 5 years later,
With everyone gone, $60,000 wasted,
No sense of who I was or where I was meant to go.
I could have spared so many so much heartache.

15 years later and a half million dollars poorer,
I know no finer addiction.

Romeo is a joke, folks.
Read it again and you’ll see what I mean.

Love, birth, and war are bloody affairs.
It takes TV to make it antiseptic.
Till you lose everything on a hit,
you have no business hustling with the professionals.

Love is waking up at 6 a.m. after a night of crying
It’s so cold the linoleum hurts and so dark you think your gods have abandoned you
on an early February morning.
You still do the dishes in the sink
Pick up the broken pieces of crockery
And make her a cup of coffee.
Because you do, that’s why.
And because there’s no one you’d rather talk to,
even when she’s not there and you can’t remember having anything to say.

And because you’re sick of your own shit.
That’s when it’s worth it.
If a starry-eyed poet tells you otherwise,
turn around and run.
Or, better still, break his nose.