Now all we have’s the memory.
I’ll keep the one to forget
if you keep the one to remember.
The one never to forget,
the ones kept best from afar,
and the occasional Holiday on ice.
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Tag Archives: death
The Magnificent Magician
Don’t call me by my name—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician Of First Impressions,
where all the world’s a stage
and every player has his part,
where women played by men
no nothing of the difference,
where fragile lines seem effortless
written by the long hand of night,
where smoke is thick and endless
in the mirrors of wasted time.
Call me the Magnificent
Magician Of False Positives,
where anything seems possible
until commitment to the narrative,
where hope is built on trust
and not the other way around,
where kindness is a give and
not taken as an afterthought,
where love is solitaire
and not a solitary place to die—
Call me The Magnificent
Magician if you must,
where pain relies on burden
a burden I can trust,
and ABRACADABRA heals
this feeling of disgust.
The Crap I Write
I finish the crap I write
over coffee I can’t afford
in the mornings on
my days off from work
and I call it poetry.
Before the ice waters down
my Ethiopian cure
I can usually turn 3 or 4
workable pieces I find alright.
Nothing’s ever perfect and
I don’t strive for perfection anymore.
I just do as I do and that seems
good enough for now, besides
nobody reads poetry anymore unless
you’re dead or one of those Slam poets,
but that’s a pack I’d never run with—
the dead are fine but the Slam, no thank you—
since I’m no actor I haven’t the stomach.
I just know how I feel and put it down
whether or not it kills—HA!
If anybody actually cared what I had to say
I’d still be broke. I’d still be here,
no longer curious but still sincere,
breaking 8 balls and biting glass for reasons
only I can understand.
Walking home I no longer debate, I just
spit laughing blood and repeat,
waiting to be called back and told what to do.
Tongues
I’ve tasted many tongues,
but saved the slammed doors
and holes in sheet rock for
the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,
knowing them sincere like
an afternoon alone or
tastebuds in the morning sun—
after enough drinks to make me social,
after enough drinks to make me honest,
after enough drinks to make me pure—
unwilling to apologize for the bad taste
tongue tied like a little kid hoping
to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,
where features seize to be and
voices make no sound where
nobody feels and nobody hurts.
Wrench in the works
It’s funny really
how I’d been thinking
the exact same thing.
And how everything’s different.
And how nothing’s changed.
And how things are fine enough
without throwing a wrench in the works.
Nowhere
We’re all just kind of nowhere, aren’t we?
When we convince ourselves we’re not,
that we’re somewhere worth being?
Then like flypaper pulled apart
time disconnects from space
and we’re left stuck
sticking to the things we swore we’d part.
And just like that
we’re nowhere again,
left waiting to forget how good it felt
to be somewhere.
The Other
For every peace I’ve lost
I picked up another
And another, then another
Till I could hardly tell
The difference between
Myself, them—or the other.
The Company We Keep
You might just find yourself
Very much alone and
Without anyone to call so
If you’re unwilling to change then
I just want you to know that
No matter what I’ll be there
Waiting with myself
Waiting for your company
Chandelier
I gave you yours
You gave me mine
The sewer’s innocent
We walked for miles
Time to time
In soles that didn’t fit
Our arms they fell like chandelier
The climax of a play
Then died like Dylan Thomas done
We knew no other way
Sincerely Speaking
Whatever is the point
I’ll be on the edge
Sincerity’s an ashtray
A speech impediment
Words Of An Average White Male 