Posts Tagged With: writing

Sour Mash Doubts

Doubts and guilt, doubts and will

I want a bout with honesty, but still

It ain’t right that I write only to share,

so I walk ‘til I’m naked, alone, and scared

 

Working on a world made up of lines

a jagged sawtooth, I am dusty hammer tines

aging slowly, rusting like nails in the times

relevance buried in the “who, what, where, why?”

 

I watch you succeed, I watch you spiral and fail

I watch you unbridled, through a window unveiled

This whole time, we thought our calling had sailed

It was tomorrow we were following, on road & on trail

 

Yesterdays poem becomes todays advice,

biting me in the ass, these words I read twice,

You counted the cards ‘n I loaded the dice

Who could expect an asshole to play nice?

 

Every bee stung me, walking to the hive

I can tell you that I’m lucky to be alive

Back on battlegrounds we strive to survive

Us crossing lines, so quick to chance lives

 

I chamber a round, ‘cus death shoots hollows

Most men just want a war drum to follow

To give them some honor, sacrifice, and bravado

warping the story ‘til each man is Picasso

 

The drones are marching through sweltering heat

While others dodge illusion and deceit

They see a carpet crawling, rats up to their knees

Fighting for a feast while spreading disease

 

One beer at a time, one breath at a time,

Wasting money, it’s peace I can’t buy-

Could you spare a little peace of mind?

Or else cut a line and pour me some wine

 

If you accept my conditions of suffering,

I’ll accept myself and everyone else

I am my own hostage, couldn’t you tell

Pay my ransom or throw me in the well!

 

Envious of those who grow rich beyond riches

knees grow weary, digging penniless ditches

Rolling the bowl, inhale both genie & wishes

Life is joke between three laughing witches

 

Mash in the chamber, I am the changer

my experiences distilled be the only remainder,

Gulping and splashing drops upon strange anger

sharing libation and handshakes with strangers

 

I walk in the woods to stalk a truth I can kill

I’ll beat it and twist ‘til it lies naked & still-

kill or be killed, fulfilling a beast of will

We’ve got a full bottle and I’m a-cooking still

 

My song is a fly humming through wide open blue

My darling is a harp, playing faithfully and true

My heart is a snake, made of flesh and sinew

We left the apple on the limb, and a new tree grew.

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Alpha Beta Questions

Extroverted pick-up artists: have you found a lasting satisfaction? 
Introverted closet-freaks: does self-imposed monogamy have you wondering “what if?” 
Alpha-humans: are there enough notches on your bedpost? have you found a peak that is high enough? Do you cherish the memories of past triumph and mourn their passing? Are you living a legacy or leaving it?
Beta-humans: Do you accept your current conditions? Do you feel that quality overrides quantity? Do you find yourself settling for any vista the mountain has to offer while others climb to the peak? Does competition leave you feeling defeated? How do you compensate?
Free-thinkers: do you feel that these concepts undermine your innate liberated state? Recognizing that something small can only exist beside something tall & someone loses only when another wins, how do you maintain your detached balance?
$0.02

(Warning: mundane philosophical observations ahead)
There is no virtue in demonstrating competition. 

Practice is akin to a sharpening stone.

True competition is born from necessity. 

Only the resilient & adaptable will endure true competition.
Whether you fuck for sport or fondle for love, fight for glory or kill to survive, we all experience victory and defeat. 
In this way, our experiences are uniquely bonded: the predator and the victim are one as “all life feeds on life to live.” 
As physical beings, we fuck & fight our way through time ’til death while a weird starry-eyed serpent chokes down its own tail.

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Pre-Travel Ponderings

There is something which changes the mind before traveling to a foreign land. As if in preparation, the mind renders the sight of daily routine into something naked & foreign. While driving the same roads in the evening, I hear each creak of the gas pedal as the body hims & haws across chipped pavement. I pull in the salty breeze and let it tickle my nose hairs. Copper sunshine pierces through a veil of stormy clouds. The hills of the Humboldt coast are like so many healing bruises with peaks of gold. Gusts from the ocean whip through me. Going to far on a one-way ticket, I wonder how long I’ll be gone for. Have I always been gone?

I look out onto the bay, following salty dock posts and depth markers stretching out to the breakwater. How many men have lived here, worked here, died here? Who inhabited this land before us and how did they live? Did they toil, live, and die like we do? What will the land look like after all the men have traveled away or died?

Will I be here again?

I have a job here. I have security. I have a bed to sleep in. If I stay and work a few years, I can make a lot of money and build a life for myself somewhere. I should think about my future. What if my health fails? How will I afford the hospital bills? What if my mother falls ill & I am to care for her; how will we survive?

We will survive the way all creatures do. We will eat when we are hungry. If there is no food we will forage, hunt, and fish. We will work gardens and raise hens. If the land is fallow and the hens are not laying we will dig through trash cans and dumpsters. We will attend Church dinners and wait in line at food banks. Onlookers will gaze down upon us but we will stand tall, knowing that all creatures are equal in death. We will eat silently with gratitude and we will share.

When we are tired, we will sleep. We will stir the coals and throw on a big log. We will make our beds. Whether they are beds made of feathers or beds made of cardboard, they are beds just the same.

Here in America, even the poorest of bums are rich on a world scale. We have nearly constant access to clean water. We have electric outlets and wifi in nearly every town. We have churches that hand out blankets and clothes.

Whether I have the finances or not, I will live how I live and I will die how I die. I will die like all things, which also live.

Here, “poverty-stricken” is a term meant to inflict damage upon a mans sense of pride. These things cannot harm the man who possesses strong will. The truly poverty-stricken are those unable to find food, warm clothes, or clean water. They may die as a result of their poverty.

What am I? I live under the table eating scraps. I collect enough to live & travel. I was dealt pocket Aces. Each time I capitalize on currency exchange by taking US dollars to foreign countries, I use my Aces against 2’s and 3’s.

It’s the game of men. Most men play by the rules or else find themselves alternately victorious and defeated by alienation. There’s that saying, “it’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.” A chosen few live as true kings; above, beyond, & without the games of men.

This is our privilege and this is our curse. Playing the games of men has dangerous consequences. We can dimly fathom the interplay of cause and effect. Like ocean waves, we are subject to laws of rhythmic correspondence. The surface sings songs knowable, yet beyond the depths lies a darkness each man imagines yet few men can prove. To light this darkness & catch a glimpse of the all-pervasive pressure is to make friends with enemies & make sense from confusion.

A handful of cold sand between my toes, I piss with the wind and light no cigarettes.

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Vagabond Reflections

Another opinionated nobody

Living in the fringes of relative obscurity,

“I demand that I share perspective”

But whose here and where’s there?
Careful to explain the unexamined, 

Cautiously treading between sense & the other

A vagabond is nonchalantly policed by an American community, where common sense once met common unity
Shuffling streets compete for famine & feast 

backpacks & briefcases don’t mingle downtown,

Where gratuity is not included

Passing through is the only way out
In silk-lined suburbs,

trench coat lunatics show the whites of their eyes

carrying Louisville sluggers & guns beneath brown cloaks

a flask of clear liquor, containing blame for their fathers
The neighborhood is watching through windows & screens

Trying nightly to forget what they haven’t really seen

Evening news helps to process and relate

With routine commercials during evening debates
Without credentials, a citizen equals wasted potential,

Counterculture turncoats work graveyard shifts

Their idealism crumbled beneath them,

Swallowing their security with some avalanche drift
Cash stuck on the table, in a hand so stiff

From feeding crying mouths that can’t be bargained with

More than we planned, for the greater good 

In the moment, parenthood is rarely understood
A ragged finger is exposed to the bone,

All for the gold on another kings throne-

Tip of my hat to those who must grind,

ceasing their rest to work for their finds
In the eyes of the drunkard in the park,

I see familiar life with a faulty spark.

Somewhere I recognize someone I cannot deny

I watch myself in every drifter’s eyes.
It scares me to think about life on the lam,

Without a job & without a plan;

What will become of me if I remain aimless?

Will I have a legacy if I live a life blameless?
trees listen gladly,

rivers laugh madly,

rain weeps sadly,

There is plenty of humanity without humanity!

 

So shave my head & don me some robes,

Or I’ll eat from trash cans and live in a cardboard abode!

A student of the world, paying off endless loans,

I have nowhere to go while everywhere is my home.

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(don’t give him any encouragement or he won’t ever shut up)

He spends his recent time with collegiate humans. He is living on the edge of a Venn diagram; relative comparisons nearly contrast him into obscure alienation. 

He greets the doorman with an obsolete gesture; the party kindly waives his absence of mind. He thinks, “Charisma will get you a seat at the dinner table. Befriending the chef gets you a slice of pie.” 

He’s busy humming the Uneducated Blues and wondering, “so what does this life have to do with me?” He philosophizes himself into a paper bag. 

Outside there are drunks in the park. He gives them change and fuels their melancholy with paper money; it means nothing to either of them. Generosity and despair are little words printed on pixel and paper; neither gets you into the land of milk and honey. 

All the action lives before our eyes; he sees high society upon billboard signs and wonders, “can life really be like that?” His ruminations achieve nothing so he follows the cracking pavement into the forest. 

Broken-hearted humanity swallows itself whole without his help. The hungry gathering spares no prideful crumbs. He waits quietly for the sun to rise.

Categories: poetry | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

“Who wrote these words?”

Not me, I said,
it definitely
was not
me

I don’t write much
on bathroom stalls.
It was some other long-hair
with a lost soul
and seething eyes,
boy,
you shoulda seen him!

writing sin in the stalls
he cares for nothing,
wishing that life
be shot through him
so he can be loaded
and show the whole world
his ass

He calls it art?
Well, piss on that!

He kicks around town
down on some corner
waiting for
a hustle
a con
or a window to drop
with prizes behind.

Poor and pathetic waste,
frayed at the edges,
all that hair
falling out or burning off
whichever it is-
He’s like
a burgeoning Benjamin Button
or some devilishly crafty witch.

It’s amazing he hasn’t topped
himself
yet

But he still writes, I heard,
and he’s no Bill Burroughs
or Hunter Thompson,
I’ll tell you that much
for free

this guy
is more
committed
to habits
and rituals
of destruction
than he ever was
to the duplicitous nature
of existence.
He enjoys the sludge
of slow toxicity
as writing comes second
only to his despair

I hear he sold some smack
to a poor girl
who never knew a habit,
but the bag was so bad
and it got her that good.
She overdosed a month later
of her own accord
no thanks to his hands

if she never hit
that first one
maybe she’d still be around
but her family knows the truth
and I do, too

His time will come;
he’s too wrapped within delusion
to make it much farther.
Lost in his fantasies, yes
I don’t see much coming from his mouth
other than cryptic messages-
“wanna-be prophesies”,
like somebody stole the eye
from the pyramid of Giza
and no one has a clue!
Not even him.
He waits for the sludge
every morning
and wishes himself away
before breakfast
is done

He’ll die soon,
like all the rest
of his kind;
junkies die in gutters
and writers die lonely

Hunter took an easy bullet,
wanting so badly to be
Hemingway
or someone else
that didn’t let their personality
outgrow their work.

Cursed, they are!
All writers & junkies,
a doomed ilk.
I’ll never write or get high,
for those reasons alone.
Oh, no
I must make a living
instead.

Categories: poetry | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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