EARLY MORNING POEM

cats pile on top
hoping to wake a sleeping angel
alarm clock is loud
obnoxious
and through the window

the birds sing


hot water is nil
the towel is damp
from last night’s cleansing
while
the toothpaste is low
and through the window

the birds keep singing


out of coffee
out of juice
last of the milk
used for stale cereal
and through the window

the birds keep singing


car is cold
traffic moves slow
destination time approaches
while the vehicle does not
somewhere
back at home
where it’s warm, spacious and
you are your boss
up in a tree

the birds still sing


apartment is dark, cold
smells like cats
dust bunnies everywhere
breakfast dishes in the sink
pounding headache
walk to the bedroom,
hang up your coat
and through the window

the birds sing


pjs on
lights off
blanket pulled tight
reality and dreams meet
in purgatory
with
one foot here
and
one foot there
through the window

the birds sing

LAUGHING AT ME

you hum naysaying songs
and
I don’t care
you can snicker all you want
because
no matter
how hard the geeks at the electronic store
try to persuade me
I know you are nothing
but a
pile of drab silver coating
and a bunch of
messy wires
neither the vehicle nor the tool,
you are merely
an obnoxious obstacle
another hurdle
from here
to the finish line

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

I'm gonna try to post as many poems as I can this month to celebrate (or piss all over) National Poetry Month. This one's called Supposed.


SUPPOSED
At this stage in my life
I feel the weight of the world
resting on my shoulders
digging in like a pirate’s parrot
barking orders
while I can do nothing but cringe
I am supposed to be
someone
something
but I am not –
I am no one
nothing
The eyes, they stare
burn holes through my ragged clothes
I DO NOT CARE
Questions abound regarding my sanity
they believe there is a problem
namely, that I am a bum and a loser
they are half right
there is a problem
and that problem is
the fact that I won’t pretend to care about
god or money or politics or fame
I AM A BUM
I AM A LOSER
and goddamn it I love it

MEET ME HALFWAY

I’ve submitted hundreds of poems to countless editors

and to date

I’ve got three published –

all at once by the same website.


Each rejection comes with a similar note:

You’re good but not quite there

too much like prose

read other poets

please send more.


Any response – even a pass –

is better than

nothing at all,

and for that I am grateful.


But I can’t help but wonder

who’s got the problem –

me or them.


“Read more poetry”

Why?

So I can start to write

like everyone else?

I’ll read more

but only because I want to

not because

I’m interested in

aping someone.


What do they know?

writing either the kind of shit

boring housewives enjoy

or

pretending to be edgy

with

sonnets about booze

and drugs.


Go fuck yourself,

each and every one of you.


I might bend

but I ain’t breaking

and this shit

you’re turning down now

is

exactly

the sort of thing

you’ll call genius

once my work

falls into the hands

of

people who don’t give

two shits about poetry

and just want something

to relate to.


How many famous poets

do you know?

None.

Because they’re all too

concerned

with

keeping a lid on their

tight little scene

to notice

how no one

gives

a

fuck.

NEW YEAR'S EVE GIFT

Here's a poem I wrote last New Year's Eve. Seeing how I didn't have a blog then, you're getting it now.

Enjoy.


MONDAY NIGHT
Another year down whisked away from contemporary
to history.
Another year on the horizon
approaching rapidly
gaining speed like the five horse on the back stretch.
In less than six hours, we’ll all be that much older
and not much wiser
Who are we to think this date holds any real relevance?
Tomorrow is nothing more than Tuesday to me
Or is it Wednesday? Pretty sure Tuesday
But others see hope, a new path, a clean slate
Like religion, whatever gets someone from point A
to point B – what do I care?
We love to make promises we know we won’t keep
yet we do it anyway
because the idea is more important than the doing.
No, the thought isn’t what counts
In my mind, I think I’m a great writer with an overflow of cash in the bank
and legions of fans worldwide.
Red carpet treatment galore, no waiting in lines or paying full price
The rest of society might take issue with me if I acted like this were true
but I don’t pretend so I don’t disappoint
Tonight’s the night for washing away failure and the realization that
we’re all stuck on the same sinking ship
Nowhere to go but overboard

PERFECT

perfection lies in the eye of the beholder
but for me,
it’s going to be difficult to beat
an evening alone
free of responsibility
and the ability to do as I please
the Lakers won and I cooked a plate of pasta,
washed it down with vino
and
sat in my favorite chair with the lights low
listening to the first rainy night in a long, long time

UNTITLED

I cannot feel it
I cannot see it

but
the gun must be there

why else would I voluntarily put one foot in front of the other,
head toward the bathroom for a shower
and walk out the door
through the driveway
and down the street
to get to my car
turn the key and
drive
to the freeway, on the freeway, change freeways?

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

it’s all too much
my mind is screaming “NOOOOO”
but my feet keep moving
the screams get louder...my feet move faster
there is no stopping this avalanche
something takes control of my body
and it is then when I am no longer me

I belong to them,
the gun-toting invisible criminals
threatening my life
all for pity wages and mercy raises

I thought I was smarter than this
I am starting to think I was wrong

SINKHOLE

bitching, moaning, complaining
it’s all a bunch of bullshit
nothing more than masks to hide behind for the downtrodden
too afraid to confront life,
look it in the eye and say
“let’s go, you and me, right now”
this sinkhole exists in our heads
we created it
and
now it’s time
to dig our way the fuck out

THE LIFE AND TIMES

if writing is a motherfucker
then what’s that make me?
a goddamn crazy fool,
that’s what
the weight of the world on my shoulders
is not something I asked for
nor would I wish it on anyone else,
no matter how much I despised them

I wear glasses because of this stupid obsession
I can’t think straight
my concentration is nil unless I’m behind a keyboard
and I don’t care all that much about the real world,
only the one that exists inside my head

I’m shut off and shut down
with no consideration for anyone but me
everything in life –including the good shit –
is nothing more than a hurdle
between
me and my words

the pressure drips like a leaky kitchen faucet
I’ve taken out the proper tools
but nothing fixes it
not booze or sex or drugs
but sometimes a good book buys me some time
before my mind begins to regain control of my body
I become limp, paralyzed to the demands

I am a shitty human being for a myriad of reasons
and the only way to make myself feel like I’m worth
half a damn
is to keep going
regardless of how much I’d rather be anyone
and anything
other
than a writer

OK

ah
can it be?
another stoned Friday night
with
Snoop on the speakers
and
weed in the veins
yuppy neighbors with yet another
backyard party
but it’s ok
because
I’m over here with what I got
and
they’re over there with what they got

SOMETHING

I am neither smart nor dumb
rich or poor
life of the party or a bore

but I am something
I am me

POST-DINNER SCENE AT THE DOWNTOWN JAIL

I am a human holding cell
capturing many men
Within my walls
there is
a lover, a dreamer
a cheater, a liar
a reader, a writer
a sleeper, a partier
a happy man, a sad man
a man who knows what he wants
a man who doesn't know how to get it
a comedian, a shrink
a hippie, a prude
a drunk, a stoner
a boyfriend, a flirt
a fashionista, a slob
a man of the present
a man of the past
a fat man, a skinny man
a tired man, a coffee fiend
a handsome man, an ugly man
They take turns
letting one lead
while the others follow
There are fights
but never any deaths
for each man
is as strong as his cellmates
and as alive as ever

FLYING

Trying to describe how I feel about flying is useless

as meaningless as explaining the greatness of a good book

to a blind guy

I hate it, how’s that for yer poem?

THE NEW 9 TO5

I call myself a writer

but most of my time is spent

avoiding the only thing I’m good at

WRITERS STRIKE

WRITERS STRIKE
Get back to work you spoiled lazy fucks
Pardon me for not feeling sorry for any one of you
Solidarity? I think not
Making money while the real wordsmiths are scooping up
catshit to earn a living
Poetry, novels, journalism – there’s no money in any of these
yet some of us still do them because we have to
Working for Hollywood is a black mark on your record
that stains a career like a teenage tattoo given in some shady dude’s bedroom
What I do and what these clowns do are completely different
For starters, I’m on my own
Those hacks need a job because they can’t cut it in the real world
A writer should be a free-thinking loose cannon,
shooting ideas all over the place
not working for a corporation that tells them
what to say and how to say it
Secondly, has anyone watched television lately?
The shit sucks
Strike forever, maybe TV will become the new radio
and die
I can’t possibly feel sorry for these miserable excuses for creative people
Pump out something intelligent, something witty, something real
then maybe you’d be worth what you think you’re worth now
I understand wanting more money but you gotta earn it
Judging by their output, I’d say a current Hollywood writer’s salary
should equal what their peers from the 1950s earned because
this new crop ain’t much better than goofy whitebread cornball shows like
“Leave it to Beaver” and “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet”
Have these brats not learned anything from the shift toward reality based programming?
This watered-down format wouldn’t exist if any of you could create interesting fiction
But you can’t
Keep holding those poorly-written (what did you expect) signs and
walk in circles until you lose that spare tire around your gut
you whiny attention-starved assholes
giving the rest of us a bad name
Their leverage is the fact that new shows will be replaced by reruns
God forbid! Oh the humanity! Whatever shall we do?
Read a book, perhaps? Take a walk? Play with our pets
or our kids? Get to know our neighbors over a glass of wine?
Organize our living rooms so the television set isn’t the focal point?
The scabs will be in soon and you’ll be out of a job
your former bosses and the rest of the world will realize
how unimportant you were to the whole process
and you’ll wish you never brought any of this up
I’d recommend writing a book about the experience
but I have no faith in any of you to do such a thing
So long suckers –
Yes, I DO want fries with that

The Beginning

Part of the reason I created a blog was to publish the backlog of stuff that sits patiently on my hard drive, keeping its fingers crossed that one day someone other than me will read it. While I'm not totally sold on that yet, at least it's finally out there. The rest is out of my hands. Here's the first of many.

STILL WORKING AT 12:15

Write more, more, more

Until the voices stop

Write more, more, more