Poetry

Summer Bummer, 19 (171.)

I just wanna
read books and write stuff,
write poems and rants and
edit things,
make words as enticing as possible,
I just wanna,
fuuuuuck.

That too,
I just wanna fuck,
I just wanna meet a nice person
and hold hands and get real close,
I just wanna do cute stuff
and intimate stuff,
I’m a pretty awkward dude
but I think I could be good
at loving somebody
like that.

Romance, it’s
been a long time.
I’ve almost forgotten how it works
for me,
but I’m trying to remember
with every message
and statement
I make.

I wanna start a
fire,
a
loving slow burn
that doesn’t flash kindling to cinders
and end in tired ashes.
I want to feel the warmth of our time,
and sit with space
to breathe and read and write and love,
to live.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 18 (170.)

Verily, a mask is drawn down upon
the very root of one’s soul,
so the core of one’s being
is covered and bold.
Behind the mask, what truths do play!
We ply them with our tongues and spit
them outside every day.
The mask covers the face, and the face
amplifies the essence,
and mask becomes bullhorn becomes
deliverer of luminescence.
A torch, a walking torch,
they say they did espy!
What lights and leaps and fast bar fights
did blot out thy quick eyes?
The mask is not a shield, but
an invitation
to vengeance and spite and
every violent occupation.
It begs of thee,
please, do not mark my fragile frame –
if I am to be broken, then none
but myself are to blame.
No one likes a rogue.
No one likes a cheat.
No one likes the faceless, nameless
shadows on the street.
To be anyone, anonymous, aye,
there’s the rub!
And choose one’s method of self-effacement,
a mask, a costume –
a dud.
Mayhap it’s for the weak.
Mayhap it’s for the quick.
Mayhap it’s for the ones who’d rather
sing than swing sharp sticks.
Always beauty and tenderness
beneath the joints and angles of bone.
A hard shell for a gentle love
that makes any spot a home.
Play with your face, and ply your trade, then –
lead us out of the mire, O captain –
we are your squires.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 17 (169.)

We won’t stay away from summer, and that’s
the biggest bummer of all.
Stories from history say some pandemics
stretched on for years,
with second waves, third waves,
the sickness didn’t stop.
And now the warm air in the northern hemisphere
will give the virus a clear path to us.
I get it –
I want to go out there,
and feel the heat on my skin,
and sit on grass and tree stumps
while birds pump their lungs up.
When I do take a walk,
I’ll forget parks and beaches,
and that mask
will be my best friend.
My shield.
The summer won’t get me
that easily.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 16 (168.)

Birds outside in the trees,
cat looks out the window and waits.
Outside, what’s outside?
A lotta things, a lotta people.
Some skyscrapers, some steeples.
Worry, war, famine, injustice,
pretty decent reasons to flood the earth again.
But right now, cat is inside.
Cat sits quiet and waits.
A moment of peace, before the breaking continues.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 15 (167.)

Dreams, flashbacks, retrospection galore,
introspective introduction to progress past allure.
Angels exist in the fissures of the mind,
losing resonance and becoming revenants
with the passage of time.
The hourglass cracks and shatters.
Sand spills to burn into shards
and slash space again and again,
until the spine of the world
is a lacerated ladder to insanity.
How inane, this quest for normalcy.
Rather a shattered visage and a tremulous heart
gain courage of conviction
than a trillion normal-looking automatons
drone on and on into mediocrity.
What hides behind the average mask?
How long does placidity last?
If there must be plastic, then mold it –
mold it to something terrible, and
wonderful.
A sign to lead us out of these brackish pits.
Time holds nothing but itself.
Leap, then, out of the past
and
into right now.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 14 (166.)

Excel, Word, Photoshop, hippity hop,
skill building right now just can’t stop,
gotta get a job that isn’t in a shop,
please fuckin’ help ’cause interviews suck.

All things considered,
the future looks





real funny.
Almost empty.
Time to fill it with dreams
made reality.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 13 (165.)

A chapter
goes fast sometimes,
and other times
it goes so slow,
that one book stretches on for months
and where it began, no one knows.

This is a rare occurrence.
Usually a book passes by like a rocket.
Fast, gone, but felt.
Like life, the speed now alternates,
fast, slow, in-between,
some memories mashed like a closed accordion
and others elongated
like a bone pulled too far.

This is the journal of a life.
Short and long and
fast and slow and
here and there
and every
where
it is written, it has been written, it is being written,
and every word’s a pleasure
no matter the time it takes.

Standard
Poetry

Summer Bummer, 12 (164.)

4 o’clock on a Friday email,
please forget about the start of the weekend – we’ve failed.
More like, there’s work to be done.
Most like, the sooner the better.
Understandable.
Money flows into and out of all kinds of pockets,
and pours into and out of all kinds of accounts;
some of them are payable, others are debatable,
you’d better hope that yours is not forgettable.
Regrettable, the things we do for cash.
You want those donuts? Better make ’em last.
There’s no telling when another treat will come your way.
Remote work freed us, then it decreed us
“Open to work.”
You’re sitting at home all the time?
Perfect, here’s another project.
It’s not terrible – capitalism demands
a semi-full wallet –
but free time has become something of an enigma, now.
Chin up, steady on, stay the course and all that;
in a decade or so, this time will make us wistful.

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Poetry

Summer Bummer, 11 (163.)

Behind at work, the prevailing goal becomes
“Keep going,”
and the race to the finish begins.
Remote troubles aren’t remotely the root of this –
longtime procrastinator, master of distractions.
Attention, stay, please.
Look at the document. Put words in it.
Flesh it out to something, anything,
to prove you did it.
Capitalistically conditioned brain chimes in:
That’s what you get paid for, right?

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