Poetry

The Fall, 30 (274.)

Hey man, what are you gonna do about it?
I’m not sure, I thought I’d
yell and shake my fists
and write a polemic
and listen to metal and imagine
a whole lot of deserved bloody violence,
but I just got three books in the mail,
and their presence helps me focus
on more positive messages.
I still hope that the pen truly is mighty,
though it pains me to say
I’ve given a lot of thought
to the sword of late,
how it helps to hone it
in my head, my mind
a whetstone that sharpens wit,
though most of what I let out my mouth
is shit.
Chalk it up to reactionary drivel.
I’m pretty quick on the uptake,
and a fast draw,
remarks fly from me like daggers
from a bandolier,
the sword leaps from its sheath,
in my head.
In real life,
I stay timid.
I hide behind the shield of humility,
despite knowing I am capable.
I fall back on the words of others,
I devour the creations of others,
I get passionate about the ideas of others,
but what the fuck have I done?
Is this why I embrace the pen
and let the sword lie?
No, even a sharp wit can cut
when words are aimed
at a proper target.
I don’t even use words with force.
Yet they are my greatest asset.
There are towers that need to be assailed,
and wracked, and ruined,
ransacked to their utmost emptiness,
then set ablaze
and toppled
into the endless churning sea of
apocalyptic and apoplectic mediocrity
through which we flounder,
and in the fields that survive,
we may plant trees and foods anew.
Structures can go.
From these new gardens,
summoned by words and earned with swords,
the trees will yield wisdom
and the plants sustenance.
All we need to thrive, in time.

The above rambling in two words:

fuck capitalism.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 29 (273.)

Sometimes a little bit of weird
is worth the risk.
Cut my own hair today.
Got out of the shower, finally acknowledged
that the length was bothersome,
and just
like
took scissors to it.
Not the best plan,
wet tufts of hair all over the ground.
Put it in the trash and remembered
someone saying, a long time ago,
“It’s really easy
to just cut it into one length
and it looks fuckin’ choppy.”
Well, that’s what I did.
Weird sections all over my head,
but uh,
my hair is shorter now.
I’m thinking I’ll refine the cut
after my next shower,
and if it really goes south,
I’ll just
shave my damn head.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 28 (272.)

How many sleepless nights
how many moonless mornings
how many afternoon coffees
how many midnight coffees
how many rushed sandwiches
how many rushed projects
how many distractions
how many broken promises
how many failed attempts
how many hopeful plans
how many,
how many times will I let myself get away with this?

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 27 (271.)

Today, I worship
at the altar of paper
back books,
and I know it should be
paperback
but I like the little separation
I’ve created.
I open the front cover of the book,
and hold it down.
I open the back cover of the book,
and hold it down.
I turn a page or two near the front,
and hold them down.
I turn a page or two near the back,
and hold them down.
My hands continue down the line,
turning a few pages at a time,
and pressing them gently to the chair.
Altar. I mean altar.
It is a chair, though.
A nice old-school rocking chair
that my parents received as a gift
from some half-mumbled acquaintance,
but they didn’t have room in their house
so they offered it to me.
I accepted it.
Now it sits in the corner near the window, and
I hardly ever sit in it,
it’s mostly become
a repository for my face masks.
Every now and then, when I’ve
scraped up enough extra cash
and purchased a book or three,
I use the chair
as my place of supplication.
I ask the books to treat me well,
as I have treated them;
I promise them love and wonder and
reverence, and in return,
I wish them to speak volumes
beyond their respective singularities.
I also make them supple, each spine
bending so slow,
so their pages turn like silk
in a summer breeze.
These are the actions in which I believe.
Pages turning, spirit learning.
Time to read another book.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 24 (268.)

It’s funny when I think about
all the old nerd stereotypes
from my childhood,
’cause like,
every narrow-minded kid
saw a nerd as a goof in glasses
stuck inside all day,
and loving it.
All the best nerds I know today,
my scientist friends and acquaintances,
the people with robust analytical skills,
several degrees and maybe a PhD,
they all love
the outdoors.
They spend their free time on hikes,
and bikes, and belaying the hell
out of their homies.
Thank Christ, it’s refreshing.
Take that, bullies of yesteryear –
the nerds get more sun than you,
and they still love
what they do.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 23 (267.)

The crows circle the lawn
while pigeons pace along the sidewalk.
Seagulls are somewhere,
hoping for delectable trash.
Then there’s me,
tender-hearted raven in the rookery,
sitting and reading and
waiting for any kind of clarion call.
They never furled a scroll
to tie around my neck,
thus I have no missives,
no
instructions.
My only guide is myself,
so it’s finally time
to take to the sky,
for the first time in
what feels like millennia.
Come, fate –
my mouth is a fine chisel,
and I’ll sculpt you
how I see fit
with this slowly-whetted beak.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 22 (266.)

Sometimes it takes a while
to get in the groove,
but when it happens,
oh, the humanity!
It’s everywhere in my dancing,
my soul and my feet
start prancing,
and everything just feels damn good.
Crank the volume,
sit up straight,
and let all those worries
just percolate.
The slow drip of anxiety
can be stymied.
So cut a rug, you silly lug,
and smile while you can.

Standard
Poetry

The Fall, 21 (265.)

So many hours
upon the blasted heath,
they make my body scream.
My teeth ache, my heart jumps,
everything is moving
in weird wrong ways.
A self-delivered censure
is the only cure,
so in this censer
I pile letters to deter
my unprincipled behavior.
Hopefully, future I
listens to my past self,
who is surely
me now.
These present circumstances
are nothing less than a gift,
one which I’ve opened,
day in and day out,
only to lay it to waste.
I hope to learn
gratitude
so these platitudes
become anything more
than costume.

Standard