Poetry

My Head Aches

I imagine sex a lot.

Lot a sex, imagine I.

A lot sex, I imagine.

Imagine: I sex a lot.

Imagine sex, I a lot.

I lot imagine a sex.

Sex lot, I imagine a.

Sex imagine I a lot.

Imagine, imagine,

sex sex sex

sex sex

………………

sex.

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Poetry

Elements of Being

Heart of fire,
mind like water,
seeping into everything,
fitting most containers
and remaining itself.

My brain douses my heart.
More often than not,
I overthink
my life into oblivion,
so action becomes tiresome
and I stay inert.

I may need to jump into something –
to leap from a mountaintop
and let inertia carry me.
My thoughts can’t
tarry me,
and it’s time I
let my heart be a lantern.

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Poetry

Financial Musings

Is it weird that I’m proud of my wallet?
Not saying I value money above all –
I just really enjoy how streamlined my wallet is.

As an object, but also an extension of myself,
the wallet is pleasing. It holds only what it needs;
would that I could be more like my wallet.
To consciously open myself, and shake out
all the extraneous thoughts and habits, to expel
the effluvia of bygone days.

With more thinking, I suppose I should admit
that my wallet also holds all the hooks
of the corporatist state. My ID, my Barnes & Noble
membership, my voter registration card …
my wallet is actually an arm of the state apparatus.
And I’ve allowed it to dig its hooks into me.

Shit.

I hope that when I drive through the richer neighborhoods,
uppity folks wonder at the state of my car:
the rumbling of the engine, the always-open window, the
loose sun visor hanging in my face (quite a liability, really).
The age of it – almost twenty years old, my word! – is
the most damning truth. How can that man
be driving through this neighborhood?

I have friends in places much higher than my own.
They’re generous enough to welcome me
on their own turf, but it is all turf.
I hate hierarchies, but right now,
I can’t escape them.
So I drive through them, noting their
wending and winding roads,
and enjoying the places
that should be free and open
to everyone.

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Poetry

Mortal Combat

And no wonder we feel tired;
no wonder we feel gutted;
no wonder we’re lost and unsupported
in this purported fantasia,
beyond the clutches of history.

I laid my head down and said aloud “I’m probably dying,” which is not the truth, for I’m definitely dying, we all are, but I’ll take these lines to explain that when I say “I’m probably dying,” what I mean is that there are factors which affect my overall health either positively or negatively, namely, sleep habits, diet, exercise, mindset, and the like, and for the last two months or so I’ve fallen into a rut that’s expanded into a cave which reaches ever into the abyss, and it gazes back and says “you’re probably dying,” by which it means, the factors that affect my overall health are not great right now, and I believe I’ve hastened my inevitable demise, not to say that I’ll be dying anytime soon, but if I started this life with, say, ninety years, I’m probably down to something like seventy now.

And that’s my bad.
I’ve said for a while
that I need to take care of myself,
but fuck,
it’s hard.
Or maybe,
I’m just a quitter.
Hence, I’m probably dying.

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Poetry

So Many Addenda

Every now and then, I
have to rewrite the rules for myself.
For example:

1. No more than three (3) caffeinated beverages in a day.

That’s a decent start. Should have
gone down to two (2) a day, but
if I can handle just three,
I’ll rewrite the rewrite.

2. Wake up before noon, no matter when you dragged your ass to sleep.

This is a tough one. Five o’clock in the morning
is no mystery to me. Neither is six. The sun is up
before I dream. But I have to try.

3. Floss every day.

Please, just …
take care of yourself, myself.

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Poetry

Yes, I’m a Feminist

I want to speak quietly sometimes,
but I also
want to shout “Shut the fuck up”
when some dumbass
says “bitch” for the fifth time
when we’re playing a video game …
we’re just playing a video game.

I realize I have conflicting ideologies.
That guy is a dumbass, but he shouldn’t say bitch?
Forget all these
casual misogynies, I want to be soft.
When the world revolves around
unfeeling assholes,
I want to feel it all,
and get upset about it.
Let me be the quiet one
who gets pissed about
your white supremacist leanings.
Your patriarchy.
Your insistence that some thing
isn’t racist.
You don’t know.
I don’t know either, but I know
I don’t know.

Fuck.
I’m tired.

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Poetry

Ford This River Always

I am in love with
half the world,
though I’ve only met a few dozen
handfuls of people.

Every one is larger than my clasped hands,
but my heart makes room
for each new soul.
They are the vessels that ferry feelings,
and the rivers and trees
that make me whole.

They are everything at once,
brook and beam and boat,
and for them and myself
I am glad to float.

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Poetry

Words

can be tight, controlled, close
as a shaving razor,

or they can be loose and untrammeled
flowing all over like a monsoon
and sliding through your brain
like water over and into
canyons, just flowing and going wherever
they please, no stopping, no curbing, just
freewheeling letters as numerous as raindrops

but the stopper comes back.
The narrative, a bottle held by a particular giant,
filled then closed just right.

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Poetry

The Bell Tower

Haven’t I
been trying this whole time?

Haven’t I been jotting?
Haven’t I been penning?
Haven’t I been honing?
Haven’t I been practicing?
Haven’t I been working?

Haven’t I been scribbling feverishly,
day in and day out,
putting thoughts down in words
down in paragraphs
down in pages
down in places
just to see if they stick?

Don’t I deserve
to see my experiences
enshrined on the page?

Live, wonder, think, write,
the process ad infinitum;
only this time,
my words reached someone,
and if they resonate even further,
I am
forever grateful.

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