Irony at the End of the World

Today
the sky opened up
and I was swallowed
by outrageous pity

That billions, trillions,
umpteen-quadrillions
of living things have come and gone
and more there will be

yet while Satan fell before me,
I the hapless scribbler
amateur wordsmith
far from fearing death
or that everything near
faced fiery disintegration
am incensed I am without pen and paper

and even if I could
before I melt
compose a simple thing right then
describing the moment
when all life ended
and the light when out


5/28/2012

Immolation #1

you wish to smile amidst the inferno
so you keep your self
beneath a stone where it
wreathed in fire laughs at your fear

because down there you know
1 2 and 3 all equal 0
and each other
that you are burning slowly
-so little flesh remains unlicked-
that you are surrounded by
smiling melting corpses

Don't Panic; You'll soon die.

with no eyes or hands,
no right or left,
the sound is God
words crackling from every direction
the pop is you, here, now

only no longer fearful violent and happy
no longer fuel
"you" join the conflagration.

5/31/2012

Sonnet I {Upon A Train}

Upon a shaking car of silence, I
sit with strangers, stare at trash ignor'd,
From stop to stop and on again we fly
and in desperate effort not to be still,
 scribble scribe a little thing in ould form
hoping mind and soul will find each other
tho all the words that come feel stolen, worn
and voided gazes will start to smother;yet

before my trip reaches termination
I will lay the couplet as a capstone
my thing may not spur thee towards revelation
but then I ask again, what is a poem?
    for one can spend life waxing clever
    else all ties to the thought must sever

a frozen poem

but three beers later I
havent found a tear
and still feel that root

that hatred unnamed,
pent? held?

After three pints I'm the same, only drunk
and the world spins because tolerance is so low

But three beers later I'm scribbling
maybe this story this poem rant letter script song
maybe this will break the ice

But I still feel that
pent? held? -feeling

and cracking another beer
decide to finish the six pack,
and not the story poem rant letter script song

4/3/2012

While You Dream In Ashes

Is it ironic
that Bukowski's gravestone
tells us "Don't Try"?

Just do
and in so doing give birth
to here and now

here and now, two incontrovertible facts
two illusions
such is life

don't try, do

so here goes

once upon a time
or
back in the good old days
or
in the beginning there was,
 or
it started with a mistake

the mistake was the effort
the straining of the eyes
to make the fuzzy real
resulting only in a tension headache

So do becomes a question
and do not becomes a choice

Bukowski says don't try
Bulgakov says burn all he's written
and Barrons, the momo?  The imposter?

         he says burn it all
            and try to dream
            while you sleep in ashes

The hook

He said, "It's been awfully hard lately"
I hear that, Brother
"But at least I've been writing again
you know, poetry.
It flows, man, it's working again
like it hasn't done in ages.
It's this need that grows,
it gurgles and groans like a bad hangover
until I'm bent over
with this poem, man
and so i write it."
I dig it, Brother.
"And you know the thing, the bother,
is that each time I try to fight it
stuff it back down inside
but it tears at me, man."
I feel it, man.
"So you wouldn't begrudge an old curmudgeon
a few moments to lend an ear?"
Naw, Brother, go on.
"It goes,
      The train ain't no place to live
      God above ain't seen fit to give
      me more than this
      so why try?
      Emptiness is Bliss
      And the meek fall only inches
      to the thirsty earth
      but the mad fall through seven daily hells

     the train ain't no plaice to live
     can you see fit to give a little, today?"


4/1/2012