THOSE HOWLS

They know I hide my howls in cheeky places

Always have

and no valid argument has dared me successfully

to stop

The playing field caters with vastness now

that everyone

simply subscribes to the bare number one

Epitomizing number one

Claiming it as a possession has shriveled to a bore

like roadkill

left by the night for the crematory foibles of the sun

or myself

when from my upstart dementia they proceed

to mine for hints

ascertaining whereabouts of those elusive primal screams

They don’t get it

Or perhaps I have just treasured those periodic

plumes of volume

more than anyone could fathom on their own watch

Maybe

they’ll accuse me of being miserly with my cathartic heirloom

So be it

Those howls were honed for dynastic residencies

not a one-hit wonder

or a one-night stand or a one-trick pony

They epitomize

Those howls of mine illustrate far too easily

for marketplace posterity

They’re my answers out there hiding in the wind

they will have

to catch one regenerating blow at a time

 

05 12 20

OUTBREAK’S ODE TO THE IN-CROWDS

We just don’t believe like we used to

Those

of a past

generation or two

needed no subject

to peddle sublime verbiage

Even those who chose

to believe in nothing nonetheless

hydroplaned on the pooled

conscience of a contribution

to a fluid puzzle

gleefully awaiting little bangs

of innovational heredity

They were the mustard seed

generations

Their subsequent children

be they nesting birds

or intrusive

were destined for that tree to greet

their maiden flight

Then the trees

fell

into the abyssal path

imprinted on the groundwork

of ancestry

The elders

embezzled the leaves

to furnish their coffins and bloodlines

An egg without a nest now

is born to be rotten

with capital looking more

like the new cotton

Just when a generation

needs a peacekeeper magnetic enough

to lead from a bed of example

But no

For trust of that ilk

has been mangled by the distrust

outed so commonly

by the deaf choir of screens

and cameras

This is the new charisma

Even John Lennon can’t jam

with these circumstances

for this is visual

and the outbreak confining us

to the home fires is not

We didn’t start it

the renegade flares

of a generation plead

Visuals rule now

Visionaries take heed

CRED

Poets of tomorrow
Take heed
of the new breed
of characters
offsprung
from that pirouetting medium
with their curt clerics
sweeping one-line languages
under limpid ambassador
coughs
Tweety bird Nobels
wadding the obvious
into a wholesome oration
dashed with sardonic
garlic and ironic salt
These characters are not
down with death
Integers and melancholy
aren’t on that clock
All the time required
to bootleg
the nectar of that sweet
poetic payoff of yours
stands to melt
in transcendent evenness
over evolution’s silicon
umbrella
Poets don’t inflict depression
They don’t vaccinate you
with punctuation

03 29 20

YOU’RE NOT READY FOR THE REAL THING

We’re apocalyptin’ here
when it’s more of an
apocalypsinc
Breath holding in the voice
with a soothsayer’s spite
You’re not ready for the real thing
hisses evolution
and in harmony pollution
Flip-sides are greener than
freshly groomed grass
I could iron all the ruffled
and neglected streets
with the irony of this inverted
loneliness
Where are all the words
when I need them?
Sole informants
on the mythic whereabouts
of infinity?
Never should it have achieved
this crescendo of diluted levity
Wake me when the reformatted
census ends

03 23 20

DREAMS OF AIR FOR A BREATH

A voice strewn blue and skittish
over pages pleading for your eyes
dreams of air for a breath
of a sound for your ears
now that I have aced
to implied infinity
the recitations of a muted conscience
sympathetically refined to (my best hope
for) emphatically-designed decrees of
commonalities numb and nondescript
amid the undeterred currents of
robotic small talk’s swamp of
gestures and conjunctions

With what degree of force
would I knock upon your wall
to rule out the freneticism
of disharmony’s snivelling parade of
blood-deaf messengers?
How little force
would relay to you the gap
between a knock of melody and noise?
And am I even sure I’ve learned
to swim incessantly enough to greet you
with some aspiration in my bloodless voice
to emulate wallpaper?

11 26 14

THE MAN CAME AROUND

No leads

Origins debated

He’s gone mongering

dispatching seeds

of orphaned glossaries

The journey to retrieve

implies the legend

His echo must be filtered

The seeker is the sifter

Destination blues

simmer and infuse

the journey with docility

He wants to be found

and we counter with

the indignity

of debatable discovery

 

01 26 20

AN EXERCISE IN NAME-DROPPING

There are seekers I am eager

to recruit

say

Dante

No romanticism

even

in his romantic

love

People ate

each other’s heads

where he went

Not the good one either

Dante found

that place

The intestines of the goaded

blowfish

of mortal fear

Maybe Milton

was aspiring

to numb that fear

in the distribution

of all his cool lines

Was it all a code

or was he the sheep

on a lycanthropic trip

barricading all humans

even their most Deadheaded

hippies

from the best of both

spiritual worlds

Every spiritual feeling

is a choice

Your respective Devil

is a choice

What is promising

is the noble notion

Milton may be right

and the karmic scales even out

But the seekers I intend to draft

are dividers who can rock divisiveness

like Live-Aid

galvanized our instincts for unity

Make me live on the suspense

of a choice and consequence

and I’ll be more tempted

than I care to admit

to be mindful

of a wrong and right answer

 

02 05 20

WEATHER-SENSITIVE

This
heavy humid June rain betrays
Mother Nature’s tweak
of masochism curiosity
in a failed censorship of
quaint elemental
menstrual melancholy
The kind of weather
Teddy Hughes would suffer
to befriend

My muse enables star manifesting
in a room immune to skies
though it matters not
for it is its own
self-reliant constellation
extraneous yet
affiliating with all incarnations
of the carbon jigsaw

To feign a sleep on such a day
is to invest
in a lottery of moods
tripping dim fandangos
to fall upon their faces
where they stay
vowing to donate potential jackpots
to Mother Nature
like sacrifices for a favorable
harvest of July jitterbugs

BELL-STREWN BRIDGE (Meter, rhythm, and scheme inspired by Poe’s ‘The Bells’)

None shall cross this tolling bridge-
Tainted bridge!
Teasing on the far horizon is salvation’s ridge!
Choir of the seven no-nos
sang attrition to a doze;
they were hitchers of determined thumb
mining ditches for a holy plum.
Now their aptitude is froze.
I’m the sky-high-pie
they alone bit to get by.
Bellies swamped with swagger, they’re now jammed in marshes of guilt,
pools I built, built, built, built,
built, built, built,
‘twixt the bridge and ridge to freeze my fate in guilt.

04 02 15

INSOMNIAC’S LULLABY

I.
Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
where the call of sleep is sent from mini-skirted bestiality
I sleep seduced, I wake reduced to Minotaur’s appeal
and no razor’s manhunt stands a chance on copping a warm-blooded feel

No recourse in the alcohol, no recourse in the drugs
No fulfillment in sobriety or intervention’s soggy hugs
The case of this default malaise has stumped all inquiries
bent on ascertaining flora from this fauna’s self-indulgent freeze

I’m not happy, I’m not sad
I don’t miss the future that I had
I’m fated to a ramble’s dance
It’s safer than a calculated trance

II.
My lips are burning from the kiss of fiction’s sustenance
Tongue of no saliva, thank you for the words I’m too afraid to mince
Attuned to this egregious sermon of reality
Crumbs of dreams swept off the floor of sleep I feed to moot banality

Felicity is in the cards but I can’t find the deck
If a kiss declines an encore, don’t think I’m too proud to seek a peck
The truth is honourable, yet in fiction I persist
in my mission to retain permission to claim matter from this mist

My potential was a fad
This outcome is all I ever had
I left hypotheses to chance
when I took home a calculated trance

III.
Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
I have memorized the platitudes of my humane finality
Intrepidly I bathe in tepid fiction’s sea of shrugs
No recourse in medicinal alcohol or aromatic drugs

The brain evokes a bubbled labyrinth in bare attire
Servant to its swish of chemicals, I tread and breast-stroke in the mire
of whims it propagates and drolly fascinates me with
till I’m sick of its reality and somehow talk it into myth

I know happy, I know sad
Yes this knowledge serves to make me glad
A shame the walls of circumstance
impede it from my calculated trance

05 16 15