self

The 1960's

The ultimate of nothingness
was never meant to be,
as vast friendships
were formed regardless.

Education, work and play,
a novel act I followed until
my mistress called from a raging sea.

A leader was snuffed in a Texan town
and mankind walked an alien world.

The British invade the West with music
as we invade the East with war.

Love, peace and death
were scrawled upon the Frisco walls
and spoken harshly among Ohio students.
Others wove flowers into their hair.

Campbell's soup was born again upon canvas.

The burning of draft cards and flags
against the portrayers of anguish
was hellish in itself.

One Doctor rang a bell for rights,
lost all to gain all. One maniac led
a homicidal romp deciding
it was in the music to do so.

Bethel became home to a legion
of honorable sound.

Ho Chi Minh was continually lurking,
deep in shadow, biding his time.
Later, a great city and its people
fell to an unproductive war.

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The Real Me Was Hungry

He'd dreamt of flaying off his bubbling surface-self,
so that the hardened truth beneath it would show bright.
But given time and enough insight - despite his thick hide,
he saw to his center, through all of the layered meat, and
was disappointed to find the same sort of ugliness
rearing to meet him, gaze against gaze:
a consciousness peering into a vaccum.

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Words Like Cake (No Good for No One)

What worth are the words of a fat, rolling ball
made out of ennui, disgracing himself,
hating himself and dreading the years
that make up a life that's full of the same.
May they be pretty - say it's the case,
made kind of ugly by slick of the grease,
the green of the tea that he still isn't drinking,
the salt of the sea that he's grown up to fear.
Why is he speaking? Heaving on screen?
Phrases made pointless, like the life that he's leading,
with poignancy lauded on the shoulders of woe
which tends to be truest; the one thing he knows.

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Still Bath

There he would sing,
celebrating,
lost in awe-inspired
knowing of
truth.
He thought not demise
awaited man
at end of their reign;
concluding their
days.
No hand to lay beating,
frightening, firm
in its owning
of all of us;
all we own.
None stood upon pillar
against sun,
eclipsing all else
smaller.
Nothing else far
from no where.
Quiet.
Calm.

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Needless Nice

They couldn't fathom the depths of you, and why would they?
You're a man in a cave, quietly going extinct. By nightfall
you will be but bones, flat on dry ground, rotting
without murmur or sound. And when they're excavating,
you will be recovered and fastened with plastic trappings.
They will wire you to the glass of your display, hastily,
and label you as something so much less than you were.
You are a relic from simpler times, long past your prime,
with all of your peers long dead and vanished. When
the time comes for your unveiling, they will feel awe,
and wonder how a thing like you could have become
a thing like them. But you never did, and so you've left,
while waiting on your tribe to return with their yield.

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tags:

Warm Null Void

There were stronger days where waiting
didn't force my eyes toward strangers,
patient in their own submissive way while rather
ugly in their chosen manners.
Skin worn tight upon their bones and
constantly consuming pulp;
spitting out receipts and change while lacking
the slightest notion this way, that.
During all my time observing,
organizing thoughts in sequence,
all these people seem to slip away
and through my semi-conscious fingers.
But I won't regret their leaving
or fume about the ways they'd bested --
I'll simply watch them go and clatter
while I enjoy the quiet alone.

Just An Echo

Night brings weight that lays upon
the bed beside me, and despite me
it finds room to stretch and yawn
while I am forced to yield the sheets.

Day brings reason to wake and rise
and to ignore, or dare implore
the burden near to improvise
and share its many unmet needs.

When it speaks in muffled voice
and begs for love, or something of
substance that will come by choice,
I see it's just an echo.

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Beached

Beach me with the monster whales,
their chassis born through globular entrails
and digested by the sand beneath
with crabs a-scurry on sidewinder feet.
The sun a beacon of peeling skin,
with wretched mention of cancers within,
and a fevered shake, blistered too
with bubbles that burst by light of full moon.
Hermits grow in shade of shells,
content and confined until next they may dwell.
Seagulls bend and fall from the blue
with talons outstretched with beads on sinew.
The caws and the clacks surround, abound
and leave me entrenched by sounds of wet ground.
So happy, rotting; stenches be damned ---
I'll burrow like urchin to be away from the land.

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What's on the Outside

What's on the outside
Can be the opposite of truth
The beautiful girl
Who's meaner than the devil
The soccer mom
Who's stripping just to pay the mortgage
The homeless man
Who fought in the armed forces for our freedom
The quiet girl
Who dreams every night of being a superstar
The pregnant teenager
Who was raped and doesn't believe in abortion
The skater boy
Who gets straight A's and wants to be an architect
The movie star
Who sometimes wishes she was still a nobody
The fat girl
Who is working her ass off to be healthy and has obstacles you couldn't fathom
Remember next time you judge on first glance
You have no idea what someones life is like
Unless you take the time to learn

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been a really long time since I wrote anything I felt worth sharing. And it's interesting to look back at my poems from 8-9 years ago and see how young, naive, and in some ways ahead of my age I was. I hope you enjoy the new work.

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