Friday, November 20, 2015

Mortar & Pestle

The great and terrible
grinding, mashing and
powdering of bones in
vessels of terror.
Pulped, pureed, smashed,
squashed and destroyed
in the swirling turns of
the angry hands of time.

A planet, beleaguered in
the mutilation of souls,
in the cosmic beaker of
an untamed universe.

The chewing, the biting,
the masticating of the
essence of what makes us
who we are.

Ground, grind, ground,
repeat, mash, smash, mash,
Specks of pieces of pieces.

Shattered, broken, torn,
stricken, sick with disjointed
aspirations and misjudged

An ivory vessel, a bone
pestle, churning the sandy
remnants of childhood dreams
into reconstructed and medicated

To Take.
To Take It.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Punk Rock Lamentation

Punk Rock kid,
where did you go?
You didn’t give a crap,
now that’s all you know.
Where did that punk go?

now you’re a corporate librarian.
All about Anti-conformity,
now you drink the corporate tea.
It’s delicious.

You lived in waffle makers,
now you’re a deal breaker,
You made your own clothes,
now your sheets are dry clean cotton rose.
So comfy.

Never had a phone or HD,
now all you do is watch TV.
No second thoughts on chai latte,
but now it’s something you must say.
Extra Chai please.

I don’t even know that that is,
but you say it’s something that’s the shizz,
New lingo from the kids,
from your mouth God forbids.

Go get your Doc’s, throw that beer,
we’ve got to get you out of here.
It’s a state of emergency, we need
you out with some urgency.
I’ve got smokes!

Where’s my punk rock friend,
the one that was with me till the end,
walk the rails or drive off a cliff,
it never made a diff.
Where’s that punk rock kid?

Wipe off the mirror, get ready for
work, too much steam in the shower,
fogged the memory, clouded the mind,
Catch the train, time for work, off I go.
Leave that punk behind.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

I had to. If you read yesterday's post, I had no choice

                The sun rose behind Stoneguild Mountain and cast long early morning shadows over the lush fields below. Magnus, leader of the powerful Pony Cats, felt the morning light rise on his furry body. He stretched out his long paws and rolled over onto his opposite side. He yawned and licked at his nose. He thought to himself, “I hate Mondays”, and arched his long back up toward the blue summer sky.

                The rest of the Pony Cats were milling about the fields, some were heading toward the Desert of Feces, and others were poking at some fish along the river’s edge, without actually getting into the water. Magnus wiped at his whiskers and looked over his pony cat troops. They were all a good bunch of pony cats.

                There was Stumperious, the attack Pony Cat, ferocious in battle, articulated armor crafted by the wizards of Callowillow. He was Magnus’ most trusted Pony Cat general. Magnus and Stumperious were pony kittens together after the great ape purge of 2784. They had feasted together for many cycles on the birds and beasts of Cheshire Kingdom. 

                Yellowdimperolon flashed by Magnus’ view as he chased after some small ground varmint. Yellowdimperolon was the lightening to Stumperious’ thunder. Yellowdimperolon was fast and sleek. He was so stealthy that even Magnus was surprised at his mysterious appearances, and always in the nick of time too. Magnus couldn’t count on one paw how many times Yellowdimperolon had arrived at the last unexpected second to save the day.

                The ground shook as Redmane the Blood Thirster leapt up and down at the Canary trees. He was a bit of a slow Pony Cat but he was vicious in his adoration of Magnus. Magnus had rescued Redmane the Blood Thirster from a terrible trap when he was just a Pony Kitty. Redmane the Blood Thirster became the most loyal body-guard Magnus could have hoped for, and he was a giant too.

                Minxelle brushed up against Magnus as he surveyed the Pony Cats starting their day. He’d hoped for some adventure, like dragons or other beasts, or perhaps a nap and sitting in the sun, or eating and then napping and then sitting in the sun.

                “You’re looking well my lord,” said Minxelle as she licked along Magnus’ nape.
                “Yes. I am. As are you my Queen,” said Magnus.
                Minxelle purred lightly and pushed up against Magnus, turning her large head over his shoulder.

                “I have news Sire,” said Minxelle.

                She always had news, she was the feline in the know and Magnus would be lost without her. She was cunning and sly. She was indispensable and yet Magnus had a slight mistrust of her. She was supple and seductive in her diamond saddle and tiara.

                “The Horse Lords will be migrating today. We might have a very good chance to pick them off as they drive through Briargulch,” purred Minxelle.
                “Ah, the annual Horse Lord days are upon us. Perhaps today is a good day to get drunk on their sweet catnip blood sacks,” said Magnus.

                Minxelle lay down next to Magnus as he rose to his full eight foot height. He mewed loudly and gathered the Pony Cats together in a loose semi-circle.

                “The Horse Lord Days are upon us again my dear friends. We will go to Briargulch and take as many as we can. We will then scout the lands on the Northern perimeter, even though we did that yesterday and the day before that. We will also take at least one Horse Lord and leave it at the base of Wizard Smoke’s lair. We all know how much that wizard appreciates the dead things we bring him,” said Magnus.

                The Pony Cats all sort of nodded in agreement. Stumperious was staring off toward the ridge-line. There was something up there but maybe it would just come down on its own, or maybe it wouldn’t, but maybe it was tasty.  Stumperious would ignore it for now.  There were Horse Lords to obtain and that would make for a glorious day before a nap and curling up on the sunlit prairie.

                Magnus turned toward the West.

                “PONY CATS, AWAY,” he commanded in his deep velvety voice.  He darted forward as the loyal troops fell in line behind him, unless they were distracted by that shiny thing near the river’s edge.

                Off they went into new and bold adventures.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Scenes From Inside my Head

“So, what are you going write about today,” asked Sami.
“I don’t really know yet. Any suggestions,” I said.

Sami leaned back in her chair and rubbed her little chin like she’d seen so many grown-ups do. She looked around the small hospital room, hoping for some inspiration.

“How about… um… giant fighting laser robots,” suggested Sami.
“I’m not really sure that’s the way I feel like going today. What else,” I asked.

Sami frowned a bit and continued swiveling in her chair. She spun around all the way, daintily scooching with her toes on the stark white tile floor.

“What about a swamp that’s filled with, like, radioactive hands that come to life at night and steal children from the swamp village,” she said.
“You’re really into the whole sci-fi thing today,” I said, “but I don’t know if writing about kidnapping would be all that appropriate.”

Sami nodded and nudged her chair closer to me.  She got up on her little knees in the seat and tucked them under her nightgown. The I.V. drip dangling loosely over the back of the chair.

“Can I tell you a secret,” asked Sami.
“Of course you can,” I said.

Sami looked around the room to make sure there were no other prying ears about.

“Sometimes I like your stories because they’re not so sad. Not like some of the poems. Your stories are pretty fun and, you know, don’t make me feel sad,” whispered Sami.
“Really? That’s very interesting Sami. I like to write those stories too because they are a lot of fun,” I said, “but sometimes you have to use your words to express the troubled feelings that are way down inside yourself. And sometimes those words are sad.”

Sami nodded and sat back in her chair. She straightened out an errant hair from her head and smoothed it back into her pony tail.

“I guess,” said Sami, “But are you sure you don’t feel like writing about big monsters or shadow people or cats? Maybe you could do a story about pony cats!”
                “Pony cats? What are pony cats,” I asked.

                Sami leaned closer to me and looked into my face. She seemed aghast that I didn’t know what pony cats were, even though she had just invented them mere seconds ago.

                “Pony Cats are big horse sized cats that solve mysteries and save princesses and fly and have battle armor and use science and are cuddly and are always ready to give you a ride to the doctor’s or to grandma’s,” said Sami.
                “Wow, they sound pretty amazing. But why don’t you write about them then. You seem to know so much about them,” I said.

                Sami put her little hand on mine and leaned her forehead against mine.

                “I’m not a writer. You are. So you should do it. Pony cats,” she whispered.
                “So I should write about pony cats today then,” I asked.
                “Yes and I will read it and I will love it. As long as you don’t make it depressing,” she said letting go of my hand and spinning her chair back around.

                “Okay, I will see if I can come up with a Pony Cats story,” I said.
                “Good,” said Sami as she started to yawn. 

                A nurse came into the room and shooed Sami back into her bed. There was a little protest from Sami about not being tired and she wanted to stay up but once back into her bed she was calmed and ready to sleep.  

                “Good night,” I said.
                “Good night,” said Sami.

                I left the hospital room and went down to the parking garage. I lit a cigarette in my car and started to cry.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015


We’ve been cultured like
clams, in deep sea beds,
in the hopes we’ll make

Prodded to produce,
pearls of joy, of wisdom,
and of perfection. It’s what
we’re conditioned to do.

We’re farmed, made to choke on
the sandy grains of annoyance and turn
them into some priceless bauble
someone else can claim.

The pearls vary in quality,
in value, in size and weight, in
color and shine. Yet all are collected
for someone else to profit.

Failure to produce a pearl of
joy makes you an outcast, as if
finding or creating joy is just so
very easy; just something we’re to do.

Not creating a pearl of wisdom,
makes you a dunce, a dolt, a dimwit
and the open target of scorn and derision,
to be tossed away with the bad clams.

No pearl of perfection? The hardest of all,
doesn’t come easy for anyone, hardly anyone
at all. Yet, it’s still expected, wanted and
dreamed of as a commodity.

Joy, wisdom, perfection: are the pearls
we’re told to have. We’re told it’s what makes us
desirable, useful and respected, otherwise
there’s no purpose to us at all, what good are we?

Writhing beds of clams, producing cultured
pearls, spitting out the same old market flooding
trinkets, with regularity, with speed, with
dedicated diligence. Clockwork and punch clock.

The natural pearl, unforced, un-coerced,
un-molested, are true rare beauties.
They can be joy, wisdom or
perfection, there’s no blue-print.

Only that they’re pretty, an amazing
paint stroke of nature, a nifty trick of unmeasured
time, growing on a schedule un-monitored
by any clock or eye.

Natural pearls are highly prized and worthy
of awe, it’s why we covet them so,
and force the creation of our own through
the rigors of control and expectation.

The culture of expectation, to be something,
to be something great, to be something greater
than what you started with, to be something greater
than you started with or else.

Maybe that’s why, when we see the
natural pearl, we are so impressed, rapt in
it’s simple beauty of it doing just what it
does, without pressure of expectation.

I get tired of the sea bed, I get tired of
making pearls for others, I get worn out by joy,
wisdom, perfection and time. I just
want to swim, and eventually make my own. 

Monday, November 2, 2015

Almost Always Sometimes

There are always burdens
to bare across your struggling
shoulders, always troubles
to furrow your brow.

There are always people that
will not like you for reasons
you can’t really fathom, maybe
they judge, maybe they’re jealous.

There are always things that pile
up, that stack themselves in places
you weren’t even aware of, in corners,
on tables, in hearts and minds.

There are always muddy traps to
slow you down, make you drag your
feet and strain to pull your heavy legs

There are always dissenters, liars,
mean hearts, bullish bullies, coarse
types, and those that cannot believe
you are anything more than you once were.

There are always beasts lying in wait,
hidden in plain sight, in the eyes of
lovers, family, friends, strangers and
the dreams of unrequited passion.

There are always deniers, the doubters,
the show me the crucifixion wounds,
the non-believers, the unmakers, the
wreckers and the breakers.

They’re always in the way, sometimes
outside, sometimes inside, in your head,
in your own heart, in your words, in the
places you don’t like to go.

And sometimes, they won’t let you
finish a poem on a positive note.