Old poems.

Once in awhile I like to dig through my archives, and I came across this silly thing, written in 2004:

The new digs are the same old filthy.

Formatted like a hard drive. Your salty-lipped kiss gave me a wet dream, shortly before I saw the shooting stars in your eyes pierce me from behind. Speaking in tongues was never so fun until I learned to adapt to your dialect. Translation: 17 seats were ejected from a sub-atmospheric airliner, sacrificing the virgins to the Gods of Apollo. And there you were, lying beneath the wreckage, the contents of the package firmly within your grasp. Not entirely inspired, but your argument was tired. Deep-breathing and heavy lifting the same old rhetoric, as if extra repetitions would help you watch your tone.

I’ve heard stories of woe travel like a game of Telephone, each version getting sadder and more dramatic through every set of teeth it passes. “Oh how I cried on the day my mother died…”, proclaimed an anonymous passerby, carrying a striker’s placard, feigning interest in his very own tale. When I passed it on, I re-spun it like my favorite yarn, new-and-improved and ready for mass consumption.

It’s days like these that a nicer presentation matters, like woven thread shred down to tatters.


I took your portrait in black and white
Your eyes were glowing, their corners crinkled with requited love
As you smiled sweetly into my cold, glass lens

You were fifteen
Then you were thirty
Then we were married
Then you were buried

My dusky, weather-beaten hands
So fragile and blind
Run their fingers across the matte photo finish
Of your face
Together, we fondly remember the time and the place

Bummer, dude.

The worst feeling in the world is having no voice. You open your mouth, form words, push air, and still no sound comes out. You think, “Aha! Perhaps the pen will be mightier!” You dig one out of the drawer, push it to paper, and it’s dry. The ink in every pen you touch turns to dust; pencils shatter and splinter; lead evaporates like steam; paper burns on contact. Even on the beach, a stick goes limp and turns sand to stone. Gestures to passersby are blind to shuttered eyes, and their ears can’t hear your frequency.

Speaking of ellipses…

Please allow this tangential allegory:
I’ve been walking for fifteen weeks
There’s no feeling in my feet
And still I can’t complain
This from a guy who trademarked frowns
And charged those who wore one a royalty
Unemployment and this recession
Made me rich from others’ misfortune
Sadness taxation! Who would’ve thunk it?
Neither a conspiratorial legislator,
Nor a conniving mastermind
Instead, just some guy from the midwest
With a calloused sole