Hunker down now
With the molecules
Don’t let them know the face you’re making
It’s getting too dark to taste the water
So find a new naked self
You’re not going to find a better guitar in this lifetime
So play like the sound is real
Envelope envelope
Walking till the hairs grow thin.
A poem about boiled eggs
What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly?
Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist.
The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding.
If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane.
I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process.
That way the eggs feel at home.
It’s like they never left the shell.
I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell.
I incubate my dreams in the shell.
That’s where I live.
I bought a web domain
to have a go at being real.
I’ve been unreal
for a long time–
living in odd places–
places where people
aren’t supposed to live…
open mics
message boards
Twitter…
Now I live in palaces in the sun.
Now I’m finally real.
My words live in houses of the wholly realized.
Contrary to popular mythos
there is love on the internet
and it comes from knowing there’s
a home for broken sentences
and calcified syntax.
National Poetry Writing month
takes its toll.
30 poems in 30 days.
Content burnout is real.
I know a guy
who lives in an adobe cottage
in New Mexico,
who lives contentedly,
is madly in love,
and writes like 3 poems a day.
I don’t know how he does it.
1 poem a day for 1 month
just about cracks me open.
That’s why I’m making this
diary entry metatext.
I need a break.
I need something easy.
It’s impossible to feel the muse
all the time
because she exacts a toll
and takes more than she gives.
Better to replenish oneself periodically
with a self-indulgent diary post.
It may not be good reading,
but it saves one from total burnout.
This may as well say “lorem ipsum”
it bonds
with the strength of horses
the churning
of liquid hooves
all the glue boats
are stuck in the harbor
you’re on your own
and feel like sinking
if we are living we are not made of stone.
our bones are not broken yet.
we’ve made our houses in the shade
and our blankets are dry for now.
we dream of drinking light
and our shadows turn to bricks
with which we construct new libraries
and all the books are made of
our best stories
our best shelves
puddles splash forever
light crawls into pores
the sun is only softness
and never shades of brutality.
all business dies.
all business dies.
and the curse of commerce is lifted
