Social Poems Political Poems

small talk utterly betrayed me today prompted as usual by an eloquent barista to engage in witty dialogue I was unable to get over my deep sincerity and respond in kind there was a disappointment that rippled out for blocks it brought a premature end to a hug between young lovers six miles away

"have a piece of idea" they said as if it was a piece of cake I declined remembering the unpleasant aftertaste of contrivance

I believe the most enthusiastic reader of my poetry may have died today having never read it at all he fell out of the sixth story window of a friend's apartment in New York City, a budding poet himself he was sipping tea from a broken cup then leaned back to far and that was it

my laughter is bought and sold into slavery by this band of believers in a better tomorrow

I can remember the belt brown on one side black on the other perhaps an inch thick and worn the fear of actually turning my back on him I've seen movies depicting lashes all suffered by heros it's not the same as the sinking feeling of being beaten instead of cuddled thrashed instead of caressed by someone who might have loved you there was no affection in the history of my father's touch

I saw a diesel pickup nailing a little Volkswagen from behind there was a beauty in it car egos vanishing in an awkward silence

the day I punched my terrible father for the first time making future beatings at his unloving hands all the more unlikely was not a good day on the stairs that descended into a dark basement victory ugly shameful unpleasant incomplete reclaiming a useless key now unable to open a stolen childhood

a fly seeking attention from so many humans finally gets some

this poem has made itself available for the reader's projection (that means you) the space immediately following this text is the most significant part as it is where what you yearn for most can be deposited as an image with the knowledge that yearning is inevitable and GOOD for it is a great way to know how deeply we care (imagine here)

what do these two suffer from? trying to put my finger on it smells like arrogance it's certainty! that's what it is they suffer from certainty! that's it exactly (oops, I mean... one might guess)

the first caller gets to rummage through my mind and pick out as many words as possible in ten minutes

two walls that are paid for a phone call reaching out across a dime or twenty cents or whatever year it is land with a name on it borders on country dotted lines you can view from space divisions by race and who wins wins a moment without bounds so pitch a tent and choose your tense future or past or many presents one needn't long for any once a year or something non-tense without any stuff or nonsense

cop on a cell phone what is allowable maintains a shape in his head like three colors only red, white and blue god how lonely an ugly right and a very wrong singing to itself this tired old song let FREEDOM ring! as nature finally places the all-important call to his consciousness

playing in a field of meaning a created world of making ends meet ends that would otherwise meet all by themselves given a trust in nature a nature that is no-one a nature that is everyone a nature that is all that ever shows up anywhere a nature that can not be but what it is a nature that is one the nameless Tao can you control what you hold dear? even in the headlights there's no helping help it's there when you reach out for it and gone as soon as you have taken it seriously

feeling bludgeoned by the psyches of others is simply the struggle to fit a large thing in a small space the refined in the unrefined OF COURSE it will feel out of place cramped painful (like shit)

the only way those who can NOT manage to live in the present can manage at all is to maintain a threat towards those who can vague threats complete with negative visions of futures and consequences vague threats and a sad belief for themselves in second chances having lived for circumstance alone

if you ask enough questions you will run out of answers (or just get sick of coming up with both)

IF YOU are thinking, you are reconciling IF YOU are simply being then you're okay with "what is" THINKING is a casting of images of what is not (created out of muddy memories of what may have been)

her contention was that I polluted her psychic environment with questions whereas in actuality it was accidentally cleared of assumptions

sometimes people ping each other like computers testing the water to see if another ego is there all to help define themselves to strengthen identification

arguments over details is nothing but a fear of intimacy a fear of sharing feelings a fear of losing self for what is greater

all language is contractual spoken or otherwise it tends to contract, confine unless it is primarily an antidote to previous confinement

his napkin fell off his lap onto the floor happy to get away for however long

he put his coffee cup down as if making a point he is quite adamant though he doesn't even know what he's doing

the mechanics of an illusion are easily worked out— the arbitrary is given a specific meaning to support the fabrication all and all keeping the mind alive meanwhile the real watch on a peaceful witness

reading the newspaper is like shuffling a deck of cards rearranging misconceptions about good and evil

I feel taken from when someone "takes me" to be something— anything believing they have rightly identified my goings on

emotionally invest in all this being different than it is then rearrange a few pieces of furniture and go buy a new pair of socks

he uses his cell phone to stir up energy with people who fear the future what he really wants is some long lost attention for being able to do things

two middle-aged women share cackles over another woman's demise let us imagine 37 limes suddenly rolling past them at their feet like bright green sour tumbleweeds

this poem is a tribute to all poetry (books of it) shoved in boxes in goodwill stores looked at in amusement never to be read countless reflections of aching hearts with no choice over the form of their expression tenderness overlooked for something more pressing

her coat (at the café) was so atrocious more like a sweater with an animal print like no animal's coat so ugly I took it personally maybe she was from an alien planet as alien as planets can be maybe her coat resented its own existence never wanted to be created and now to be paraded around reaching out for help hoping someone like me will put it out of its misery when she goes to the bathroom I'll burn it alive

Consuella! I asked my wife if it’s prejudice for us to name our imaginary maid “Consuella” she reassures me that we pay her a living wage

those who presume to know anything about others are not the attractive ones

he would just have probably shook his head at your obsession with him having missed his point altogether

this couple next to me with their newborn are belligerently parental I’m all about spontaneous expression but these folks are using their poor child to earn points in a competition that will never exist

brow furrowing couple stop, squint, then silently struggle over the specifics of their moral opposition

you are SO uninhibited (but for the obvious need you have to show me how uninhibited you are)

providence as the composer of this concert of experience stands itself up during particulars to claim authorship for what it feels that it needs to have added to the overall design an illusion of proprietariness prompted by a history of genetically perpetuated despair

you are doing (what you are doing) whether I like it or not chances are I would have liked it

making me accountable exists me in time working for squares boxing up wonder straightening price tags watching my step knowing my name that the sun is one of many stars and that life has a beginning and an end

I opened up a long ago moment and my whole life fell out like untrained spaghetti

bring back the roman games make a gladiator event between Japanese chefs and mother-in-laws

three teen boys ride bikes too small chewing gum showing off shoulders under tank tops with baggy pants that say— "maybe tomorrow"

she had a deep rich delicate negativity like the rotting root of a young sprout