Posts tagged ‘DIe’

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

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November 6, 2014

American Hunt (What’s for Lunch)

A Bow to bend
Is one taken in Hand,
An arrow extends
With no wound to mend.

At Speed it flew,
Put sharp head through.
What blood to spew,
What red bled through.

A mess of Hide
Plays with the mind.
Now run and hide,
To be found and die.

Follow the American Animal hunt;
Providing sustenance, it’s what’s for lunch.

July 13, 2014

Sociopolitical

Sociopolitical,
as lipstick and licorice;
kiss with the tongue,
hard feelings then diminish.

We won’t mention that again.

She said she’s always fine,
the next week she died.

I have the text to prove it.

-Found her along a country roadside
with holes and blood and mud.
The Sunday newspaper said it as
a matter of fact- Just. Like. That.

We had this one class together…
-Fremdsprachen, Deutsch.

Who writes that shit anyway?
It can’t be real-

Those papers…

A life that lacks is labeled as that.
A life on track is labeled as that.

Hands tied, for gosh sakes!
Bright white lines,
Coldest milk shake,
I was on Valium so I don’t remember that day- anyway.

Then the poetry reading was over…
So was everything else-

No apprehension
No hesitation.

What’s tension?
We mention:

Now-a-days,
A lifetime away,
Full of choices
Did you hear them voices?

And you thought for a walk.
And you thought for a talk.
And you made art with chalk
that did not last so long.

-Some cloudy milk transparency.

But that was all you did,
then you slept-

after the sun had left.

***

Also, danke schön Pakistan.
Story: A patron puts one hundred-dollar bills inside of the books he returns only to promote reading.

April 14, 2014

wie zum sterben

Monologue of Lovers;
One contends never to exist, as is necessity of endearing Conversationalists.
Words castes, molds, and shows what’s to discover of each other.

Touch of the Shut-in,
Cold frost thoughts mingled, with those of a summer’s mist.
Running through to grounds around, hark to those akin.

Designed to hold Time,
A clock’s arms link-locked tight tense to tick.
Shoe gazers watch cracks to find prized dimes in the mix.

Disintegrating at pure elegance,
She dances early day just to pull on a dress and necklace.
Proper smile outlined deep red to impress, enacting her relevance.

Lack of audacious Antidote,
A self-wound wrapped bound left to forget.
Layers that bond only to be pulled in two; torn, and then reset.

Absolutist human likely assumed close to the rest;
Comprised of simple puzzles, a simple life -of to think and act- while we stand in ‘present-tense’.

-Until our bell’s been rung for eternal rest.

And at that day,

In so many ways

Others will speak with passionate pride and distraught sentiment.

But we won’t.

 

***

The voice decays into oblivion with the body.  

September 14, 2013

Walking Into the Dark

Facts on facts,

Drats on that.

A pox on your house-

 

Throw down your crest, peel medal from chest, and rest.

 

Living for contrast.

As in remembering not to forget.

 

All that stuff is just memory.

Mime to Jest.

 

 

The useless battle is over.

No more four-leaf clovers.

All there’s left is empty spaces and time for growing old complacent.

 

The day grows colder as the sun fades at your back.

Walking into the dark you realize relief is what you lack.

 

Turning a blind eye on everything which did nothing for you in so many ways.

End of Meaningless days.

End of the fray,

 

On to full.

 

Cupped like a fake heart in a fake hand, thought about in a fake head trying to fake not being jealous as we make fake demands-

 

On your first last date,

And then she ran.

 

What a shame.  There was so much to know.

So much growth to grow.

Don’t ya know?

 

Life takes time to understand.

 

And now who knows?

 

I don’t.

 

Walk on to something new, get a better view.

Life moves fast, so moan and move on.

 

Like they say, don’t look back.

August 10, 2013

Cancer With Friends

Exotic and foreign object, 

Maligned to find time to find out in time.

 

We all must die.  

 

Unpleasant to rhyme, think, say, or speak.

 

We were best friends, and she was diagnosed last week.

Now, I feel weak, prognosis bleak.

 

The story of life, there is always a story of loss.