Either Way

Sometimes
I bury the pen
firmly in my chest
and carve
through bone and skin
pouring life out
to the floor
in buckets.

Other times
I jam that same pen
down my throat
and waggle it
well past the tonsils
sending a jet
of putrid stink
out into the world.

Either way,
it's poetry.

The Gardener

Futility is a gardener.
Burying handfuls
of seeds in shallow graves.
Stillborn plants stomped
by grass and milkweed

His shoulders slump
from being party
to constant death
by hoe, axe, shovel.
Head forever pointed down
Waiting.
For anything.
New.

And when,
on occasion,
the seedling kicks
a heel
through it's earthy tomb
and tilts upward toward sun
he knows
exactly
what God
feels like.

Elegy

That bulb
burnt out;
It's kind of what
they do.
And the melancholy
wasn't for the bulb,
but the picture
it illuminated.

We thought it beautiful:
sweeping brushstrokes,
robust color,
thought provoking
presentation.

Outside,
in sunlight,
it was hideous:
crayon scratchings,
eraser marks,
a thousand errors
traced and retraced.

We looked at it,
confused as children,
wondering
why we hung
the damn thing up
in the first place.

Inventor

It was a bit if a tinkerer
back then.
Spending hours
crafting
in the shop,
tools clanging,
ideas forming,
schemes drawing in
their first long breaths.

The shop's mostly empty
now.
The tools rusted or missing
or both,
and this pen,
the once proud inventor,
sits capped and dry
wondering if it can
ever create again

Murder

I killed my creativity.
Choked it out with twitter.
They make plenty of apps
that'll do the trick.
I threw it in a hasty grave
in the backyard
during commercials.

The next day
my dog pawed it up.
Dragged its ragged carcass
across the lawn,
so I chucked it in the trash can.
I guess I miss it
on occasion,
but I can't think of why.

Santa Claus

He'll murder us all.
Bury us under aheap of debt.
Credit cards burned black.
Fried angels frantically
searching the dollar bin
for a prophet that's got
to be in theresomewhere.

fragility

My confidence
is a blown glass curio
resting nervously
on the edge
of a fireplace mantle.

modern language

The kids
speak to me
in abbreviations
as if I'm supposed
to know
what the fuck
wtf
means.

birthdays

A collection
of sighs
gathered up
to blow out
candles.

West Fullerton

The college kids come
down here
from Associated
to get drugs.
Hipsters in old Volvos
hunting hallucinogens
in the park
where the cholos
play handball.
No one seems
to notice
down here.

They're careful
slightly paranoid
not making eye contact
speaking in
mousy whispers.
They know a guy
who knew a guy
that got beat up
down here.

On their way
back up
they stop for tacos.
The best taco places
are all
down here.
They roll their r's.
They drink horchata
and think they are
authentic
when they're
down here.

Then they
race back
beginning to peak
speaking of their
adventure on
the other side of town
as if it were a third-world
village.
Two mile away
seems like a
world away
when you're
down here.

Bubastis

Beautiful abomination.
Loyal monster.
You exist
solely
to challenge
everything that
they think is real.

Ozymandias

Truth piles high
in alleyways.
Pooling in puddles
on the sidewalks.
Everything expected
in it's usual place.

Fact sits atop
the tallest building
in gilded, laureled glory
pressing his will
into us.
And we,
because we are not
the ones paying attention,
turn to our affairs.

money/fame

The poet longed
for money
and fame.
"My lines"
he thought,
"will bring me
all that I desire."

He died,
soon thereafter.
Penniless.
Alone.

Confession

I confess my sins
in stanzas.
I sing the rosary
in blank verse.
Every wrongdoing
meted on paper
hoping that God
reads poems.

dinosaur bones

We're dinosaur bones.
Relics of the long-gone.
Committed to the old.
Buried under rock.
Encased in amber.
Refusing the temptation
of 140 character
text lingoed
nonsense words
and waiting for the day
when everyone else
scrapes the dust away
with a toothbrush
and acknowledges
our existence.

Last Weekend

The kids took designer drugs.
Pills that turned the world neon.
The music rattled their insides
while tracers ran across the sky.
Some wore masks
or gloves with lighted tips
to intensify the trip.
Some danced until their feet
splashed in puddles of their
own sweat.
Some had sex all night
in the wet grass.
Some overdid it
and passed out cold,
returning to the party a minute later
with a chuckle or a grin.

I fell asleep in front of the t.v.
with my glasses still on.

Mass

This dance they do
several times
a week.

Muttering crass jokes
to each other
from behind their robes.

Rituals of
bread
wine
song
Rote memories.
Habits of the trade.


Salvation
to most,
just another job
to them.

I Write Poems

Unapologetically.
And they never rhyme.
And sometimes they don't make sense.
Maybe they're about noone.
Maybe they're about you.
Maybe they're just thoughts
that pick at my scabby brain
forcing me to commit them
to living form.
Words simultaneously nothing
and everything.
All things cherished
and maligned.
All things deified
and demonized.
All.
Things.

I write poems.
It's simple, really.

Love Poems

Flesh
cut into words;
Sinewy punctuation
splattered onto
the page
in the ragged
shape of
a heart.

Nerd Jesus

The kids flock.
Their messiah returns.
Scarved and bespectacled.
They line up for hours
to catch a glimpse
to touch the robe
to rub excited fingers
across his broomstick
and disappear from their
troubling world.

Nerd Jesus.
False prophet
like so many
before him.