I stand agitated before my dust specked
closet mirror,
turning the band of elastic sewn into the
bottom of a sweater,
for reasons that escape
anyone who isn't
a sweatshop accountant
or sweating in the lamp light
of a department store
fashion line design studio
based out of Kentucky,
and I wanted to be upset about
the errant loops and snapped hairs of polyester
where the shoulder seam
meets the body seam,
but your relaxed reflection is watching me
dress myself in the mirror
from the living room
not quite full of morning sun
and of the two of us,
I don't want to be the one throwing tantrums
on a Thursday
before the coffee has
even gotten a chance to percolate.
After long minutes
of looking for a right angle
to view a poor excuse for a sweater
that falls around me like an off colored squash
in a child's crayon illustration of the first Thanksgiving
I have to admit,
while taking it off,
"you actually did me a favor."
Waking Up Today was Not Optional
Missed my calling
by a few thousand years
to be a sword for hire.
I searched on Craigslist for mercenary
and received three hundred hits
seeking business executives.
Picked up a copy of
Soldier of Fortune from a magazine rack
at the corner store.
Although it featured
the loveliest tactical gear
pornography,
it contained as much useful information
as Miss America's head
if she were wearing a
red Rambo bandanna.
Some texts claim that there's a killer
in every last one of us animals
while the interviewees make sweeping poetic statements
about wolves and sheep and villages
colored by the water eyed awe of
the interviewers.
I woke up for ten minutes in Intro to Philosophy
before I concluded
by his own estimations
I would have scalped Nietzsche
and ate his tongue
and happily missed his point.
Psychologically unfit
for uniformed duty
and the retail sales floor.
I suppose,
in our modern day
of prisons and civilization
and rules that say:
"you can't stand here after 7 PM,
because those who
cringe at the edge of darkness
are running things,"
another day standing in line at the bodega,
eyes wandering the magazine rack
for fake tits and muscle cars,
is as close as I'll get
to reaping the benefit
of whats left
of my daily eroded
toothy will
to take the world in my hands
and drown it.
by a few thousand years
to be a sword for hire.
I searched on Craigslist for mercenary
and received three hundred hits
seeking business executives.
Picked up a copy of
Soldier of Fortune from a magazine rack
at the corner store.
Although it featured
the loveliest tactical gear
pornography,
it contained as much useful information
as Miss America's head
if she were wearing a
red Rambo bandanna.
Some texts claim that there's a killer
in every last one of us animals
while the interviewees make sweeping poetic statements
about wolves and sheep and villages
colored by the water eyed awe of
the interviewers.
I woke up for ten minutes in Intro to Philosophy
before I concluded
by his own estimations
I would have scalped Nietzsche
and ate his tongue
and happily missed his point.
Psychologically unfit
for uniformed duty
and the retail sales floor.
I suppose,
in our modern day
of prisons and civilization
and rules that say:
"you can't stand here after 7 PM,
because those who
cringe at the edge of darkness
are running things,"
another day standing in line at the bodega,
eyes wandering the magazine rack
for fake tits and muscle cars,
is as close as I'll get
to reaping the benefit
of whats left
of my daily eroded
toothy will
to take the world in my hands
and drown it.
Smoker 3
Every time the door alarm goes off
and another customer pretends
to be deaf and you look at me
behind the register
and I look at you
at the security desk
and we both know
the shitty demagnetizer is at fault,
but we frown at each other anyway
for having the easy job out of the two
I wonder why we never discuss it,
leaning against the wall by the book drop bin
making efforts not to drag in unison.
and another customer pretends
to be deaf and you look at me
behind the register
and I look at you
at the security desk
and we both know
the shitty demagnetizer is at fault,
but we frown at each other anyway
for having the easy job out of the two
I wonder why we never discuss it,
leaning against the wall by the book drop bin
making efforts not to drag in unison.
Will Not Wrap
Sometimes my thoughts are
a shitty Christmas present
I bought for a friend of a friend
because I had to so I
didn't look like that clueless asshole
(who always shows up when there're free drinks)
and it was the only god damn thing left in the store
and it had a surface requiring
Mercator's genius
to get the mother fucker
neatly wrapped
(into a poem)
and at the end of the day and the roll of tape it does not go
and I stay my ass at home.
a shitty Christmas present
I bought for a friend of a friend
because I had to so I
didn't look like that clueless asshole
(who always shows up when there're free drinks)
and it was the only god damn thing left in the store
and it had a surface requiring
Mercator's genius
to get the mother fucker
neatly wrapped
(into a poem)
and at the end of the day and the roll of tape it does not go
and I stay my ass at home.
Safety Scissor Rebellion
"Son, what were you thinking? You're under age, you've got at least an ounce in that napsack of yours, and you blew oh fifteen."
"Well sir, I think I'll paint you the entire masterpiece. I was a deviant from quite early on in the scene. In Pre-School I was a pretty good grocery store thief. Grade "K" I flashed my cock at our straight laced rival team. In second grade I beat up Neal to see if I could. I smacked up Louise in Third grade for calling me "a gay." For candy money I took dares to drink milk mixed with mud. In Fourth I loved detention more than going out to play. Sixth grade was suspension for drawing pornographic toons. And then once more for drawing political satires. The second time got me the cord, though I preferred the broom. He stopped me before the bus, hand wrapped up with orange wire. Eighth grade I was teased everyday for being too dark brown. By high school I was afraid to sneeze anywhere near home and Bible thumped as hard as I could with a Christian crown, and memorized friend's credit cards for porn to watch alone. I never paid much attention to things they taught in school. In chemistry I spent my time breaking up the glass ware and drawing machines to murder the kids they thought were cool. Applied to college mainly to get the hell out of there. Arrived with so much pent up rage and direction-less hate. Almost started a brawl at the Greyhound bus terminal. If you saw me then you'd know I was burning from the gate. I didn't plan to be alive at the end of it all. Unfortunately, not halfway through, I ran out of rage and decided to maybe get to know myself instead. Bouts of rebellion are still flowing, but now somewhat caged. Let me go explore and I promise I'll end up in bed. Maybe not at a decent hour or close to sober. Maybe not with all the clothes I set off with that day and maybe without any bills, or my check card holder, but I'll have lived and known more of me, that's something to say."
"Son, as much as I'd like to let you off the hook tonight, how do I know you've learned a damn thing from stupidity?"
"Stupid is a strong word, but try to put it in this light: I can't learn cuffed and freedom is like air to me. Given the option I may not always do what is right, but I will never know myself until you set me free..."
The Children 1
The children are about, though it's late in the eve.
They rustle loose bits about, seething like curious bees
in a marching band that plays a single note on key
and whose idea of order is something shouted at me.
No pencil, no pen, no computer keyboard is free
from tiny spread fingers, each with their own gravity.
I shout them out and they return. A tide upon the sea.
"It's too far late. I have to work. I will count to three,
and strap the brat who thinks he does not need to flee."
Quiet descends in my office and I am, for a moment, pleased
before I realize not one left. They lie in wait like a winter tree.
In the corners. Behind the desk. I still can hear them breathe.
And part of me is quite enraged, the other is quite relieved.
They rustle loose bits about, seething like curious bees
in a marching band that plays a single note on key
and whose idea of order is something shouted at me.
No pencil, no pen, no computer keyboard is free
from tiny spread fingers, each with their own gravity.
I shout them out and they return. A tide upon the sea.
"It's too far late. I have to work. I will count to three,
and strap the brat who thinks he does not need to flee."
Quiet descends in my office and I am, for a moment, pleased
before I realize not one left. They lie in wait like a winter tree.
In the corners. Behind the desk. I still can hear them breathe.
And part of me is quite enraged, the other is quite relieved.
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