Poem 64

I don’t need another metaphor
I need a matador to fight my bullshit war.
Life is small moments.

To own is to take stake in the world,
To sit down is to adjust to insanity,
To adjust is to accept and this is the way
Everyone good life goes bad.

Sometimes life just goes bad, for a longtime.

I don’t end when I. Ego
Own I not, rent a room in the world I do.
This is metaphor, which I do not need,
According to the first stanza.

Before I got yodaesque, I was heading toward
A story or allegory about the minutes being the life,
The long days between nothing and something,
About how life is a slow churning and how you should
Evade the fencers and rush to the hades roll call.

I don’t give advice though, I write these goddam poems.

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Poem 63

Urn dimes burned around their eisenhower edges
And will not register with the vending machine eye.
Grain alcohol if snakes are reproaching.

My ears popped inflight despite the chewing gum ward.
I make no Freud slips that could tip the dark side balance.

As we coaster out of the mouth of ahab I am reminded of
How the whale hunts the hunter, and without fail, finds its krill.
Now the ship wanes in the mains, loses train of thought
flounders in the doldrum wine glass menagerie.
We are all out of vitamin See.

But wait, I’ve just remembered,
these stanzas are made of minor lines,
and urn dimes can never be returned.

Gallery

New drawings

This gallery contains 4 photos.

New drawings, some as fresh as yesterday evening. Like with my poetry I try not to make you read it one way or another, however, each one is a poem with a title that may suggest some line of thinking whether true or false to the original intent. Michael Glenn 2013

Poem 62

When the great Boo Dada came down out of the sky on his flaming ballpoint race horse,

spouting his manifestos and commandments and memorandments and blog entry rambles,

i was in the toilet of a very dirty burger king on Lafayette road, across from the car dealership.

when i stumbled forth from the watery chasm of infectious surfaces i saw that my whopper had

imploded from the sheer force of proselytizing that had been done in the sky, and in the dining area.

i brought my desecrated burger to Mandy, the key manager on duty, and asked her for another.

she did not hear me, her ears were glued shut with the magic of the Boo Dada’s lyrical tirade.

so i asked the fry cook, Larry, but he was salting fries and enumerating the sainted of the Boo Dada.

finally, hungry and pissed right off, i jumped the counter, rifled through chicken and fries and junior whoppers

and grabbed my replacement whopper, so cleanly wrapped in it’s waxy paper, so warm from the lamps.

i sat again in the booth beneath the summer window heat, outside i saw that an apocalypse had broken out,

in the sky eagles and wolves fought, angry dead admonished their living survivors, explosions and plagues broke out

but i didn’t have a stake in the mayhem so i sipped my dr. pepper and unwrapped my almost 100% beef mana,

unfortunately it had pickles. i headed over to see if subway had survived the coming of the Boo Dada.