Poem #66

Disband bandit trumpet boxes.
Undertow serifs rift the nightshirt bosom.
Looping back the scarecrow lost sight of his trueness.

When the widow walks fill with toxins, we will rid poetry of humanness.
Through regurgitation the chasm of greatness can be skirted, never sexed, only ever fingered around its edges.
Ask questions in jukebox literati,
Rebrand the mouth signs if you are scared by the answers.

Ok’d for the nth time I bicycle through highway cornbread,
Roster new designated hitters,
Brigand the metric system sophists,
Land face down, amid the thorny chaff of teenage waste, after
Evil knievelling garden gnome riddles, spaces where oomph is impotently flattered.

Grisly were the faces that came from the glade just beyond life.
I shifted, decided on a long con with low payoff.
Somewhere god is in his union break and traffic cones distract
The celestial commute.

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Poem 65

the metaphor for life in this poem will be a glass marble,

but not just any old glass marble but one of those rare ones,

where the glass’ impurities have mingled with the silica to create

a mesmerizing cross-section of textures, layers and levels inside the marble

and when you look into it you think about a tiny universe maybe,

and in that tiny universe there are new countries and new people and

new animals and new water and rivers and trees and new air

but not a single moment of terror or torture or shame or self-doubt

and in that universe there is another you who knows what it’s about,

you know someone who really gets all this shit, and he or she or @# is amazing,

a job killer, a rock star, a badass samurai in a world of dime store villains,

and the life of this other you always shakes out good,

and there are beautiful days and moments and scenes and shit,

all strung together in this amorphous blob of you,

and he or she or @# believes in the world, takes joy from it,

writes poetry and makes prints and paintings and songs,

and can play the guitar or the trumpet like any of our mundane musicians,

can resist temptation, has never smoked, eats  well, believes in goodness,

and then outside that universe is another you, but like a god you

that suffers and doubts and cries and can’t get anything right,

and has been made to believe that this is the way it’s supposed to be,

that heaven is a reward and that hell is a punishment that greed is good

and sharing is for pussies, that the world is out to get you, and maybe it is,

and he or she or @# wants to believe the hypesters and the spinners

and the BS reciters, the evangelizers, the equalizers and the righteous-izers,

but somehow this other You-God says fuck all that, fuck all of that,

look at this marble, this cheap, dollar store marble, it sure looks like

a good place to be alive, don’t you think?