Poetry 43 - VICE

Too ADD
to read arbitrary articles
on VICE about crippling thoughts
and moral bamboozles.

The elipsis is leading the pen,
the lines are built for Ford,
and there are no theatrics going on.

Emo poetry is unrevised misery.
I have no time for that here.

Poetry 42 - I Wrote a Better Poem

I wrote a better poem than this
a few years ago.

It was a slick explanation
about missing files and
ineffective communication.

I don't remember it much,
but I'm sure it was more accurate than this.

You can't ask for much
when you're talking in retrospect.

This is not appropriate,
but I will not find that file.

It may have been shredded.

Poetry 41 - A Cat Named Didact

Naming my cat Didact,
I may have unfairly held her
to unattainable standards.

Typical male.

Well, Didact was a furry, brown creature -
like an amiable bear who meows.

When someone came in,
she would meow, and continue to meow,
until I got up and pet her.

This poem is not a metaphor.

I don't lock my door at night.

Someone came in, and Didact sounded the alarm.
They pressed snooze, just as I was.

A TV, a camera,
a case of Blu-rays,
and all nine lives.

Poetry 40 - Unrevised

An artist who doesn't accept criticism
is not an artist.

They are a genius, or reserve the right to be
in their hyper-reality.

They are weeds without a fence,
foundations with no house,
lost wanderers
who will not be found.

Thank you.

Poetry 39 - Change is Coming, I Swear

Keep in mind, I was a sober mover in the sun,
hot coffee, no A/C.
I'm sure there's a story behind the bullshit.

Jingle-jingle-jingle,
a one dollar coin,
reminds me why
I wouldn't pay
a penny for my thoughts.

Keep in mind, we were moving and I never cleared out my desk,
my emails or my dresser,
heavier to lift than the thoughts with which I weighed them.

Nickel and dime me
to the breaches of sanity.
Call the night sticks,
and beat me morning sick -

Keep in mind, I have an awful tendency to repeat the same spew,
send double emails, reuse dirty clothes,
putrid as a sleepy rose in a hospital gift shop.

for being out of my quarters.

Poetry 38 - Where Have All the Stoners Gone?

Where have all the stoners gone?
And why is this shed so empty now?

The only items burnt out
are the Christmas lights once
illuminating these experiences.

Contact highs, water bottle bongs,
have faded with the smoke -
into the air,
thin as Ana in Auschwitz.

Where have all the stoners gone?