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?

Poetry 37 - Edgy First Sonnet Back

Rustic writing, off quiet vacation -
Writing sonnets, still a pain in the ass.
Like literary asphyxiation.
Fuck, man, I gotta pick up some more grass.

Nah, I'm not really a burnout just yet,
but I can't say I don't know any though.

If you came here for art,
you should be disappointed.

Poetry 36 - The Violin

Shaven wood.
Polished wood.
Colored wood.
Acoustics
of wood.

I quit.
It's a violin,
polished to a sleek,
dark brown texture -

Darting sound,
with a charming balance
between violent and silent.

The state of sophistication,
the smooth placement,
eloquent bow.

The bow -
reeking of rampant,
gentle progression.

I wonder if it tastes as good as it sounds...

Poetry 35 - Analogical Ladder

Writing sucks - no
It is cruel.

“It’s getting something off your chest,”
except it stays.
It is
the bitter cranberry juice stain on a white dress.

Nothing removes, rather
writing wiggles the dagger inside.

Grooving,
it doubles as a ladder.

Blood spurts, then climbs
the analogical ladder,
to leap from the roof
to the paper.

Wounds remain,
after forceful claws to communicate.

A hostage situation -
waterboard me ‘til I speak.
I’ll cough it all up,
and I’ll feel it shoot.

“Poetic,” projectile vomit.
More stains.

Poetry 34 - The First Caucus

Iowa is today:
Compton vs. the Sandwich.
I'm feeling hungry.

Poetry 33 - Granted Abilities

I did well
pretending to be a better version of me;
an MP3, sold with more exclusivity.

I am a cup of water,
posing as the sea.
To desert hikers -
there is no difference.

A picture book to the illiterate,
cryptic meaning -
empathy and eyes, the only tools to read it.
Sorry, Hellen Keller.

Granted abilities:
Eyes.
Empathy.
Gates to the same city,
separate cemeteries.

I did well jumping the fences I could not see.
It's like spotting symbolism the author didn't mean.