Poetry

Pomegranate Juice in Three Parts

Sweet and sour, puckered tongues, and stained fingertips I had a great line here, but I deleted it in revision I tend to ramble and I drop in images from the things I’ve learned And I’ve learned a lot. So much crime in the world today, makes me wanna hide under the covers But you can’t stay there because you have shit to do You brutalized the umami on my taste buds I’m sucking down hydrogen monoxide to restore my sanity Turned out, dropped in, this state I’m in (California) He sighs loudly from his lips and the halitosis is intense I’m glad this doesn’t apply to me because I’d be freaking out right now How much gas did I use to get here? And how do I get back? I’ll never know when it ends until the next door splinters in the hallway of my belligerent head All I…

The Transitory Nature of Self

It seems as though I am in a constant state of transition. People come, people go, but nothing ever really changes. Perpetual motion until a greater force propels me in another direction. I ache to find stability in earthquake friendly regions. Why do I open myself to such heartache? I must’ve been a masochist in another time, another place Doomed to repeat the biological imperative of limbo My karmic punishment for some unknown wrong So I’ll continue to feel hopeful for something else.

I Don’t Like September

I do not like September. With its cooling breeze and covered knees, Lyrically imprisoned in someone else’s dreams. It’s back to school, march one, two, three. I do not like September. Three steps closer to the end of the year. Which begs the question: where did it go? One happy little walk off a very short pier. I do not like September. Lest we forget the eleventh. Two came down, off went your cloak of naivete Just to put on another. I do not like September. The only time of year you grieve Playing the celluloid of his life bereft in your head Reminds you he’s not here and still dead. I do not like September. Mostly because of the eighteenth You’re one year older Last year is the same as this one. One more hill you have to climb One more story left to write One more song to…

Morning at the Office

Stoic and upright in the throne The electric seduction of mechanically cooled air Blurs the punctured silence of ambiance Doors open and close above and below Never behind Leaves on the tree hover between a kaleidoscope of evergreen It’s time for a meal Patience knowing the wait is a little longer For the welcome respite of sixty tick-tocks Vocabulary reeks of the sickly sweet smell of rubbish Percolating under the California sun Unsure if the madness makes sense In the greater scheme of things.

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