Category Archives: Poetry

the gods of others (not your god(s))


the gods of others are never there,
                                                                      they are never there
they don’t come when you want them to
they are not reliable; always out to lunch
or doing whatever gods do to pass the time

when i speak towards the sky, i never get a response
maybe they just don’t speak english?
the gods of others stay outside of my head
the gods of others are u-n-believably dreadful
(not deserving of awesome god t-shirts and hats)
they leave me to think for myself
the gods of others, i do not understand them
they want my charitable contributions
in exchange for symbols, to die for

the gods of others are never there,
                                                                      they are never there
they don’t know my name and never come around
they refuse to make their presence known
even absent from the foxholes, deathbeds, and jails of society
the gods of others are as quiet as church mice

are they just indifferent or hard of hearing?
they hide right-out in plain view
often resembling, the people who proselytize them
they are risen in the form of men, with beards or bald heads
or sometimes as fantastical creatures of light
or in the form of statues, swapping animal parts for human parts
elevated on an altar, to be gazed upon from below
they won’t lower themselves to sit on my couch
they don’t come to dinner
they don’t move objects in the air
and they won’t defeat the enemy in battle

the gods of others don’t bless inanimate objects
or animate objects – for that matter
the gods provide no protection
they remain elusive and non-inclusive
the gods of others don’t care, if i live or die
the gods of others are never there,
                                                                      they are never there
the gods of others just don’t care

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estar en buenas manos /in good hands

Poetry

manos como guantes
llevaba para decoración
tomar con lujuria
la corriente de química
escondido dentro
universo en expansión
dentro de su mente

manos que saben
manos que te hacen
tú son sus herramienta
sus desempeño
sus marioneta
enamorado de las cuerdas
que le conectan

bienvenida a las manos
manos que poner en libertad
con el tirón suave
de tú cuerdas
y tú la amas a ella mucho
manos que tú cree en

hands like gloves
put on for decoration
to take lustfully
the chemical flow
concealed within
expanding universe
inside your mind

hands that know
hands that fashion you
you are their tool
their performance
their marionette
smitten with the strings
that connect you

hands you welcome
hands that set you free
with the gentle tug
of your strings
and you love her dearly
hands you believe

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petroleum junkie (america what are you doing?)

Poetry

commander and priest
– obama anoints you
(a mighty fortress is our drone)
how can one c-e-o,
have so much power?
confess your text messages,
under the killing rain
of hellfire (missiles)
and obama-nation

prophet palin proclaims
the sacrament of torture
at the baptismal font
of ply-board, water jug, and rag
the implements of pol pot,
assimilated by the new religion
democracy has come to you
for the drowning of 100 times
your soul will be cleansed
and brought into the fold
of petroleum nation

one nation under a habit
a nation beyond criticism
beyond the mention
of her mainline crude
as if the needle tracks
are silent badges of honor
for they attacked us first
; america
does too much – other good
while spreading the word
across omniscient satellites
to a hungry world
of brutal imperfection
she can help, she can hurt

are you frightened yet?
tropical island paradise,
the holy land, awaits you
with feeding tubes of charity
horror without redress
where fallibility is as absurd
as facing your accusers

“pay no attention to that man behind the curtain”
he works for you
and all are eligible
to win the lottery

postscript:
with this work
i do formally announce
my candidacy
for reeducation
and assimilation
please make a donation
of that which you worship most

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featured in Norfolk’s AltDaily

Photography, Poetry, Writing

I have a poem, photo, and explanation featured on Norfolk’s AltDaily.

The poem is “the corpse of yesterday” and the photo is death hides in the past and the future. The poem’s formatting is not perfect but it will do. The photo and poem are followed by a short explanation of my thought processes and is titled “Headless Angel.”

Check it out and let me know what you think.

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summer inhales winter

Poetry,

magnolia whispering solace
outside the open window
drift on lazy scented air

the ground heats up
earthworms feed
and oak tassels
are born again and again

diligent insects
paper-winged dandelions
covet cool tile shade

the air moves freely
across the rhythmic spin
ceiling fan pronouncements

squirrels and robins
dream of ripe figs
in a world without cats

a child carried ‘round
the rise and fall of noon
with legs dangling

warm southern swells
return to caress
eating cold pasta salad

vinegar soaked artichokes
imbibing amber ale
out of pint glasses

fading eyesight discovers
the enemy of humanity
feeds the green earth

“you are here”
in a spiral arm
safely cradled

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a chance encounter

Poetry

Chesapeake, VA 04/10/14

cutting through a small wood
on the way, from my car to work
the dead rabbit startled me
i almost stepped on it
(no longer a he or a she)
i was forced to pause
process what i was looking at
a huge brown eye stared back
as if contemplating me
as i contemplated it
low-slung in still submission
the body stretched out
in order to get a closer look at me
large head hugging the ground
relaxed with ears laid back
“but it’s too close to be relaxed”
making for an unusual sight
there was no sign of death
except for an unnerving calm
but it was in there nonetheless
having freshly arrived on the scene
i broke-off our gaze and moved on

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running with eyes closed (i just want to see)

Poetry

cold cereal blackberries in the richness of tv tag sky weathered boards left red in a leaf after the green land occupies the thought of ticks buried deep in the flesh pumping a flooded basement

in the heart of the matter concealed pictures of dead relatives drinking ice tea hunting for wet creatures stepping on stones across creek pebble pools filling with crayfish walking into spider webs

picking up daddy longlegs by the legs and flinging the sweet scent of fresh cut hay resting on hay bales over treetops the high pitched whine of a saw blade drops octaves into wood

red dirt throwing a new baseball on the roof struck by lightning ears ringing deaf japanese beetle june bug comic book frogs in the darkness whippoorwill whippoorwill whippoorwill

little white church with large black voices rising on hands clapping rhythms saturday evening worship filling the landscape with jesus eternal summer tadpole moths bang against the white-light of window screens

tossing tea and chocolate chip cookies in predawn paper route roll up the car windows to keep out dirt-road dust peanut butter sandwich trees slowly absorb rusted barbed wire bounding down mountains of sawdust leaching acrid rivulets of dark tinted tannin

pokeberry purple poison tin cans full of bullet hole chickens scratching in the dirt surrounding live and encroaching green stained soles of barefoot fireflies pulsing florescent yellow in mason jars covered with foil tops punched with pencil holes

matchbox cars in the dirt window fan swoosh of passing cars muffled in humid night doppler effect national geographic cutting grass climbing trees front porch bear yellow light-bulb leather headed buzzards riding thermals above road-kill baking on soft asphalt

cutoff jeans pulling weeds gnat clouds and red dirt clumped sweat loud hands ticking on a midnight watch laid upon the dresser basketball goal ply-board backboard on twin pole 4 x 4s plastic car and tank models swimming at summer camp

can i have a cricket on a string? can i have a cricket on a string?

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time capsule (the warmth of vinyl)

Poetry,

“…the launching of this ‘bottle’ into the cosmic ‘ocean’ says something very hopeful about life on this planet.” Carl Sagan

8-bit is a byte
try as you might
to turn on the light
off or on, zero or one

analogue is warm
giant size the norm
imperfection storm
to come in waves

corduroy carl wise
search the alien skies
voyager probe flies
a golden record spin
(16 2/3 rpm)

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he wore his mother’s cross

Poetry

“I looked the man in the eye. I found him to be very straight forward and trustworthy… I was able to get a sense of his soul.” George W. Bush

a strongman wishing he had an empire
sent the cossacks after pussy riot
for singing a protest song at his olympics
a song about a shirtless man on horseback
in a land where words will get you killed,
where journalism is a death sentence,
and plutocrats preach “russia for russians”
through ultra-nationalist movements
of an old mother filling the stomachs
of her proletarian children with vodka

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