Doing Right by the Wrong

Darth Sidious fell down again.
His base doesn't fit
into his feet
snugly.
The holes in his soles are loose,
leaving him vertically unstable.
He falls down daily,
always on his face.
He doesn't complain
or show appreciation.
I put him back up anyway.
Even a villain should be able to stand
up.

This Poem Has No Merit At All

I just started smelling donuts.
I was at my desk, working
and donut smell wafts through my cube.
Intense sugar and maple,
I can even catch a note of chocolate glazed.
Its hard enough being a corporate surf,
laboring away in a poorly air conditioned cube
but having to smell donuts all day
is too much.

I know its a slow method of suicide
supported by both church and state,
but some of us are trying to sustain
life, not slowly strangle it.

Its ten forty five for Christ's sake
stopping dropping off pallets of donuts
next to the air intake in the break room.
People are trying to survive their
god damned lives in here
and you are making it
just that much more difficult.

I hate you.

P.S. Same goes for the popcorn terrorists that strike at two to three in the afternoon.

He Said, She Said

Life is a shit-filled twinkie.
So stop eating junk food

You have to put yourself first
Sometimes that means putting others before you

You have to look out for #1.
Not at the exclusion of others

The only person you can control is yourself.
Control has nothing to do with anything

The glass is half-empty.
That's only because you drank it

I hate it here.
This place is what you make it

I've always hated it here.
It won't be the same without you

I can't stay.
You're going

But I can't say it's over.
It isn't over

We'll see.
I'll try

I love
Me too.

I feel alone
Who doesn't?

Don't forget
I can't remember.

Everything
Anything.

You said
I said?

That day.

The Image

Shudder, then clicking. Zero time and
nothing moves. Planes hold their chinks in
the sky. The automobiles are unmobile.
You cannot step where you're going.
Can touch nothing you're holding.

The slow sound stops; there isn't.

If you were here, we could
share it. I could place my
gaze looking up to your face.
You wouldn't blink.
Your eyelashes would hold
the wind, but

it's only a camera. There's
no one here
to make the picture.

heavy thoughts

sitting with a glass of merlot,
heavy, thick tasting stuff,

listening to music
& the tap of computer keys

trying to sort out
my life figuring the

narrative curve
hoping against hope that

the story hasn't climaxed
somewhat afraid it has

(i fear the existential
b-money shot)

i'm contemplative
as i listen to the

soft guitar music
& watch my cat bat

things around on my desk

grab the wine bottle
by the neck uncork

pour another glass
drink deep

i'll forgo the glass soon
& drink from the bottle

better to get at the vino
easier that way

i promise i'm not a drunk
not even close

i tried to be one time
long ago, but it didn't take

i was a wimp couldn't
handle the aftereffects

that's why i don't
read bukowski

have it told you
that i have warts

on my hands
i do: 3 on my left hand

7 on my right all
are palmsidedown

dispel a myth here:

you get warts
not hairy palms

i'm kidding
i think

DWC

Bicycle (or) Too Tired

she sits on the front porch
watching grass perform a sexy dance
colors shift with the demise of today's sun
behind slippery wax paper clouds
she is tired, weary
she is thinking of burrowing six feet, maybe more
it's not the first time, she knows, but. . . she thinks about it anyway
rest, deep sanctioned rest beneath cool breezes and damp
Jolted by electric prophets and well meaning friends
"what are you drinking?'
Pure evil Buddy-Row, Pure evil
bottomless wine glass overflows
forget about Mary's place Joe
she's too tired

Numbers Adding

He's drank a lot of that tea. I bet I've made him
six of those today. It's good. He likes it with
lots of ice to cool him down. He's so hot.
He sweat right through his
clothes last night. Is the window
open? Here, take off
his socks. I was rubbing his feet
earlier. He seemed to like it. Is
the window open? He wants you to do
it. He asked about you the other day - asked
when you were coming to see him. He
remembered your first and last name.
Is the window open?
Everything is over there in that machine now. That's
all the medicine he takes. They took
him off everything else. She showed
me what to hit when he needs more. Is the window open?
We brought in that TV so he
can watch it. He hears
everything. If you say his name
he'll open his eyes. Is
the window open? Let me go
get my sister. This is her house. She
knows how to open these
windows. I tried earlier but I can't get
the locks undone.

This is Ken and he died. I was here in this room. I heard everything and tried to remember it all from the last time I saw him. It was last week but it's in my head all the time now. I thought I would try to write it, but it didn't sound like this. I can hear the voices but I can't put them down. The room was hot and it smelled like a dying man. Now the windows are open. They always were. Curtains pulled. Wind coming and going. I carry you. He looked like a pharaoh at the funeral.

Living

so right on many counts, ds,
except for this:

these poems aren't for those
who don't live together
any more

but for those

who never did

The Terms

I think

within about two lines and without
scrolling down
you can
tell who

wrote what you're reading
on this blog.
Surprise - it's ds.

These styles made of words.
Words made of man.
Monk writes from the self of feeling.
The galaxy tells about sad
people who don't live
together anymore.
The mother-maker writes
what sees and is. A citizen stares
out from the windows.

This is the earth; ground and dirt.
The furrows stretch to the edge. I can see
the shoots
on your side crawling
towards up - the clouds moving
the busy sky.

the o'malleys

(this one is for 3rdworst's brother)

i saw two soldiers today
in the bookstore

one of them couldn't of
been any older than nineteen

maybe twenty (on a good day)
if he was lucky he shaved twice a month

they walked through the bookstore
in their computer graphiced cammies

brown boots &
high & tights

as i watched them
walk silently

i was reminded of a
scene from good morning vietnam

the one where robin williams
sees a caravan of soldiers

going in country,
headed for the shit

williams cracks wise & does
his schtick & suddenly

gets somber & asks them
their names

they yell out things like
smith, johnson, and jones

but there's one guy
who shouts

o'malley

williams gets teary
eyed & tells o'malley

& his fellow boots "to be
careful out there"

i watched these two soldiers
& i thought the same thing

take care o'malley
keep your head down

come home
safe

DWC