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Poetry 4

Like mentioned on the other poetry pages, it's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not sure why these five ended up on yet another separate page. It seemed necessary to break up the uploads of dazzling, brilliant prose. (heh, heh... does that still work here in January, 2011? Y'know, the future?)

NOTE: None of these are repeated in the new digital poetry book, Brief Tales of Compromised Solutions

 

Misery Postman

 

Misery Postman finds himself

Clawing through headline worthy wreckage

Leaving milk rotting in the Saturday morning sun

Checking the soft hands gently passing him up to the front

Staking claims that might absorb the wrath of his idiot king

 

Misery Postman defends himself

With a voice that shakes the robes of a dozen burned angels

Through an accusation that clips clouds and tears designer stamps

Under a hail of return to the absolute most high senders

Because the gardens he was promised got out from under and off scot free

 

Misery Postman positions himself

Above the emergency test railing at the trial

With his bag at his side with the names and addresses of the very dead

Beside a lighting rig that he has paid off to only show his bright side

Near the only mangy dog that ever gave him the time of day

 

Misery Postman reminds himself

That the wealth of nations could save him if he makes the right rounds

That subjected to such a letter could take the wind out of any sail

That a faulty punch clock could very well have cost him everything

That the shit he has to deal with would look like gold to anyone else

 

Misery Postman lets himself

Be taken out of the rushing stream for one gasping moment

Be licked and stuck onto a destiny that is half a time and place away

Be chased off course by a raging and wild hole in someone elseís alibi

Be moved like a pawn from the slow but real playing board to a great and artful nothing watching from the sidelines

 

Youíve Taken Too Many Chances With the Blood

 

One day I am going to have to clean up these dusty attics

Sometime soon I will turn around and account for my wake

A sun will rise upon all my garbage and Iíll be forced at gunpoint to tally every piece

Counting the days that made moments and the nights that made nothing in a brief stretch of time that I hold on the edge of a pale white string

 

Everyone sells out my numbers

Strangers turn in my whispers

Picking apart the sands and clocks

While demanding future on the side

 

A clear and concise analysis of my doings in these vaunted blood rooms is a matter for distant history books

Something they will make me crawl for when the times comes for me to hide my tracks like a leper

You try to renegotiate your position but secretly know youíve taken too many chances with the blood

 

Triumphs in name only fall like dominos

Hollow achievements echo in the cold and real air

A place of high ceilings and distant piano chords

Furniture in appearance only

An odd corner of the world to pour out your heart and mind onto whatever you can get your quaking dripping hands on

Playing down the long and windless plains of uninspired stone

Clutching to the lightning flash of the motionless moment

 

All in a sentence

Of days weeks months

Of soft and stained carpet

Of strong arm posturing

Of endless notes and rewrites

Of random routines thrust upon us

Of flashes and failures that form you

Of collapsing black holes at the tip of your tongue

Of making the best with wet black words

And all for a sentence

That holds these things up to truthís light

 

 

Unstuck In Time

 

The thousand forest

 The yellow waking

Youth on the fridge

Getting together with the unelected accomplice

Dreary November sames

Pushing shit news into the next pay period

Refusing the clicking of the patriarchal tongue

Nary a squawk from the simple red bird

Purposeful positioning of statements later rendered truth like

It all reeks of tags and undiscovered but clichťd codes

Winking into the phone and making thoughts a general advance

Creaking the bedsprings with a bag of old nickels

 

Pissbox mutterings

An underappreciated examining

Of the quivering tombs of our sinless elders

When the fence is torn in the perfect spot

And the dogs are set upon with wires and pardons

Unlike your flailing submarines

Which just pitch and caw the whole night through

Beside long dead lakes that run worse than dry

Saluting the cutting of wise support systems

Dust ups like a drunken uncle anecdote

Sent down the tubes onto Christmas dinner

Getting caught twice behind the same eight ball lie

Selling off the trapeze when youíre still in midair

Forgetting the foreign words when I need them

Turning tables on the persons with a charming sneer

Pumping out the same new paradoxes

Catching me off guard with frigid contradictions

 

I was okay with all the mistakes

Until they fell on me

And now unstuck in time

The mistakes are all I see

 

 

They Called it a Joyous Occasion

 

It didnít take long

No one had the time to glance at their watch to make sure

 

There was a youthful clanging of the circus bell

Which called out the tricks and shut up the suspects

Made fine linen out of the overtly pleasant answers

And turn gold back into a senseless shining light

With heads no longer turning with the routine of the sun

 

And it was a moment that split like aces

Roughly handled by the shrunken expectations

Moved through personnel files like a curious and drunken rat

Dropping notes and hints like fighter bombs

Filling up bellyaches with an ethereal nourishment

 

Freely made associations then cumbersome traffic reports

An onslaught of shipping containers begging you to cop a feel

The piano lurched out of the corner to accuse him of boring

And she canít help but agree as the dance seemed like something out of a cage

Like a sentence rolling up on itself an starting again and again

 

Toasting the gasping foam death of the waves at our feet

Counting broken finger victims twice for sport

Invitations that disregarded the time and location

They only made it by following crooked and nearly fallen stars

Listing the wrinkled anecdotes in bullet time on the torn drapes

 

They called it a joyous occasion

And even the friends in old familiar chains could not deny

That with just the right amount of force the charm would slowly appear

The future was brighter than men who promised its end

The answer baked into a cake that could never leave the oven

 

Over in a second

I forgot the meaning because there was something in my eye

 

 

Hunting Freedom with a Hammer

 

Hunting Freedom with a Hammer

Crippling Justice to keep it within armís reach

Making a point with harsh blunt intentions

Because today the best chance is with coming through tears

 

One whimper of a bang

Holding rags in sweating hands

Wringing both out over the fires

As the roofs fly off with slow shingled wings

It was a glorified idea birthed with the cold eyes of extraordinary men

Giving shape and mass to even honest dreams

Warping it slightly so it could fit through the doors and onto the tables

 

Cutting through spiders webs

Making strides along the dotted lines

Given enough rope to string us all up ten times over

To trip over and tumble whether our steps were noble or not

 

Gathering steam and letting the burns roll downhill

Passing the buck while supporters fawn

Trying to balance your future with what you hold dear

Sanctioned until youíre pissing red tape

 

You look into a faceless sea and are informed that the numbers are people and the people are numbers

Briefs and contracts taking you into the abstract halls of formulas over flesh

In case of heightened states of risk management break glass and slit wrists

 

They hear the hollow clatter of the last pills in the clear plastic bottle with the stale white lid

They have the photos of your death mask while your heart beats in resentment

Make sure you get too big to fail

Before being set up to fail

Putting cheques on sticks as a warning to competitors

 

You skipped over the grinder

Read only the meaty dispatches in between

Chatted briefly with disaster

Suggested keynote recipes with a warm afterglow

 

Hunting Freedom with a Hammer

Cornering it in beneath a darkened underpass

Demanding secret answers to classified questions

Forcing open its jaws and extracting the key tooth

 

The little voice inside

Starving since your shotgun handshake

Faded and grey after the clear and present course

Rendered obsolete by committee and compromise

Is sticking its proverbial head in a figurative oven

 

You ask for a moment to deliberate

Themes and slogans bought wholesale

Coming out of the woodwork begging for revenge

Desperate to avoid being tossed in with the young junk

 

Answers dripping out of the cracks of your mouth

A finger from the inside wiping it away

Your past is a ragged husk with black wind blowing around its bones

A transmitter switched off and under

 

Donít ask how you found yourself in this position

Only creased static bursts through the radio

Thereís good money to be made in professional denials

A bait and switch of noble truths for the holy sharks

 

And all thatís left of you with me

Is a single breath stuck on a steaming mirror

Nothing wrong with getting lost in the fog for a moment

Just as long as the power of love doesnít become the love of power

 

 

 

 

the morning sun has yet to climb my hood ornament.