The blues are not my own

The blues are not my own
I borrowed them
Ok, I stole

That’s what music is,
Stealing cleverly
Cover up the parts

that everyone knows
and make them
your own

When a new music is born
It’s violent
So savage and violent

Cultures clashing
like guerilla warfare –
I love it

Don’t you?
The feedback?
The grinding?

Slow it way down
until you can’t recognize
anything from the original

No music is inherently anyone’s –
It belongs to whoever conquered it
And left their flag on top

(Bitterly) I’m only halfway up
the insufferable mountain
I dropped my sword an hour ago

Hand to hand
Fist to fist
Till I’m dead

Till we’re all dead
Conflict is as human
as the blues

That’s why I love it
That’s why I stole it
When I sing, you can’t even tell

Make some noise for the virgin poet

The steel toed, blue collar poetry
The kind that shit talks and winces-through-sore-forearm-fuckery
Been doin’ it since I was 9, that’s a lie

I’m just a wanna be – that never has
Well, I has a little
(Stammering) I – I – I can hang drywall now!

I can’t grit my teeth like they can yet
I don’t mean it and they know it
Green around the edges with the familiar fishy smell

I walk into the deli,
Tape on my hip, like some
Hollywood “cowboy” that can’t even ride a fuckin’ horse

It’s the kind of sonnet
That always has ragged lines –
Never so neat and orderly

Wait, what am I talking about?
Poetry? Construction?
Cause I do both like it’s my first time

I don’t write poems

I don’t write poems
I write journal entries
or un-catchy choruses
or manic business ideas
or half-hearted love notes
or whole-hearted thank yous
or slanted post-it-note scrawlings
or lines to ward off all this depression
or letters to my left brain so I don’t kill myself
or letters to my right brain about how best to do it
I don’t write poems, I write short speeches that nobody hears

Gaslight, Clifton – 4/4/17

One hundred years of insulation
rained down on my head
Shit, literal shit
And I could’ve stayed in bed

Plaster, drywall, ceiling tile
Confetti you wouldn’t want to eat
Tear it down with garden tools
In this mansion ‘cross the street

Dust in lungs, soot in eyes
I look like another race
Shoes stuck with nails, bleeding socks
Hair in my fuckin’ face

Break the lath over your knee
Bend back all the nails
Into the bin with most of it
And throw it down in bales

It’s like another planet,
The look of mold from Mars
Scoop it up with snow shovels
Throw it out – but miss the cars

It’s all swept up, shit’s all gone
No debris at my feet
One hundred years of secrets
That I intend to keep

He is the dark from which evil draws inspiration

Became the dark, did he at last
And ransomed hope for power
While clung the mate to his mast

The crew low and wayward asked
What to make of this ghostly hour
Became the dark, did he at last

The mate cried to crew, hold fast!
And the shaky men threw fit and cower’d
While clung the mate to his mast

The ocean roared like storms of past
And rose the water to mighty tower
Became the dark, did he at last

The blue did churn as far and vast
As his sunken eyes could scour
While clung the mate to his mast

Marvel did he, at his wayward cast
While the ocean spray did mist a shower
Consumed by dark, was he at last
While clung the mate to his mast

Outward, Inward

Bring the water to my lips again

The molecules are more focused in the glass
Than they are in the water
And the table has even more
And then there’s the floor

On the foundation rests the house
And that house sits on the ground
Which is as dense as the earth is wide
He pulls the molecules aside

Bring the water to my lips again

Loosely fitting pieces
Sit atop magma and rock
The ground sits on top of the shelf
And I sit on top of it all by myself

Oh, where does the earth rest?
And how does space sound?
Maybe the earth is a glass
To the beginning, alas!

Bring the water to my lips again

“A glass can only spill
What it contains”