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