Cincinnati, OH @ Woodward Theater 05/05/18 #poetry

Schwervon!

fullsizeoutput_84d photo by John Smallwood

Cigarette butts and apple sauce.
There’s aliens in our midst
Self indulgent birthday guitar solos
Lavender oil on bearded clams
Green lights that turn green
And then green
And then back to green again.

You made a sound
Like a little baby,
When you were a little baby

I wore my funeral dress to the wedding
You put your credit card
Where your mouth is
Lisa 4517

Say you say me
I hear you crying out
Behind a wall of doubt
And who will pay for the wall

Too poor to take the pill
I’ll leave you in my will
Then foot you with the bill
Attica!
Atta boy!
Add a bake potato for just
Three bucks!

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Fire men

Excuse me, sir?
You left something
Right there on the bench
Next to me.

Marks on the launch pad.
How many suffer
For a flower to grow?

“We burn them to ashes
And then we burn the ashes.”

We learn so much from fire.
Everything burns the same
Beautiful and bright.
Everyone in the room knows
When it’s on.

A million tiny tongues
All going at once.
Do they taste anything?

“If I could lick my own balls
I might never date again.”

Fire changes things
With one quick click flicker
Forever.

The gaze of a father
Turns the skin to Silly Puddy.
We forge weapons
During commercials
Hack away
At the hanging bags of Jello.

The fire is in us.
We feel entitled to write books
To burn.

Decide

Day after day
The sad beauty.
Watching the little girl
Ooze out of you

I need to decided which one I like.
No I don’t.

Work poem

Every day every look every word.
Every moment wasted
Tanks filled, sitting.
Beautiful works of art collecting
Dust in warehouses.
Transfers of power.
Not even ink on paper
Fleeting bursts of energy
Obligitorily touched
By expendable employees

Morning

The dream informs the nightmare
Every abuse is a snowflake
Sometimes we lie
When we tell the truth
What if the Morning Pages
Are the poem?

All

These old feelings
Like books
And grand sailing ships,
Clear windows of glass
To new worlds,
Now something different,
Heavy
Chains around the neck
Running through sand
Disguising the path
Inspire by the masochism
To totally different worlds
All good