Friday, May 22, 2009


Word count: 330
Week 1 word count: 1273

She knows I know her and she frankly doesn’t like it one bit.
I make my comments and say, “Take it,” and she bites her lip.
I mix the iced tea and beg her to take just one sip.
She knows I hate when she says no. Goddamn, I hate her lipstick.

Words, the pedals.
Words, the release.
A stem of process,
A stem of me.

At the roots,
unending sound,
Volume, unwavering,
no up, no down.
With focus comes rhythm
out of the empty.
With focus
the chaos assumes melody.

A patch of revolution,
Coming from heart.
Missing the mark with a thug.
A bat from the swamp,
A swing on a whim,
Gorey, volatile, barbarous.

I grind in the land of milk and honey
To master the art of dreaming while awake.
I get lost in commanding lyrical reverie
Where all reality warms the floor for the day

Hell, it’s cheaper than the trend.
They’ll do whatever you say.
As long as you’ve got money
You’ll be okay.

I derive
I drive
I melodize

I infinite

I water the soil
I spray from the mast
I stammer and fall
Through the looking-glass.

I plunge into AUGHT
I watch the race croak
I rhyme all the time
I pun while I joke

She knows I lie awake at night, humming and singing myself to sleep.
She listens in and I impress but, hey, that’s just me.
She’s always made up, her she self-loves so faithfully.
I saw her mirror. There were lip prints where her face would be.

Color it
Gloss it
Poetry’s blue
When you load it in Photoshop
And fuck with the hue.

The wind kind
of tickles my eyes
But I gas it up anyway
I’m doing time
South of the line
For how I once behaved.


Bought a pea coat and a scarf
A shower and a shave
Stomped around the campus
For the stereotype parade.


1 comment:

Ryan said...

"for the stereotype parade" awesome