steop

i'm sure
once
a lot
of poets
get into
a
room
together
and
start
spouting
that it's
too much
and that's
backwards,
which is
why the word
poets backwards
is steop!

hello poetry,

it's me again.

here to wade over
your
dream catcher
and set to
get stuck like
a bug in your
sappy web.

i delve into your
moneyless waters
once again knowing
that i will never
make money off
such a craft as this.

and again i realize
it's a relationship
fueled by zinging red hearts
cause there is nothing
more than
this spate
where i pull my
archer's arrow high
and try to
hit the center
of the center dot
once again.

you will sit there
with a penniless
mouth
reminding me of
a world void of money
and humans without
genitals.

you give me notions
of how to capture ideas
like how we may
all be chewing into
more meat with bits
of bone and bread
with hard crunchies
cause there are honing devices
being put into our
food by the friendly
government pals
we put into power.

then you come back to
remind me how
i can understand the origins
of this malady down here
if i just listen
to the breath of my
son in silence
as he roars through dreams
his wordless tongue
will not be able to
speak to me.

and you always
offer me a used
and empty wallet
that makes me smile.

you are the one thing
that requires no money,
and spends none,
and makes me none.

and if the day comes
that you begin changing
your selfless ways,
many more will find this
missive and i may be
sorry that you
innocent cloak has been
exposed.

oh my
dear friend poetry.

run and hide ..

.. for i would never want them
to catch you this way
with wandering dollar signs
and
selfish sweat socks.

billions of prior people

when we all
have odd
fears,
intriguing
fetishes,
slappy pleasures,
unknown terrors,
magical ecstasies,
we have
to realize
that our
vessels
of mind and soul
are the
wavering entirety
of every human
that came before
us.
as we carry
the torch of
humanity forward
just a blink
more
into the future
beyond,
it's easy to get
lost in the
small bubble
of our immediate family
we know.
but we also had generations
of family that led to ours
and
was
hugely before ours.
then mince
in all the friend’s
acquaintances,
work fellows,
memorable stingers
and we are
armed
with enough
human ancestry of
memory to make us
become a mixed
bag
of quixotic eccentricies.
and when we realize
that the human remains of
centuries of folks
are the basis of the oil
we wage wars over
you can
begin to come full circle
in understanding how
intricately entwined
in this reality
with all our fellow
humans
we
truly
are.

i woke up in the suburbs again

and the
sun
was soft
on my skin
as my boy
sat at
the kitchen
island counter
in a rare
moment of
silence
as i reached down
through
the
screams of
light to
grab the
world’s headlines
as i looked
around
at the
quiet
neighboring
homes and
felt
as though
i was
nowhere
at
all
and it
was a delight
to
know
that
i
could
have
been in
a
smog
infested city
center
or
in
the
middle
of oblivion
of rural
america
as
i pressed
the
garage door
closed
and
saw my son
angle
towards
my
gaze
as
though
we
had seen
each other
for
the
first time
in
weeks.

I feel like i live in area 51

shoved back
in the lurching quadrants
of rural missouri,
no one goes outside,
i never see kids in pools,
never see children playing on
elaborately built swing sets,
never see adults cooking on
huge propane grillers,
never see people just sitting
out front,
never hear the cocophony
of human noises i used
to hear in the throb of
midtown.

now,
i imagine the invisible,
secret toilings of
living beings that constantly
stay indoors,
even during california weather.

are they building top secret
alien structures?

are they the spawn of
something that should be hidden
from the rest of us all?

are these people real?

do they like to be alive?

the loneliness of
the burbs is the
full admission that
this is where people come
to escape everything
and this seems
to be
the best thing
these people are good at.

vanishing,
quiet,
solitude,
cease,
like
nearly being dead
with a heart full of
blood ready
to squirt into
all the
awaiting
extremities
ready to
burst into a big
bang
of
action.

each simple moment that passes

there are millions
of
tiny warm
arms
reaching up
into the
enormous
sky of sun
for
a bit
of
recognition
from
god
and
as
we
tumble
into our next mysterious
moment wondering
if
god
understands our
secrets hidden
within our
charlatan
requests,
i see
the sky smile
in
a
long cloud
parting
as
we
wait
to
find out
if
there
really
is
some
kind of
truth
to all
theses plants
growing
and
astronauts
going
insane.

slippery trail

one morning
i was tailing a
big trash truck
tossing
bits of slips
from it's large,
open mouth
as the blaring sun
turned a hotter yellow
and
the
unknown of what
was or wasn't written
on this
non-stop trail
of paper slips
flopping up,
and out into
the
pang of
sky
that
is
going
to
never
leave
my
mind
as
the
story
has
written,
and the song
sung,
while
the
trash truck
makes a left,
and i
continue
straight,
foot on pedal harder,
as the world
begins going quicker
in
a flurry
of
almost forgettable
notes.