Long Memories

Mired in the 9 to 5
day to day
get you paid
Mired in the A to B
here to there
and back again
Mired in the blinder’s faith
do not hear
do not see
And speak about the avenues
the grass is green
we are so free
Free above the poverty
privileged me
and mighty thee
Free above wretched wastes
where skeletons
strike brittle stakes
Yet mired in our apathy
we sign the warrant
on our fate


Media Zealot

Media zealot, sitting on a dark bench
Only that lustrous blue glow
of reruns played on go

One show, two shows, three shows, flow
I’m no saint… and netflix is my whore
She wears Sidonia most every night
Her New-Black lipstick shade
Anime her wanting lips
And that American Horror where she’s shaved
Her lips part moaning and lusty
moist with Underwoods
In real life my woman is calling
but bea… I want you more

Media Zealot
Dripping on a dark bench
bleeding that lustrous blue glow


Friend of mine lost someone recently, and I know they weren’t as close as he’d have liked. Might be opportunistic of me, but in thinking about his situation and what kind of thoughts he might torture himself with, I found a solid footing. This poem is a look at the darker reaches of what that might be.


She’d be the fabric and spine that held us together
Tender when gentle and fierce as weather
Her hands lend ours, her spirit our anchor
Her eyes, her heart, see through what brittle-lies
Our pride and ambition would play at disguise

A scent would slip by the doorstep of our minds
Opening with its’ presence home and the rind
What little currency is ours, she’d be our banker
Together we’d weather a lifetime, a-stormy
And even in her absence we still hear her story

…that is how it’s supposed to happen

but we missed the smile that grew from the heart
but we missed the song that slew vile-dart
and came it did to stain our marks
undone, our balance, our punchline in dark
and here we are bitter, confused and alone
abused and abandoned we curse and refuse
but rattle on and bang, barred up in our cage,
our symptoms ring hollow, religion is rage

sallow, our vision sees what poison infamed
and everywhere rotten, and everywhere shame…
because she would have been our fabric our spine
tender when gentle and fierce in design
together we’d have weathered a lifetime, a-stormy
but as it stands we’ve forgotten what story
what promise, what love, what held us together
is nothing, is wasted, is all rotten weather.

Please feel free to comment if you have anything to say or add.