Day 63 (When the spreadsheets went away)

It's the cold cut color of a face lost tissue paper stucco wall mountains fallen housing situation baby this is what we were facing between the newly painted corner we were once backed into.

Head down and full of hole we cannot pass through limitations set game and matched with whits end.

Have you found what they tell you to need love and bleed the colors in the luke warm of a washing tumble turn and twist of soon to be hand dried cotton linens and things.

Fold hand to placate dramatic slide into fantasy dramatizations of our futures past endeavors in the color of white and key of C this is our evolutionary path from many to one to nothing and finally to realize itself.

But can you fill the gullet nestled soft under sharp skin hanging fast below the flapping sails of opinions long lost wooden toy boat?

Day 62 (My Glass Love)

Glass is the chamber

pumping the polyurethane

through thin crystal veins

object of desire

caught this tinder on fire

burnt down the bog and mire

you spoke

with the will and whisper

of a human

split and forked tongue

the manipulation started slowly

and

built so you could know me the inherent possibility

of picket white fences

behind dark eyes

so a heart flutters and flies

easily caught in a web of lies

left with lame spider vs fly metaphors

the pen pad prison cell

verse segment line

constructing my own hell

memories will never fade

the longer we tip toe and wade

through the stream of consciousness

anointing egos with ambergris 

for the appeal and momentary bliss

of the un-remissed

seconds inside

soon forgotten hide

torrid and tepid 

my transgressions

sting on soft flesh

but still you sparkle and shine

glimmering whine

through my simple mind

have to

want to

need to

hold the exquisite

mold and curve

smooth edge will slice

leather flesh bend to will's bite

a welcome early night

Day 61 (Dairyland Disaster)

Pent up and penned down, pin me to this ugly rind. Pinioned by time seeping in through holes in my exterior, holes in my defense, the rime creeping up around my toes, clenching my nose with its acrid stench. The hindquarters of the beast of burden yearn for relief from burrs and blur with motion too stunted to measure and too calloused to pleasure. Its treasure is in its misery, fissuring from within, bursting note after note in its throat trilling and laughing and thrashing around, dashing me to the ground, for its misery cannot be contained, it shall retrain old ways into new days, saying "please" and "thank you" and "kindly won't you shove it sir." Eyes limp with pain lick the air and paw the quivering ground; look down you cow, don't you dare raise your stare up to the heavens, heaven knows what you'll find that will find you shivering in the dark slithering to make its mark upon your heart, stark and cold, killing and thrilling the old whey of your new milk, suckled by your ilk. 

Day 60 (Apparently I can fish my stream of conscience)

Some

        spat

      on

         sun spot

 marks

         dotted

                  across

     lost spine

  to

     intertwine

the curves

              swerve

and

        dine dash

of our

         loves last laugh

this was the first

                      end

to the beginning

                    chapter

of the good book

                          of false ideas

                              and

cognitive recognition

                              of nouns

our profound existence

                                life in remittance

and it was what it is

                              or is not what it wants

I never plea bargain

                            this chip

                                       to your

closed clenched tight fist

                                    squandering moments

for the societal bliss

                            of the sweet

candy cotton

                   pants of

                                four fathers forgotten

                  alliteration

              out patient procedures

                                    bring us closer

  tight knit family

                        stocking caps

          this is that.

Day 59 (Questions from desks)

Liars will lay slow through days toll to tales tell and weak heart felling.

                                            Oh, lumberjacks of our hidden thoughts hack fast through bitter bark.

                               Swing quick with steel cold axe.

Now where is your slow drip the disturbed waisted prospect of nothing much in the much of nothing state of being you so seldom deny? 

                   Is the flannel wrap of your muscular structure torn by daily toils? 

       Does the sweat flick fast of fingers quick brush? 

                            Does closed chest inflate through swells of pride?

                                                                      Or

                

   are you strapped behind beige walls, twisting on undefined man's silver shining hook?

                                  Is the clock your whispering black master?

                                                             Or

                                  

                 better still have you sat below the working class?

   Thrusting paper personifications of ones tangled self in hopes of a simple bell and ring?

                Is luster of life the turquoise stain on your brushed copper plating?

                      This is the blessings miss counted of the modern era.

Day 58 (Things coming to morning minds)

Caught up on wire coat hang over turning sensation and this new burning patch below oval umbilical remains

I see you found my shirt and satin is easy to stain

So now could you tell me your name?

I'm sure it was nice to meet you and Id love do it over. 

God it's getting hot in here and I can smell fear and yesterdays consumption, I'd offer you cab fare but I can't find my wall, let me finish fishing this stream of thoughts rhymes and am I out of milk again?    

Why is standing so much harder than it was before?

Day 57 (Writer's block continues but I found this on a napkin in a box)

Tossed and turned martini shaker of this heartless born again Quaker state of mind set game and match this is the last laugh of the first beginning never ending wind blown fast sewn stream of up down washed out bank loans and financial statements of fact and ill repute this was loves loss in the bathroom stall of engines churn burn ice creamed turn of events happenings the promised land of cramping hands and emasculation this is one nation under god and over all

Day 56 (I cannot seem to write anything worthwhile here are notes from a meeting I attended the other day)

• Exercise this ethereal motion strengthen muscles bound ocean shores floating past messages filled with bottles of human clay molded like the awnings above a forgotten fireplaces

• The highlighter burnt my eye seared it shut while the tie choked off my air supply and I was high up in the sky supposedly it makes me feel alive. 

• Am I awake or am I sleeping... this cannot be real... I cannot be here... I'm really outside with a nice breeze... The sound coming from this speaker is really just an annoying seagull trying to steal my sandwich. 

• You make me want to believe in God... because if there was a God, you would be punished for this.

• Hey great idea a 4 hour meeting to determine that we should have a weekly meeting... fucking genius.

• Are you reading what I am writing?  Does it fucking make sense?  You aren't reacting to this but you are clearly reading over my shoulder.  Do you enjoy this awkward moment like I do?  No reaction still maybe you are just asleep, or you can't read my shitty hand writing.  Can you read this?  I am mainly just writing so people at the table think I care.  Do you think I care?  Do you want a hug?  I want a hug... you are clearly not reading this... I'm both disappointed and obviously paranoid.

• Accruals, Moneys, Reimbursables... I should try and write poems using these words... better yet how bout I just forget I ever learned these terms... yeah that's comforting.

• Her eyes are ravenous.  They are pecking at my feeble carcass.  Tearing flesh from bone.  I want her and she wants me.  It's a lot like Romeo and Juliet.  Each of us working for the other's enemy.  We should break free from our chains.  Forget this fucking project.  Jump over the table and out the window.  Running like deer through a field into an unknown sunset.  This is love... wait... what the fuck did she just say?  Well that was fun while it lasted.

Day 55 (Writer's Square)

nothing comes to mind

nothing brings  a shine

no thing to unbind this

my feeble addled mind

want to unwind a little

thoughts  feeling blank

Day 54 (Charlie Sheen's future present to the past)

Calm and complacent

Marred in this basement

we dig and toil

through cold soil

this dance is decadent

set forth precedent

bent before broken

river boat token

 

I only see pennies

Day 53 (F Words)

Fuck Fast For Friends
Financial Fate Found
False
Fame
Federal Flame
Fiscal Faucet
Flow
Fond
Fawn

Day 52 (Earning the castle's keep)

pounding resounding echoing in my mind 

soles on pavement pound souls meant to pave our wayward son 

and weigh in on weighty matters like suns and buns

tons and tonnes of bunnies floundering in the foundries we found 

at the boundaries of the land

that had been strip mined of all its strippers' 

stippling nipples dipping their toes 

in the woes and oh-oh-ohs of my patron's nature

it's only natural that you flagellate the flatulent spatula 

scratching and dancing at the edges of awareness

staring into the darkness professing its love 

for the dove with one eye

mocking the guy who eyes up my mistress 

missing and in distress