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 

Day 51 (Our ubiquitous kill)

lean close  /  with eager eye  /  slip cold steel  /  pry and pry

         til flesh splits  /  and peels  /  held soft between

                              finger and thumb

                                       pull

                               prod

                               palpate

                              last pound and quake

                           soft red  /  leaks slow fast 

            through fingers break  /  fate hand  /  click black

                                veiled         

                                        vaunted

                                                    vain

                                         slow kill

                             narcissist

                                          hand over fist

                                slapped

                                           limp

                                                wrist

                                          pleasure taken

              with heavy breathes  /  baited  /  for quick theft

                                              til echo

                                     fades from the remain

                                           CLICK

                          TICK

                                                never more

Day 50 (Train ride train of thought)

a question
              common
                                                                                                   concern
                                                            or 
simple action
                                                                       hand gestures
                            pointing
                                               to the walk ways
                                                                                           hallways
that never led us anywhere
                                                   but the simple
                                                                                 tare
                  in flesh
                                                                                            brought forth the
                                   pretty
                               red
                                     flow
                                            of life
i'm looking for scars could you spare a few?
                                                              a mew and whisper
                       from god's right hand kitten
                                                                                       purring perfect
        from the lap time had forgotten
                                                              this simple phrase
                                                    or
                                                            maybe just  a maze
           to
                     walk through
                                                    so
                                                         take extended hand
                                                                                        or
                                      paw
                                                                  gnash teeth
                                                                                 at the rotten and raw
pull thorn from hoofed slave foot
                                               the drip drain and forgotten refrain
                                       from
                                               the coffee pot's last gurgle
                                                                                                        and
                         pop
                                                  a morning dirge
                                                                       waiting
for the nocturnal hymnal
                                                   for
                                                                 a night time of forgotten emissions
          and standards set forth and put to action
                                                                                                          a minor faction
                                      of thought and ideals
there's a fence to climb
                                doused in barb wire
                                                            and
                                                                  coated in the failure
                                                                                               attempts at scaling
the obstacle of our hearts one long drawn desire
                                                                  this is the funeral fire
                set to burn
                                              constellations yearn
                                                                                     through the thought
provoking
                                     fog
                                                        and
     mist
                                                              of
                             this
          that
              and the other

Day 49 (Two ways to read this)

have you ever STARED

                                   close EYE to scarred

            BATTERED

                                        BRUISED

flesh?

                

                         tasted THE tale

                    of UNTOLD emptiness?

                                 plausable REGRETS?

                        SHARED secrets?

                                                 WALKED thin line

                     across SKIN'S fine

                                                 MAPPED rind

                                    to SEE what is left behind

                                    memories ENGRAVED

Day 48 (Ode to a pretty frog and its vapid lily pad)

HEY there?

          How YOU doing?

YOU okay?

                                                       i am concerned.

is there a lesson to BE learned?

NO?

                      just another sojourn?

                                        an adventure in SELF indulgence?

YOU'VE never HURT anyone though.

                                                YOU were always the one getting HURT...

RIGHT?

                                   RIGHT?

no ANSWER?

oh come now you know i jest.

                                               maybe this is just a test.

                                         YOU know YOU'RE the best.

called YOURSELF my little sister

                                     and sometimes 

i admitted how much i missed HER

                                                                 but honey this aint a song by Mr. Mr. 

         no 

                                    it's a relentless look back

                        an initial attack

                                    now YOU claimed the high horse

i never road in on

                 the problem YOU have is YOU cant move on

     life gave YOU a raw deal

                so YOU through a pity party,

                                     invited all that you met but i was tardy,

no one told me it was BYOB,

                                     but there was nothing between YOU and me,

                i'm no jilted lover

                                             simply a bored observer

of YOUR SELF destructive behavior

                                so poor me another

                                                                     YOU can have YOUR high road i'd rather trail blaze

                      now a simple questions was left soaking my lips

                                                   how the fuck didn't YOU notice the smell of YOUR OWN shit?

                                         

                         it must BE pretty pungent

                                                   or was your head to far up YOUR OWN asshole?

                                                                                 searching crevasses always claiming to fearful,

YOU loved the sound of YOUR OWN voice

                                                 got YOU what wanted through batted eyelash

                                         jilted smile

                                         it took a while

soon discovered YOU only like to receive  

                                                                              down on both knees

                                                    the self determined MARTYR

                                    longing for someone to hand YOU oaken plank

                                                                        so YOU can drive YOUR OWN nails in

then would YOU win?

Its a swirl in this emotional state

find it hard to relate

but really this was YOUR fate 

YOU wanted nothing more

than to be societies tawdry whore

spreading legs thin

                                              

                                                          across societal bread loaves

                                                                                longing to be loathed

YOU poured YOUR guts out

                    tore YOUR heart out

                                            and begged for someone to stomp on it

                does that make YOU feel loved? 

                                                    does that make it feel real?

                                       books on tape

                                                      cheesy therapeutically lines aside

                                  what the fuck is on YOUR mind?

                                                                                 who the fuck are YOU?

other than a poorly done impersonation

                                             of the SELF YOU keep on claiming

judgemental

habits of the fanatical

radical

mental patients

                                                YOUR sinking ship set sail

                   on the sea of YOUR insanity

                                              but no worries

                                                          at least YOUR pretty

Day 47 (Milk maids and meatless Monday)

When the abyss swallows you hole,

And you find your self staring back,

At the same inky black,

That dripped and sank,

Hearts empty ever filling tank,

The apple will grab your eye,

Drag you down and die,

Inside the barren cavity between two lips,

This is the point of nourishment,

Kill to survive,

Whether through knife or meaning,

This is the heartless gleaming,

Shimmer and shine,

Of the new wave world dine,

Competition,

Had its place,

And how how you tried to save face,

In the rivers bank,

You always did love the edge,

Whether blade or ledge,

And I wonder,

What is is that we hunger,

In this life of starving,

Striving,

Fickle wishes for providing,

Resounding and residing,

So many words have an I-N-G,

Makes it easy for me,

And you to grasp this,

Vocabulary blast fist,

Thrust, a term so sexually laden,

Makes me think of a Elizabethan maiden,

All calm and a passed out from the arsenic face powder clap,

Sickly is my favorite color.

Day 46 (Something like a love song)

I want to break you off in the most non sexual way possible,

Think Kit Kat

In spring

 

Amongst tulips,

Which sounds a lot like two lips

 

Which I wish I was kissing,

Not yours of course, but that which belongs to the floors,

Of dead celebrities

Love these busy bees stuck in my number of collectible bonnets,

But this is what sonnets,

Are composed for,

To explore,

The monetary exchange,

For the trades that range,

Free like chickens who lay eggs I pay double for,

The feel good consumerism that fell

Hand in hand

With the green movement

Of a cities bowels

The push heave and slide of a new generation

 

Have patients we'll burn Styrofoam before your dead or buried

Alive alive

Day 45 (Crashing into Paulie Shores)

The crawling closeted beetle of a Kafkaesque nightmare

Dreamt up

In a waking state of mind

Known as Virginia

Or maybe Maryland

But here I am in the now

And then

Replenished thoughts of smooth skin

And how I wish I could get in

But then

I'd have to hear a thought or feeling

And pretend to have on in return

Lessons are learned

Through thick scars

The tale of more than two cities

Now Ive been there

But

Have I done that?

The pictures seem to suggest

That

I beat the heaving chest

Within hallowed halls

Chances were I was sober

choking chickens

To a preconceived notion

Lost in the afterbirth

Of the future suggestion

For what its worth

I cry at wakes to keep up appearances

But all I can think about is visa clearances

For the poor lion hearted

Masses

Arriving on strange Paulie Shores

But that's beside the point

-ed-

Finger staring straight into the hearts of men

Would you wet my whistle

I need to take out my aggression

Again seriously lady

I've got a pen and a pad

Let me draw you

A picture

Of the mixture

Of positions we can try

Before you slap face deny

Now I'm the sensitive type

And when your licking me tonight

Take that in hand

Cause its worth two in your bush

Just a suggestion

But you know I am mushy

Which is funny if you speak German

But I don't explain jokes

So learn them

Fell asleep at the wheel

While waiting for discounts to steal

Away in the night

This is the consistent plight

Of a born loser

Lost

First hand experience

In the trenches

Park benches

Surround

And

Confound

My ubiquitous

Existence

But its that time of month

And I want blood on my hand.

Day 44 (Motivational or something along those lines)

Now I could use these words to write evangelical prose

To compose

Illustrate

Draw the divine

or

Set a bacterial culture in ones mind

Confined

Willing to breed

To grow

To

Succeed

Sparatic

Chaotic

Nearing symbiotic

This relationship

Sets sail

Past the moans and wails

Screams of unfulfilled dreams 

I no longer dream in color

Nor black and white

But in the fuzz of the forgotten

Life is a waking dream

Manipulate

Mold and shape

Your existance

Resistance

Is the way forward

Nothing behind

No looking back

Forget what your parents told you

Forget what I have told you

Think for yourself

Question authority

Even if that authority 

Belongs to you alone