Nyquil

Put me to sleep: I’m drunk on my weakness,
in need of being needy, a grievance
to those who would ever hold me or hold
me back or hold back my hair if I were
a girl or a hippie or something new.
I’m a bit delusional, and not just
from the drags. I’m addicted to the next
step in every situation, my
fix a sheer lack of gratification;
only, when I’m in the act of my wish
fulfillment I glimpse cracks of a new light.
It doesn’t have to be this way; I don’t
have to live this life. I can choose to be
or change or grow or put myself to sleep.

Rowboat

The priest or the deacon or the sexton
or whomever I was meant to listen
to astutely told me secrets about
God, that eternal Jerk, and I slighted
Him by lowercasing his Gs, Js, and
Hs until it hurt something awful
to look at his picture on the abbey
wall, the one he took of himself by the
hill while on his vacation or mission
or whatever the kids are calling it
these epochs, for if god is in the great
paintbrushes of the world, then all his works
are tremendous acts of sheer vanity,
so row me out of that museum, please.

Gravel

There were once great rocks in the world, large and
undocumented, allegedly, though
I don’t have much evidence that it was
ever any different from today.
There are impressions, massive cracks and chasms,
fissures in the world suggesting tumult
and upheaval, and I assumed that there
couldn’t be chaos without first order,
but maybe we’re moving towards the greatness,
the opposite of entropy, and there
were never good old days, never bigger
rocks yet to break themselves against the wall
of time, that massive steel factory, that
pump of iron and solidarity.

Music Video

Bitches be doin’ whatever bitches
be doin’ when you pay them a day rate
to subjugate themselves for the male gaze.
The visuals are extraordinary
for 4-minute social commentaries
made to persuade bored office employees
to blow their low wages on mp3s.
I may not know art, but I know that this
isn’t art, the equivalent of a
musical heart attack, bass boom cracking
in the back of a Cadillac in a
low-income neighborhood, kids up to now
good, but that’s just the world we live in, right?
and music makes us all feel so alive.

Turnip

I am out of words, as if I kept them
in an empty jam jar, long since scooped clean,
any hint of former inhabitants
soaped and rinsed away and set out to dry
by the kitchen window. And I don’t know
where to buy more, the chain grocery store
around the corner only stocking so
many as to serve their dull purposes:
pound, off, sale, fresh, frozen, produce, dairy.
It serves me right, thinking I could buy my words,
or steal them from the world that gives me breath.
Better if I grow them on my own, now,
large like a pumpkin, many like ears of
corn, harder than a round, ripened turnip.

Pancakes

These are the best goddamn airport pancakes
I’ve ever tasted, my fried egg insides
dying the griddled batter yellower,
matching with my sure, why not, orange juice.
There’s a ham steak, too (only $12!),
but my eggs and syrup can do nothing
to alter the color of this pig flesh,
pink and dead, pressed together in one bite.
I always eat that way, a little taste
of each food on every forkful, no
great flavors that don’t taste even better
when eaten together. I’ve got hours
before my flight, time to savor pages
from each of the 15 books I’m reading.

Shaving Cream

I hate shaving. That is my poetic
diary entry of the day, it seems.
Leave me be, face leaves, grass of my cheek plains.
I am not the mower you would have me
be. I do not reap or sow, only grow
and grow and grow and grow from nothingness,
and not the abstract nothingness, the word
on paper concept, but lack; growth from no,
growth unbidden, growth unwelcome, tangle
of wiry life from the void, a million
tiny razors slashing at kissed faces,
the stabbing towers of my vibrancy,
my black and red and blonde banner men spread
across the field of my chin waging war.