twilit

the limits to my creative spirit
eek out of the liver spots
cropping up on my skin,
once unblemished,
now puckering itself up
for whatever good will comes
its way. my words too,
less gumption. less pizzazz.
horn arrangements in the halcyon days
remind me of what the sun felt or
rolling down another hill or
flinging myself with abandon
into a pile of leaves or
trying to flip on a trampoline.
trying to get closer to some feeling.
trying to let any old song
feel new. hoping there is
still some time for me 
to flourish. for me to 
have something to say. 

Shhhhhh

 glad to help and happy to assist/get yourself something from the back/be right/with you

i will yell and tell you what you/wanted to hear/unspeakable horrors

don’t you dare?/look away

anything else/thank you/for your time.

portions

seen from the periphery
disbelief is a feature-noise
in the picture. the scope, limited
time.
only in theaters. only for the

theatre.

these performances-unlimited 
servings, famine of understandings.
lessons left on the stove-well past
done.

everything

is up for interpretation.
especially this.
especially me.

some haiku for you, gentle reader

An appetizer for infinitehaiku vol 3 and other surprises

this slick mud
on my good shoes
ruins the rug

singing like birds
only not in any key
and Bon Jovi

stapled paper
found in my driveway
something forgotten

light on the ice
solid, slippery mass
hurting my eyes

dry hands
in desperate need of gloves
or maybe spring

we out here?

any sound at all/we have no luxury to picky/out here/where noise is absolute/indefinite silence/uncontrollable, shrill shrieks clamoring to anyone with a willing(?) ear/we will/not be forgotten/not/again//

aside from the rage

out in flux
and i don't know what
i'm so good for really,
not any time soon, maybe even,

anymore.

spent newspaper in the rain
ink running down some
wrinkles of no consequence;
when no one reads the words
the means to an end don't matter,
now, maybe even,

never.

aside from the rage and the ill-feelings
and the simmer pot of resentment stinking
up the kitchen and adjoining rooms, i guess
it wasn't really that bad, maybe even,

good?

sizzllap

the way your hand

connected with his face

was the sound of 

cackling electric

tension wires

doing their best cicada impression.

all the hair on all of our bodies,

the onlookers, those keeping vigil,

is at attention.

my, how you’ve made your point. 

blink and you miss it.

 world of updates:

1. Crying Heart Press will be putting out my Chapbook "something something something survival" on Friday, January 9th. You can order it at their shop. While you're there, you can pick up Keiron Buxton and Mike Zone's chapbooks that day too (and use their code for free shipping on orders more than 20 dollars). Support this press, they've put me on to about 20 great writers and are consistently putting out high quality stuff.

2. If you see me out in the real world, I'll be slinging some short, hand-made zines (one collection of Haibun and 3 pocket poem zines) for the low-low price of $2.00 for all 4. 

3. An actual poem

blink and you miss it

zing and zam, comic dialogue bubbles are here to tell you the truth
and make sure you understand that this is serious stuff, despite the medium.

we appreciate you continuing to read this important missive.
some people see sound effects and think that they've hit rock bottom.

no, the truth is the rocks are still some way off.
we haven't even started with the fart-trumpet sounds

no, that's for tomorrow. or the next day,
when you and i have nothing left to say to one another

then, we'll get some
real answers.

inspirated

holding firm
means holding out

on everything i hold
dear to me.

near, enough. little sequences and affirmations
conveyed through the various tribulations and trials
of our old time namesakes. 

well, well, well.

i was only as good as the first trick and the second trick and the third trick in my four-trick repertoire
by then, they probably knew,
better than i knew myself, 
what trick was lying in wait

for them. fangs drawn on,
angry eyebrows painted just
above wide-eyed surprise.

cartoonish malevolence.
constant mocking, airing
the grievance and the disappointment

passed down from the first of us
to carry the torch for something we loved
and couldn't quite bring ourselves
to say out loud.

not even when the time was
long gone.

i might desist

rankled by these
everyday disappointments.

i take any excuse to let
my opinion flow,

to wither the good flowers
on a verdant vine.

lush vegetation
left to its own fail points

lingering in the phase
before the last limb rots away.

all we have is 
this ruined goodness

all we have
are our memories.

i might resist

cylindrical shapes,
in place, out of the scope,
in vain, we are processing.
deep thoughts, etc. deep 
water, and so on.

anon, so forth
go wild into the
untamed breeze.

blink and

reset. rest, 
this is whatever
you make of it.

my low stakes
scribbles are frivolities
to everyone except
the song of myself
projected from
the sound system
of a sad sounding
school with everything

to gain from opportune
soundwaves.

oh, you'll know it
yet. you'll know me,
soon. this is where
the thoughts go

long after we've
spent their capital.
long after the work
is 

finished.

i might insist

little do /you/ know
how exhausted i've 

made

                            made            

                                                made 
/yourself/
but one day

                                                                                                                            day

                                                                                    day

                                                day
/you/ and                                                                                                     i 
will 

be the 

                                                                                                                            same person
at the 

same time

and every        thing

will finally make sense

inspired to be directionless

i remain
up and down
unphased by the
flow of air and the
miracle of space.
here we are,
right where we were
placed, with no accounting
for what was meant to be
or where was meant
to be here.

location, still 
an irrelevant 
anecdote, just a 
roll of the chance
cube with arcane
symbology. 

unhinged
unmoored
unknown

stepping
out and off
and reeling
through the unexpected 
way my feet fly out from 
me.

the way the world still
can surprise me.

shell

 license to old, weather-worn socks. these were the best pair—slid right on and off—knew the feet. mine, yours, equal opportunity warmth and barrier from the elements. even a hole, even many, can’t stop—won’t limit what we know to be true: 

age like grapes off the vine, pulped and mashed and left sequestered. one day the vintage surpasses the awkward growing pains of a fermented delight’s passage through the cold void of the soul’s transit system. 

eventually, every sock is a failure and a triumph. old reliable and something best left in the back of the sock drawer. eventually. for now, we’re going to put them through the paces. these were one of the good pairs. and we’re in a hurry. the rest takes care of itself. the exposed heel will share its wincing platitudes and let us know how much longer our devotion will control the narrative.

scuff

the one/able to assemble/infernal songs for the faithless/jams for the unheralded, the unwilling/found in devotionals/top 40 salt in the wound/baptism by bpm/my song is still my own making/hear, my salvation//