Poems – Vol. 3

Many of my poems were written in my Cold War history class. This could be a stretch, but I believe this is because viewing the world in retrospect is not dissimilar from the introspection caused by traversing back through the individual time line. For me at least, the former tends to trigger the latter.

I do not write poems with succinct and clear definition. Though poetry writing is still a new muscle for me to exercise, I’ve developed a personal philosophy of striving toward conveyance of feeling, driven by lines of sensory provocation and emotional language. I never give the exact “meaning” to any of my poems. Short of a full discussion in which interpretations can be explored, I could never reveal cut-and-dry “answers.” It is important to understand that my experience and your experience can never be the same – only line up within degrees. I esteem that uniqueness of thought, and it’s a quality I try to tap into with my words.

I made the edits to these standing behind the register of my burger flipping job and I present them here now, sophomoric warts and all. This first one is dedicated to the United States during the early 1970s.


Smog Lung Song – 11/29/2016

Fill it with everything but me
Knuckles bleached, ingrown splinters, Knives, half-hearted crimps of lip
Fill it and let me be pale
These nations towed by Neolithic barbers, ancient ruts
Skin taut, grips on void
Deserted moments lousy with squatting, loathing browbeaters
Abandoning paths paved black and boiling
Clenched, crooked mouth, strain eyelids shut and obscure
Passive, soot-bathed bodies breathe polluted winds
Flickers of forgotten flames, mistaken beliefs breed
Swarms of dragonflies flash frozen black and white
Laying now heart and head on that baked gravel pavement
Borne into the end         invisible gashes bleed no more


A Fascination with the Fluorescent – 11/29/2016

A fascination with the fluorescent
Today a small triumphant
Moment lost in opaque landscapes opaline
A pretentious peasant’s scribbled lines
Oft-remember pigments stitching life
Shifting shades in monochrome kaleidoscope
Weave gray in persistent pessimism
Soul sipping toxins through bendy straws
Bales of hate feeding honor-starved mares
Emaciated steeds dragging steady
Scabs and bones I once called me

 

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