Tag Archives: free verse

I Seek the Bots

hashtagged, optimized, baptized by Google

first page

fresh meat

desperate kid

like

like

love?

ok, let’s not scroll too far

three clicks, buzzwords, news cycling

fake but not fiction

fight the right causes

network bridges don’t burn

no turning back

algebra abracadabra

algorithm all on the rhythm

penis pills?

mail-order wives?

monthly income from home?

get rich quick, quick, quicker

news-ticker troll tickler

Trump Obama racism capitalism

you got a problem?

bait click silly phish

blue screen of death

loading

loading

mine me for a bitcoin reward

shovels of kilobyte over-burden

don’t mind if I do

the AI is off on tangents

sine, cosine, co-sign for a mortgage

great deals

horny MILFs

broken link

spoiled meat

still desperate kid

like

like

nevermind

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God is Whoever Will Recognize Your Sacrifice (A Spring Poem)

When the heat rose

It brought the ants out with it—


The bedrock slumbers under the shivering topsoil,

All winter huddled up—


Now comes the tilt of the earth—

Now comes hibernation hangovers—


The creak in your elbow

Only you can hear—


Now comes the sun again—

Now the snakes sun on gravel roads—


God is whoever

Will recognize your sacrifice—


So every bud, rosette, and bug eye

Turns to the blinding star—


Half a life

Lived in chrysalis—


Half a life

Lived in fits—


Spring demands stridency,

Summer demands sweat—


Autumn begs for acceptance,

Winter requires sacrifice—


No one pouts as the beetle

Strains over mustard seeds—


Whimpering is pathetic,

Go gnash teeth instead—

The End of the Era of Blakean Patience

Just for the flair of it

we abandon the fairest before they plummet—

 

Before the end is done

it’s better to look like the clever one who seen it come—

 

Showered in shards of glass kicked up from your sandbox,

Running from the rain with hot slag in our socks—

 

Soon unblocked, like hips opening up in a squat—

Soon unlocked, like a juiced kumquat—

 

For now, stuck in your garden variety pot,

an heirloom fruit of the tomb fettered in thought knots—

 

A feral hairless ape who has finally heard enough,

who resides in the time to buy lace only to tear it up—

 

It’s the end of an era

and any end summons terror—

 

But there’s a secret sharer between the burning sensations

intercepting fate’s fishnets while we stroke our impatience—

Uh Yeah, Me Neither… (A Poem)

Do you take

all your poems

out ‘round back?

Fantasize

about them

during teleconferences?

Sketch them

from memory by candlelight

when the wind sounds

like orgasmic gasps?

Does your blood

burst in your genitals

when you feel

the line break?

Do you try

to conjure their smell

and end up hyperventilating?

Tell me, do you ask

all your poems

to stay for breakfast?

Fare Thee Well, Red Balloon (a poem)

FARE THEE WELL, RED BALLOON

 

I was on my home this late afternoon

When I saw the red balloon.

It had been raining all week,

And there it was, dribbling on a puddle

Where the storm water grates had backfilled

With a winter’s worth of garbage.

The balloon spun for a moment, then

The wind picked up and kicked it along the curb.

I thought, this balloon is going to pop.

I hate when balloons pop. It’s not the noise,

It’s the suspense that really irks me.

But I am world weary and know better than

A child’s faith in an eternal balloon.

So I could not leave the balloon to explode

Somewhere mysteriously around a blind corner.

I had to see it through.

Plus I had had a shitty week and thought

The surprise might make me feel something,

Something besides the career numbing-burnout.

I thought, that balloon is going to pop

At any moment now. I heard the pavement

Scuff the soles of my shoes, and I saw the balloon

Skiff across the street and thought,

That balloon does not stand a chance.

The wind shifted and the balloon turned a corner.

They had been warning about flooding, but so far

The earth had sucked everything the sky had pissed down,

Except for the odd garbage-plugged sewer drain, but

In that case some lazy asshole fucked up.

I splashed through the flooded puddles

That the balloon danced over. I crashed

Through its delicate ripple kisses. I chased

It, thinking, this balloon is about to pop.

But now the red balloon had turned purple in the night,

And a dull orange when it skipped under a streetlight.

I continued my pursuit, shielding my eyes

From oncoming traffic headlights that left spots

That looked like green balloons spinning in the wind.

Those retina balloons spun and faded away,

Leaving the balloon that hopped along the asphalt.

I thought, I am going to make that fucking balloon pop.

The wind shifted for the hundredth time

And gave me the advantage to cut a corner.

I grabbed the balloon between two hands and

Held it to my chest, squeezing my teeth.

Like that would make any difference. It snapped,

It exploded, I thought my ear drums had popped.

I stumbled backwards and let the shreds

Of red plastic drop. They floated on a puddle,

But did not skip or hop. They sort of

Hung there, shriveled and impotent.

I kicked the puddle and smiled at the wind.

There we go, I thought, I knew that goddamn

Balloon would pop. I raised my arms victoriously,

But there was no one to celebrate my success, so

I let my arms drop. And as I looked around

I realized I did not recognize the block.

I had chased the balloon for three hours

Without looking up. Now what?