Woman in a bathtub reading

Wrong on the internet: Why I’m indifferent to immortalizing mistakes online

Having to say everything a particular way,
to be on-code, to speak according to the party line, to be complacent,
to have your every word tracked, considered,
scored, scrutinized--

This you,
people I barely know,
this you,
lackeys and pleasers,
this you,
those bored enough to be interested
in what I said years ago?

If we're lucky, we get 80 years
and I hope to develop a diamond core
that enables me to be unbroken
by the complaints of weaklings.

I don't travel through the valley of the shadow
nor the obviously alliterative willows;
I'm not the drunk, broke artist,
nor overtly sexual for its own sake--

but, if I were, I'd be no worse
because you can't force the words to behave
by simply putting them in neat rows,
dancing predictably,
harmonious like the movements
of the assembly line
where the same thoughts are assembled
by people who talk the same,
look the same,
all seeking unity with perfection,
imperfect
without the acknowledgement of wrinkles,
spots, bad hair days, missed shots,
sneezes, farts, illness,
problematic family members,
trauma of all sorts. Let's not acknowledge,
but pretend to be perfect and preach perfection,
till bombs fall and demagogues like whirlpools
grab gullible minds,
dragging them, uniting them in the deep,
but they're not cared for by the ocean
spare the food they provide.

An elder told me my proximity to tombstones
makes me immune to this living and I get closer
every day.

Before, they would just take you to a wall
and shoot you.
Now they operate on your throat and let you go
to sit among the snickering folks
who talk plenty but say nothing either

but you wouldn't know because there are so many.

'How can billions of people be wrong?', ask burning forests and
dull crops and full hospitals
and graveyards and meritless wealth distribution,
and the fevers, and the guns-- so many guns.

It's true I might not be great,
but certainly no worse.

Vultures fly over the bones
of opinionated people,
they peck at the dead flesh
of wordsmiths,
they sit on trees to look at the skulls
of satirists.
When the sun is at its peak,
you can smell artist legacies.
The museum is empty;
the stadium is full.
The Television holds on
to my zombie eyes (we're just passing
the time).

The vultures say we taste the same,
that our bones look alike
so let me say what I please.

Nerdblog, blog of blogs reigns supreme

In my youth learning the meaning of the web log, 
Nerdblog, blog of blogs reigns supreme,
I go to the store and on my way home smell pizza,
I buy coffee and roam the streets and look at people,
peopling as they people about,
I think, what do I do, writer of blogs,
how do I think, writer of blogs,
do they know that I am a writer of blogs?
As I contemplate by bloginess, I consider,
Does Nerdblog reign supreme?
Ask a neighbor, ask a buddy if Nerdblog
reigns supreme.
It is the talk of the town;
swindlers sell tickets to seminars
on how to interpret the Nerdblog.
In truth no one truly know the ways.

In search of coherence, I’ve decided instead to write another poem

This trend can't continue. 
We've all seen the stories about angels and weren't impressed,
really,
we'd rather you stop breaking the writing poems about poems rule.
It's a well-known rule you cant write poems about poems.
Unless they're bad poems or not poems or prose poems,
which I consider weird non-poems.
First rule of poems...
(This douche voice does not belong to me,
but the latter one does)
As I write another piece of whatever the hell this is,
just know that you, the reader, are more the fool;
I've spotted you and I see into your soul:
You understand me therefore you are twisted,
but, since you're here, walk with me a bit longer
and think how I address you like no one else does,
how I'm simply telling you
without the pretense that I'm better with words
though I like how words sound.
Sound them out and tell me which words
you like when they're said together.
I care to know more about the word music that changes
your mind,
if you're more into bulls or into deer
and of which you're reminded
when you read what you like.
I don't really think of either, but more
of a single petal on a tulip
because the words I read should be just as soft.
But what do I know? After I learned
a bit about scansion and meter to the extent I sometimes
thought to the beat, I felt none of it mattered
and all the words I cared about were
shaped to feel tender as I read them.
What a discovery,
to finally understand the power of softness
and to seek out the experience
not just in poetry but other aspects of life
so that you never see paintings the same way
or think music is stupid.
For a while, when I was a child, I was too
conspicuous with my reading.
Now I've put away childish things,
but not quite as I engage you for yet another evening.

Indirect diss track

This is my indirect diss track, 
a track in which I wear a sweat suit,
a track in which I wear sun glasses
and stand in front of a gray background,
a track in which there's just a microphone
and I'm supposed to act as though its sole presence
evokes a feeling of a return to authenticity.
Somehow, we know how this plays out,
but the awkward arm folding has already begun.

Sitting on tree swings is something that happens, even when writing about them is cliché

Sunsets, flowers, and red valentine's day hearts-- 
I hear these are all the signs of bad poems
so I've entered them here in this one
which also communicates an awareness of itself.
With each line you get to explore my mind even deeper,
thus laying the groundwork for your condemnation
of my logically flawed thought patterns.
Next year, Donald Trump will build a wall around my poems
and make me pay for them.
This will keep the world free of my words which continue to litter the internet
like warts and interestingly placed hairs
on the faces of old church ladies.
Sitting on tree swings is a poetic cliché that the universe continues to permit.
No one has told the builders of tree swings that tree swings have been done already.
No one has informed the makers of iced tea
to stop making the beverage for sleepy summer afternoons.
It's as though injustice is allowed to reign
through the existence of my words and cheap powder drinks!
Have another exclamation!

The blue wolves howling outside of windows

Sometimes blue wolves hang out 
outside of windows and they howl
to let all the cool people lying in their
beds know they're just human,
not wolves,
wolves who hang out outside of windows,
eating raw leg of lamb by the moonlight,
listening to smooth jazz
on their walkmans they keep awkwardly clipped
to the sides of their fur.
We don't know what the wolves think
when they look in our windows,
seeing us lying in our beds,
our bellies exposed
to the sounds of tacky saxophones,
our faces contorted to the ugly cry,
scratching ourselves as we turn
beneath the covers,
snorting and emitting foul odors,
filling the room with browns,
while the blue wolves howling
underneath an even bluer night sky,
dance in the vineyard,
listening to their walkmans,
munching on leg of lamb,
wearing bowties
sitting at tables,
each with a little top hat.

The blue knight

This is the history of the blue knight, 
who slept with the king's wife
so the king got angry,
sending the blue knight
to monsters,
which the blue knight vanquished,
so grew the legend
of the guy who was so good
he did
whatever. Till he wanted
someone other than the
queen,
big mistake.
The poison worked quickly.

To the poet from Myspace I remember as box

Box, you who somehow managed to work
 drinking and crushed glass into each
 and every one of your poems.

I see you somewhere, next to barbed wire
drawing dirty pictures while smoking a cigarette.

If you like going to bars that smell like boats

If you like going to bars that smell like boats,
if you like darts on a dartboard
and green pool tables,
if you like the putrid wood,
the booming song of chesty people,
if you like those things while your mind reflects neon,
you're likely of the folk in the city
standing trim and pretentious,
aloof and assured, glittering
that imagine their merit is somehow assured
by their profession. Your robot voices
disturb me. I imagine you
wer wer,
moving stiffly through your tasks,
indifferent to other's afflictions,
wer wer
You have brunch
wer wer
you work out 
wer wer
you're perfect 
wer wer
you slum.

The annoying chirping birds we want to shoot

The chirping birds we want to shoot, 
only chirp because we're close and they know
that, if at any moment, we catch them,
we will eat wings with barbecue sauce.
Don't worry. They'll rest and we'll grab them
from their perches, marking our way home 
with their feathers and red drops.