i dreamt of day today (Sonnet)

dear whiskey, wafting burn, my seraphim
piss: speak, and boil nerve, i am much too ripe
for tip-toe speech that shan’t describe my dream,
for I cannot inhale a vacant pipe. –

i dream too often, and i love it so,
but i was particularly in line
with my most recent dream — i may endow
it as a memory, were i benign.

i dreamt of day — no, not the yellow fly
that’s squashed by day; the bold sensation of
a smile it was — it was a sane reply
to all the earth’s elusive speckled love,
and i awoke a soul, and not a man.

……..Will I awake tomorrow’s soul again?

i the crow hear me croon (Sonnet-esque)

what crisp elixir here exudes the crow
in i, that i, in kind scowl, seize the daze
of nightfall’s tired glow with flashlight mind:
that caws is i, in i, with mind, to croon?
what moon emits the cool miasma now,
that caws is all i croon to scratch the haze
tonight, and ricochet against the wind,
which carries it away unto a muse
that i cannot recall? i reek of want,
warm whiskey, marijuana, michigan,
bad breath (but my words are mouthwash to me),
so i’d assume ’tis caws i wish to need again
a muse like road kill left upon the street
for i to croon till dawn to, then repeat.

On a Flight of Chickadees (Sonnet)

The chickadees in flight: my lees of air,
Bronze feathered mice of mid-September trees;
You rummaged meadows for the last straw hair
Then fled! Born back beyond the winter’s freeze.
Tell me, small sphere whose feathers meditate
Upon the sky’s enticing blue, did you
Awake in Spring to worms atop a plate
Of earth, or did worms peak, thus finding you?
How might you tame this Northern reservoir
of pale snow honed upon disorder’s day?
Is it the lives you lived that know desire,
Or all the lives you bear in life’s delay?
I listen — all my questions fly to rest
Tonight, where answers sleep inside its nest.

a moth and a cosmo (stream-of-consciousness)

i criss-cross idea: juxtapose all
and project who i want into what
i deem irregular: like a sonata white
cosmo by a fluttering moth, neither touching
the other, and neither noticing such.
but, considering what is there,
might i compare the two as if
they were one? the moth might possess
wings of ridged white that take the
wind within it when it sails for the
brightest star in the darkest night,
like a sonata white cosmo plucked
by the air.
or, were this flower a moth, it'd
be several that flutter on top
a small fern, sharing some thoughts
that illuminate in gold, like
visions spun about in a ball of
small cloth. -- they are one, and they
bloom until they jump back into the
wind like the cosmo that is plucked
by a child and eagerly brought home,
where a moth scales a window,
right above a pot of clay
that I'd assume is where that
flower now quietly grows.

Vowel (for Allen Ginsberg)

(There is a very specific formatting I have created for this piece, but I was unable to incorporate it into this text box — so hopefully this poem does its justice)

saw my generation slouch with backs bloated like naked starvation;

hunchbacks by age 20, hands welded to boxcars projecting the new America like the Sante Fe Transcon against the backdrop of an HTML evening,
images reeling in static propaganda from LA Times to Chicago Tribune, where we stared for years at the hollowness of the road behind us,
unaware that we’d reach home when our consciousness became Facebook advertisements or a tweet that was followed by mother –

We cemented our thoughts into the lingering echo of this train’s harboring yowl that trampled down the 50 steps of Congress like a slinkie whose ego is mightier than its gravity,

a grotesque wing that has turned our winds into tar, our suns into sulfur, our skies into embers of blue, our souls into cruel poems, brevity a stutter in the smog of this chugging train, ticking like eruption, tocking like breath, rolling like eyes into the next span of attention

where the howl of 1955 was the wind that stroked Eden in identity and now pulls at the ears of government-run unease,

where flies are richer than single mothers, who are forced to eat food stamps like LSD, and live the hallucination of the bread line in a Wal-Mart parking lot beneath a trembling summer noon,

where Magna Carta is sent to the political morgue with Manning, and Assange is made to hang from an embassy window with the plaque of America digging into his molars like pumpjacks, but still finding no trace of a corrupted tooth,

where Detroit looks like an angry Motown record, preaching apocalypse beneath the hypodermic needle of a heroin laced turntable in the rubble of a home whose plot has climaxed back into the boiling dust of eternity,

where marijuana is emancipated on the roof-crops of apartheid Native American gardens on top existential madhouses in Middle Western purgatories, burning its way through the American inferno with paranoia and laughter and liberty,

where the white collar lynches humans with Brooks satin, turning oxygen into cigars that ache like fireflies in the blackness of a starving white fleeting suburb in a Babylon alleyway that melts within the labyrinth of life,

where the children of Nazareth kneel on ant hills to possess the stinging crucifixion of youth on the carpenter’s playground of tomorrow,

where love no longer sounds like the tip-toe of connection, but the drunken plunge of completion in a race that is only promoted by the necromancers of contemporary romance in the vacant motel eye of Sauron’s abysmal cock,

where apartments are coffins for the soul, and materialism the plastic rose that is clutched between the metallic gloves of capitalism, gagging the ten tonsils of this corpulent palm in ten penny unison,

where heads are simulated in pill bottles, expressionless and routine like the pharmacist’s sold out signature — permission is now required to collect your daily Prozac fix, I dare say–;

where I’ve committed suicide a thousand times over in order to dance with the overdoses that fled the straitjacket of society so they might sleep with energy in the everlasting orgy of the cosmos,

where you can only masturbate to the ideal of humanity in madness and gaze blankly into the last inch of life as the sunset street fades into an ebony looking glass of this highway universe,

where the earth is just tumbleweed spiraling within our deserted stardust, twisting and tripping and stumbling through the cosmos, trying to find the hidden humanity beneath the uranium fossils of civilization,

where I can only see the water shiver as the earth whispers of wars wars wars in the whoosh whisps whys of the wind –;
as I listen
I could hear Hum Bom!
parading out from the whispering typhoon of time
where words meander through the hollow glass of existence
into my mind so tired so weary so closed so corrupted so gone
and cool me with mystic visions and ethereal epiphanies, your
sacred songs!
That erode these welds from the boxcar vision
with words that only a human can instinctively unveil.

And were you here with me,
hands held with Kerouac and the poets’ ghosts
against the rusting veins of this redwhiteblue industry,
the rope of dissipated currency failing to tie us down to the tracks,
as we cry, ceaselessly, in vowels that have tinted the tongues of our roots,
and their roots, and so forth,
I’d align my back upon this intimate earth
and know, with certainty, that the boxcars will halt,
and flee! like sad iron owls, for the wings of smog cannot fly
when the wind has finally howled.

songs revisited in the stale afternoon.

the sun delves
into the droning eye,
day after day,
the furnace that
is drowned by
the moon,
as liveliness
sits still,
in the shadows
by the hollow
the beating door,
ducking the morning
till its ill
with winter’s
darkest day,
preying upon the
pied piper that
won’t let it run
away into the arms
of love’s still lullaby:
the soundless tune
of vinyl and wine
blistering with
the sun in the stale
where the wind
is a sigh that cannot
speak of the song,
and where the song
can only love when
it billows
into my heart
where it collects
at its door
like dust.