Poetry / Hiding In A Farmhouse
Back To The Way It Oughta Be
I’m a field of juniper trees,
and under the trees sit dozens of giant teddy bears
and all they want to do is hug you but they’re on fire.
I’m drying my eyes and I have an idea, I’m the thicket and the mire.
Worry do I, for fear of karmic repurcussions to my little neck hairs
Would I be remiss to fill out your little private mad lib?
You have your saving graces, like being late for work
Oh, I thought your clock ticked backwards…
and the windows and doors that break up your walls have purged you.
I’m a molehill of predicaments, and no two wrongs make a right,
but they almost make a ladder. Oh wait, that’s rungs
I guess you are what you commit.
Talking to you when I’m dour is like talking to a really sarcastic hammer,
but only as powerful as the person weilding it, and though you crush me;
just because you crush me;
and at how dire a cost?
it doesn’t mean others’ do.
Diametrically I fear the morning may bring slight frost
and you are still; persistant with the vaguely threatening.
And though one of us may be artificial, I was trying to be vague.
But sometimes I get so ivolved in the actual literal meaning in things
I completely miss the loss.
You put me in the big house.
+
You can’t use Google to find God,
and once upon a time,
I was crushed by time upon me.
LIKE A FAT KID.
There’s nothing like childhood obesity
to get the ol’ blood pumping.
I’ve never seen the price of greed
like a quality, robust humping
(the italics are for feeling!)
of the poisoned corporate scene.
Jesus isn’t on the back of my milk,
he’s hiding deep in the machine.
Remember to always tie your shoes.
I wouldn’t want to see you
fall into the grinder.
Of course my fee for that advice
is whatever you think your life is worth.
I’ll accept payments in the form of grains of salt,
but if you still fall of course, it’s sure as shit not my fault.
Be careful – The blood of human endeavors can
leave a nasty stain in your pants.
+
Watching time take the bus,
my mirror called me the nothing king, said, “There’s more to life than Big League Chew.”
But I remember a time when Sergei Samsonov was a Viper and that kid in class that ate Elmer’s Glue. (No, it wasn’t me.)
I also know the truth shall set me free, but if I live long enough I’ll end up in a diaper, pretty much right back from where I started.
A math teacher I had in high school had perfectly parted
hair and he told me once that numbers are the universal human language.
I refuse to be pigeon-holed
by how many bats there are. (There are six. Six bats.) (Bwa-ah-ah-ah.)
I think I’d rather chill with Sam-I-Am and the Cat In The Hat.
School for me was like being trapped in a box with no way to get out,
no matter how much I’d scream and shout
no one would come and set me free.
Now, I’m not exactly a bird on the wing or a bird on a wire (nor am I anti-semetic), but my box had no pillows.
All my teachers were Decepticons and though my head was in the willows
I knew better than to eat what they cooked. As far as I’m concerned,
the number Foth is between Three and Four. You should have seen the way my economics teacher looked at me, the worm, the bore, when I factored a foth percent interest increase on the final exam. It was like making someone watch Kazaam! a hundred times.
I’ve always been told to play by the rules, but bra’,
rules are for fools.
I think more about how I hate Chris Pronger
(a whole lot) than the world’s silly rules.
I went to school with kids who argued about who’s
rap sheet is longer and who couldn’t spell on purpose. I mean FOO! DAT SHET’S FO REEEEEEL.
Like a movie, I imagine.
I care more about Dungeons and Dragons
than 20 inch rims, and I don’t even play D & D (that often.) Now,
I have friends with hats with flat brims, but I’ve always assumed they were thugs. Holla! There’s a better chance I’d contract botulism from a vampire then to refer to myself as a balla.
I had a talk with St. Francis of Asissi and he told me I was a hack.
At least I’m not ugly and my skin’s not all greasy and I don’t work at Radio Shack. But no offense to those that do, of course.
I had lunch with Benjamin Franklin and the Norse
god Thor, and the conversation went something like this:
Me: Hey guys, what’s goin’ on?
Thor: Nothin’.
Ben: Liar!
There’s more to it than that, but you get the idea.
I’ve learned more about furniture from IKEA
than I had ever dreamed from Woodshop,
more about government from WOW guilds
than I did in social studies. So really,
that’s how it is (Buddy.)
+
Who’s number one?
This guy.
I win every time,
‘cuz I’m number one.
I invented fun.
Trademarked,
copywrited,
you owe me a dime.
‘Cuz I’m number one,
the sun bows to me at dusk
and even my urine tastes like wine
and smells like musk,
though I’ve never tried it.
Unicorns do my dishes
and pixies grant my wishes
and I can talk to fishes
‘cuz I’m number one..
Even the value of the number one
is more than just a single one.
My hotdogs hop right into their buns
and the armies of the world
would throw down their guns
if I asked them, ‘cuz
I’m number one.
But I don’t,
because me in reference of violence
is globs and globs and fun.
Elephants compose songs of praise
and leprechauns feed me okra and maize.
Jack the Ripper calls me on the weekend
to tell me his girlfriend’s gone off the deep end.
I say, “Jack, please,
who’s number one?”
And he’s like, “You are man,
but I could just go kuh-ray-zee.”
Then I’m like, “I gotta plan.”
He sits for a minute,
then he says he wants to know,
and I’m like, “You wanna know? Fo sho!
Buy her flowers and handcuffs,
‘n tell her, ‘take your pick’.”
He’s like, “Man, you’re sick.”
And I’m like, “Naw, I’m number one.”
‘Cuz that’s how it is,
and that’s how I do.
I’m number one,
what number are you?
+
Then there was the association of persons of bad character.
And the dust was brushed off,
O! How that dead man danced!
My door swung wide,
and hollow taps from bony feet on my wooden floor
echoed through my quiet stead-
And the dust was brushed off,
and his feet echoed on my floor,
O! How that dead man danced!
His vacant eyes rolled in his head
seeing nothing in the dark as the yellow bones in his yellow hands
clenched at the air he doesn’t breathe-
And the dust was brushed off,
and his feet echoed on my floor,
and as he moved, he wheezed and coughed,
O! How that dead man danced!
His tongue lolled through his hollow cheeks
and his spine was bent impossibly, his kneecaps creaked with aged angst,
yet he stepped ever as nimbly-
And the dust was brushed off,
and his feet echoed on my floor,
and as he moved, he wheezed and coughed,
yet every step was calm and sure,
O! How that dead man danced!
But as his bones began to crack,
and his joints no longer held,
he stretched and knew as pieces fell
that that dance would be his last, but
O! How that dead man danced!
+
Carousel my soul,
Vomit.
Twirling like the devil’s baton
a cyclic cul de sac
‘round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne’er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-
My friend, Diable, take my le main,
traipse like a runner in a blind alley
lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
My cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and everything in this whole world
via legerdemain, a show of skill or deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me…
+
The mailbox that bears my name was filled with notes from God’s secretary,
each notorized with an antioxidary,
regretting to inform me
| a meeting cannot be yet arranged,
{that} the schedule will just not allow |
And as my eyes palavered with each and every flowing word,
{The clerk had impeccable penmanship}
the sorrow hit me like a God damned hammer,
falling flaming from the gloomy clouds,
splitting my skull without a sound,
and if I could accurately express exasperated stammering,
my letters in return would be that-
So to temporarily occupy my infinite time,
dine do I, on plates of leaves, as the guest of hounds from Hell,
And O! they do not bellow but whimper quietly.
They softly said as I was fed to second-guess my piety,
but whether they meant to be so dour it was difficult to tell.
So as I ate my mind escaped and I fell and fell and fell
(not unlike a hop/skip/jump straight into a well.)
The hounds with zeal! they laughed at me
as I tumbled into darkness.
O! how lonely falling is, it can only end in pain.
As I swirled into the pit I see my past is feigned.
The darkness then began to waste away as light unfurled,
and fast and sure my flailings ceased, and I landed on my porch.
The force my feet had bent the boards and my mailbox erupted.
The letters God had sent to me fluttered coyly in the breeze.
I remembered how the lamb I had eaten was most oily,
and I vomited-
But all that came from my tired organs was the milk of human kindness.
I rose and stood la’statuesque,
frozen,
like a victim of a Gorgon-
My limbs then quit;
I acquiesced,
and fell again onto my porch.
I could hear the cackling that drifted from the matted muzzles of the hounds,
hiding in the shrubs nearby.
I tried to yell
but hounds from Hell
can only hear a lie;
I whispered, “Yes, I’m doing fine, I ask you, don’t assist…”
The laughing stopped a’suddenly and silence took ahold.
I lied, I lied!
I lied as I were dead,
imitating rigor mortis, which is harder than one’d think.
The hounds understood and turned to dust, vanished with the wind.
O! how lonely falling is, the landing ostrasizes,
and there I sat, a porch pariah,
until the mailman returned with the sun,
bringing bills and notes from God,
and soon my mailbox will again be filled |
And confound me like a divining rod in a boat
When everything points to true and right,
abandon do I all my hope
+
A lyric floating out my mouth courting flies like honey,
I can’t afford to see your light because I don’t have any money.
My pockets are barren,
but my sleeves are full of aces,
and my vibe is healthy
from my hat to my shoelaces.
I’ll just-
Pack it in,
pack it in,
and I’ll just-
Push it straight,
push it straight
Crows and worms are members of this nature’s league,
dividing time between themselves and the chance to eat my flesh.
But I’m not dead yet-
And I won’t be for awhile, go ahead, call that greed-
‘cuz I’ll just-
Pack it in,
pack it in,
and I’ll just-
Push it straight,
push it straight
I’m driving to insanity with windows down and the low fuel light on.
I doubt I’m going to make it, I’m forever stuck in rational fun.
But I’ve got a box-
And I’m putting my life in it,
and once it’s full,
it’ll go on the shelf to forget.
So I guess I’ll just-
Pack it in,
pack it in,
then I’ll just-
Push it straight,
push it straight
back on the shelf-
+
In my letters to God,
I told him I was a bookworm, he said, “Avoid British women.”
Good advice as any, I figured.
I said I was a troubadour, singing solemn songs of sadness. He asked for “Camptown Ladies,” (A flat)
Of course I never really know how to play that. Oh, the disappointment is eyes, so green and glowing fierce, so I quoted rhyme and reason, courtesy of Ambrose Bierce. I told him nothing matters. All of life is just a game, but to this he calmly laughed and sang, ?”sweet, sweet home on the starlit range, ?? Life outdoors is nothing strange…”?
I was never one for nature-
I prefered the comfort of anonymous metropolitian areas, bustling with lives of strangers, interlinked, entwined. But he simply sighed and said, “You’ll never know real rest ‘til the grass is your mattress, the stars are your blanket, and the sun is your alarm clock.”
I never sleep much anyhow, so that didn’t pique my interest so much. Regardless, I humored him-
But he knew it, and he told me, “Good lord, stop being condescending.”
I’m not-
“Oh yes you are, you’re pretending. Life isn’t a practice round, who is going to grant you a do over?”
I thought about this and I did it earnestly, I swear it, and he hummed a tune from, “The Sound of Music.”
“Not bein’ dead’s whatever you make it, how you weild it, the way you use it…”
I nodded-
”...cuz you know, eventually, you’ll lose it.”
I concentrated as best I could, but, shame to say it, it was evident he hadn’t washed his clothes or body in some time. I’m embarrassed to admit that that could obstruct his words from entering my ears. The train’s derailed, the plane has crashed, the building’s comin down.
“Use the life given you or return it to the box at the lost and found.”
Who was he to judge whether I’m effectively using my life, or if I’m simply idling, going derelict?
“I’m just a guy, same as you, livin’ to my means. I’ve won a few, but I’ve also gotten licked. But never give up, never surrender.”
OK, Winston Churchill. At least I’m fairly confident that it was he who said that at one point.
“That redcoat had his moments, but he’s dead as dirt now.”
Yes, he is. And I’m not. Not yet, at any rate. But dead people know all, have infinite wisdom about all things, and will gladly share if one asks nicely. Just simply read their words.
“Them bein’ dead kinda saps their relevance, or their revelance. Tomato tomato. Carrot carrot.”
And other double vegetables.
“Or fruit or rocks or stars or hamburgers. Everything’s the same. A preist, a killer, a jew and a gambler. Whatever.”
There’s no place for rascism in casual conversation.
“There are places for everything. All things’ll fit snugly as a fat ass in a comfy chair. A cup with a coffee and a cave with a bear.”
Bears are mean. And they sleep half a year. Nice way to reference a mammal as lazy as any to lecture about laziness.
“I must have overlooked that. I often get distracted during all this craziness.”
I looked around; it’s calm as a tomb. Hell, a catacomb, a sarcophagus. A mouse, even.
“I’m reachin’ to you,” he told me, “grabbin’ out with fists waggin’.”
I just bought this coat, keep your mitts off of me.
“It’s just a coat. No better or worse than any other coat. Consider that. Think about you as a coat.”
I’m not a coat, not a parka, not whipped cream in a root beer float. I’m a person.
“Fair enough. Don’t consider hypotheticals for the sake of friendly argument. Be logical. Be terse. Be, dare I say…”
He dares, he dares-
”...boring.”
Everything’s boring when one doesn’t consider the enthusiastic beauty in everything.
“Ah! Now you consider.”
Of course I consider. If consideration were a post office, I’d mail and deliver.
“But to whom are your letters sent?”
To myself of course, for warning, for warning.
“Your warnings are for the sharks, my friend. For the bees, the birds, the ants, the moose.”
Is that a single, solitary moose, or just several mouses?
“Don’t speak in semantics when we speak in theoreticals. Your beligerance is givin’ me a headache.”
Have a sabbatical, or perhaps also an aspirin.
“I don’t self-medicate. We’re getting away from our root conversation.”
I’m not even sure at this point that I can remember what that root is. Perhaps cypress?
“Perhaps. Or more likely it was the truth. The fact, the light in the darknesss that is persistant idleness.”
Ah, idleness. Running in place, screaming silently to oneself, yet smiling to everyone else That certainly is the crux.
“Indeed it is. The crux of everything. To be alive is to constantly need something to do, some activity to placate our sense of uselessness.”
I prefer my sense of sight. I try not to dwell in senses with abstract nouns.
“My friend, I’ll feed you to the hounds.”
I’d probably taste not unlike faded dreams, and panicked stillness. Patterned chaotic flapping about.
“Well, I’m sure they’d eat enough of you to devour your self-righteousness.”
I doubt it.
“Doubt’s a heavy word. It’s filled with lead and dirt and hate. It piles up around you until you know nothing else.”
Maybe there isn’t really anything else but doubt. That’s all I seem to know sometimes, at least.
“Then obviously you need to get out more.”
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I am going to tell you what reviewers told me of a free-style poem this long; uhn-uh.
I don’t think my reviewers knew a thing about literary maz-a-gines
and were maybe envisioning
Guideposts
But, nope.
If you look at the lit mags
to publish things of this scope, they have limitations. Sometimes a poem will seem
imitation
story But it’s still snot this long.
Mostly the poet has two poems printed side-by-side. Maybe they simply take knives up, divide
one in half or use an exacto
don’t know for a fact, though.
What does one do? Give them every other line
and then submit the rest
the following time. No one can tell.
The literary editors say good stuff.
The Reader’s Digest says “Too much.”
(You knew they would. They ask for condensed.
Truncated. A rubber band stretched to it’s limit.)
There just isn’t room at the
inn for you, friend.
The magazine’s layout can’t hold all you in.
Use coupons for diapers; for the dead man, a sniper.
Yes you can put it in a book of your poems.
but since it’s too long the viewers at home will
stop part-way through to answer their phone.
You can call the limb you
excise, trim
deliver in segments like earthworms a fish bit
your wonderful
story-length
sheets fo reeel
poem.
Just don’t screw up and keep it together.
Chin up! You’ve written a letter
well, it and thousands of others.
You’re forgetting it’s concentrated.
you’re the last person
they should tell ”apply liberally.”
You would take them literally.
There’s an answer! Send your best lines to one magazine
and the rest to some other.
I know it’s real good. But the length is the mother.
(And don’t take out the parts I adore, which start with
I’m and end with more.)
Even in compiling your Bible
name your sex shuns differ
titles. That’s how you’ll publish all the vitals.
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God? I hate God. And as a poet I hate the concept more. You would do well to do away with this frivolous pragmatism which only serves your utterances as a prison. Be gone with it and much more happier you shall see and be. You have too much to say to the world to get caught up in that shit, the guilt the higher/lesser being syndrome bah it’ll piss your own kids of even more than me. Honestly, your talent is raw, rambunctious and really inspiring. I couldnt call it one poem, unless I was on chrystal meth and mildly erratic in mind or with a great amount of short term memory loss. You certainly can wax lyrical, loved the first stanza, if thats what you would call it, was left anticipating the return till I realised that this is really a whole bunch of poems strung together.
All up, if you want critique and direction and review, learn how to encapsulate all that you said into a nursery rhyme and entertain your little sister or any child under the age of eight, and miss not one point. I dare you to be a poet and the best one not just get all highery and think you are one. Even you could be.,.,.,.,.,
Well done great gall
Your pieces had some very very interesting stanzas and lines in it which made it enjoyable to read, and I especially enjoyed:
“He sits for a minute,
then he says he wants to know,
and I’m like, “You wanna know? Fo sho!
Buy her flowers and handcuffs,
‘n tell her, ‘take your pick’.””
You’re ability to go back and forth between a more elevated speech and very colloquial tone is wonderful and keeps the poem alive throughout it’s duration.
Good luck and keep on writing!
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