…

Discordia

Human Flesh is A Gateway Drug (A Love Poem.)

As recently assigned by Rob Geisen, the co-editor of Baobob Tree Press, a poem entitled:
Human Flesh Is A Gateway Drug

Human Flesh is a gateway drug
into those long-ass tunnels we drive through
just to see that small glimmer
of all our idealized
excitements, heavy with hope
running after every carbon molecule
that has created what you are

and I am chewing
on the fat of my own arm
to drive to you, dear

&

in my desperate lack of an automobile,
I sit conjuring in my chair
thinking of all the other ways
to transport myself
to where I am
to where you will be
when the apocalypse
treats us
kindly
&
only us

as the astringent grass parasites
and termite-eaten hearts
lie under our cloths mounted high above
our safety saran-wrap
blankets
with a cement
foundation,

we won’t die like this,
no,

we will conquer this apocalypse
and lay close but
not entirely on the grass
all day

Human flesh
is all you
are
and
all
I
am
and
baby
you’re my gateway
to being okay
with that

as I scream under the tollway
that didn’t want to raise its gate
because I am standing here
bartering with the teller
about the true expression
of love
and
how
dignity
and honor
will take me
across this horizontal beam
our civilization has put in front of us

Yes Baby
Without my car
to meet your flesh
with mine
I have walked
across the desert
and the city
and the highway
staring at all the dead hawks
and elk
and sometimes armadillos, (when I was in texas)
but sometimes
you have to walk
the great distance
because
human flesh,
is usually so insipid and meaningless,
but yours babe,

well yours is

just one

hell of

a

beautiful

drug.

Nowhere, Particularly….

I fall asleep to the
familiar sound
I know this place
this land,
is my land,
this land is our land,
and the grass- grows for us to simply lay
and watch
that rainbow descending
it–comes from a cloud
we see it under the moon

- we don’t ask questions.
time and irrelevancy are\hand in hand

i walk this perfect street
begging the scent
of a flower
i remember by name
the edge rough
the core a location
we fought to remember-

the alley way is a marching band
these abandoned arm chairs
a refuge
from
a fight against
blindness-

this is our/ hearts
this is our/

the sleeping bird
makes some
movement
and i don’t
ask
but simply
chirp
under this moon
with him,

this is our/hearts
this is our/

green grass-
beneath us.

They were all looking/ for something

They all
point their eyes
in the direction
of where their
eyes
are directed
and observe
the next
moment
it/ is unknown
and in the blink
of their eye
they
may have
missed their
train of thought
only to have
it
come up / behind them
again

in the face
of the daydream
they
are
always
still

looking.

Nowhere, Particularly

I fall asleep to the
familiar sound
I know this place
this land,
is my land,
this land is our land,
and the grass- grows for us to simply lay
and watch
that rainbow descending
it–comes from a cloud
we see it under the moon

- we don’t ask questions.
time and irrelevancy are\hand in hand

i walk this perfect street
begging the scent
of a flower
i remember by name
the edge rough
the core a location
we fought to remember-

the alley way is a marching band
these abandoned arm chairs
a refuge
from
a fight against
blindness-

this is our/ hearts
this is our/

the sleeping bird
makes some
movement
and i don’t
ask
but simply
chirp
under this moon
with him,

this is our/hearts
this is our/

green grass-
beneath us.

(86 Poems, Not A Single One…)

86 POEMS, NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THEM RIGHT

i try,
daily
for every poem
to reverberate correctly
but each word is
slop

i can not explain this
-that’s okay

I didn’t try much anyways.

—–

YOU CAN NOT STOP

You can not stop
what has become
it is a part of you
this moment
in the silence of pure love
expired/ but waiting
to revive-

we wait to say
“i love you
i love you
still
and
always”

as simple as it sounds
-truth is holy.
-truth is all.

—

LOOK HERE

Look at Charles Bukowski-
simple as a young boy
-we’ve gone too far
into our syntax
begging recognition

when

simple word
is word

I am what you are-
-You are what I am.

—We are.

and there’s nothing
perplexing
to speak of.

The Bridge

Allow one foot
underwater
the other
above the ground
you find the balance
but
dislocate the sound.