The Underground – A Note

Music credit: Test Drive – Joji

No Shows

Nah that’s cool,
shrugging lazily
and only half joking. 
Several seconds pass,
many long-winded
metaphors, and
eight god damn
whiskey sours later....

Like eating grapes 
off the vine. It
tastes less enjoyable, 
but overwhelmingly
natural. 
Like a coke dealer on 
a netflix binge:
three days with no sale,
in love with the 80’s,
pass the ice. 

I spent that time
listening
for someone to yell,
“Stop!”
Dispassionately poised
for an assault on
my character
to my back
and everything else 
to my face. 
Nothing happened,
but dammit beg,
for the question you
already know:
the fleeing happiness,
asking instead
for accomplishment
and society’s benefit.

h i h

Now and then?  
More like: 

all the time,

everywhere,

all at once. 

That sounds like
the most British thing 
I've heard.
The only thing, 
honest, 
and you should be
honest.
 
Tell me how to get
there
and I swear to you,
by sould,
by blood,
by iron,
we leave. 

Well, did you find
a bowl or not?
Have you lost your mind?
Your head sloshes
full of soup.
Consider that,
your eye 
half eaten by the falcon,
Horus.  
Maggots wriggling about
the lens - 
have you no shame? 
Nothing to see here,
not since I lost my eye,
after all. 

While In

Subverting patience
one expectation at a time.
I like to weaponize 
existentialism - 
it’s my kink.
I don’t even like the music,
I just know you
like me for listening. 
What a ball,
a beautiful wedding. 
So pulls the oxen 
on cart. 

Pardon me a moment
while I spiral 
out of control here. 

Tri Cyclic

I did nothing
but watch
helpless
as the young
of my generation,
the gifted
and beautiful,
trapped themselves
in the same 
dead ends 
we hated the old
for wasting their
lives on.

I’m sorry. 

Welcoming

From birth
your time, 
they say,
will come.

Your family 
excited,
the papers,
you sign.
Guns flare. 

The uncles, 
the grandads,
the fathers - 
those left - 
they say, 
your time 
will come.

You sign,
they cheer,
you fight,
they boo.
Your war 
will come. 

Scribd Twofers: A poem and an essay


Art

Shapes in
raw granite, 
a person.
An unaware,
apathetic block-
head
staring blankly 
in the mirror,
hammered and sanded.

From top
to toe, 
mouths run - 
collecting minerals -
dribbling away.
Forward springs life,
etching down
the drain.

Rock chips
stumble over
each other.
Dust finds home
on rough edges - 
inevitably the floor,
cracks in my dry,
clay-soaked hands,
and cloth folds  
wherever paint
doesn’t already cling. 

The eyes:
pained,
long set.
A muscular beauty,
the rest,
one casual greeting 
at a time.

In and out
of days,
nights fitting
somewhere between, 
apparently. 
I work.

The Sons of Laocoon

Please, good 
hatred, 
I crave your amnesty’s 
desire.

I live 
without rent due 
anytime this month - 
seek me.
 
On occasion, 
the one 
she missed;
less often
each day. 

Who taught her those 
things, yes, 
you like. 
Much obliged. 

Her sculpture, an
idle thing to
revere - 
an idea

molded to 
life
scrape by
harrowing scrape.

Her best image,
a stampede alight, oh
alright.

Cherish her, I
could not.
Keep her, 
you could not.
Try.