Coffee Table Words

How many inspirational words
can I find, placed here
hidden from the street lamp,
keep looking hard, you'll find them;
I'm locked in tight, the windows are closed
in past tense; unremarkable,
you just might ruin your eyes
squinting so and straining into the night.

comma period colon semi-colon

It's been years since I felt the rain I can tell you because you won't speak back unable to utter a sound fearful of laughter and joy and confidence even a stinging drop of water from some untold thousand feet there is or there isn't one or the same and the same spilling out breathless what the hell read on because you can't now it's my turn now it's my turn to taunt you to taunt you to take it out on you passive silent but terrible waiting for the rain to fall you you're soaked thinking you're dry standing in the light covered in shadow and wet and shadow a fucking idiot with darkened clothes and damp hands outstretched grabbing at everything seeing nothing thanking no one you don't deserve the punctuation I've left out and you'll never get it so while I wait for the rain under this cloth and steel and sweat you can dance in ignorance or whatever you call it pulling everyone down and draining the world

Vacations

You exist in typed words

and messages left

with intent to reply,

It's spring and oceans

warming to swimmers

hide you from me,

endless blue sky pushes out

and away against the clouds

moving north to find a place to rest,

or readying for rain,

They say you're miles away,

it feels like more,

I'd count them but they don't make tape measures that long,

or so the woman at Home Depot says,

I think you're on an island somewhere,

in the spring, in the summer,

in the past, morning when its night,

a day before and a day behind,

The summer is waiting patiently for your return,

light on steel wings and rudders,

over ancient temples, decayed cities

and painted rocks,

The wind carries word from you,

the spring has your name in its air,

and when the past catches up,

I'll be there to see it.

Wave

Whatever happened to Google Wave?
Drawn in by the motion of the moon,
obscured, incandescent light,
through a link an error displayed,
404? Or else? salty and sticking to my lips,
you left us,
neither sated, nor confident
for you return.

We Field Plastic Soldiers and Candy Colored Illusions

They buried you right there,
those bullets,
those men,
Where were you,
when we were so young? When we
and they called out to you,

to shadows cloaked in rain and truth,
hands cold, wanting

A dream,
warm and trickles down my face
with obscured visions,
and fairy tales
unsaid,

without impulse,
We laid there, he and she
the grass damp
and comforting, whispering
a festive good bye to youth,
and you watching, unassuming,
the sky passive,
magic unwritten, hinges on
a word all encompassing,

didactic imaginings,
in unfair fantasies
the armies learn to march unheeded,
revered by those in tall dewy grass
dreaming as youth drifts by,
silent, like the lumbered gait of broken horses.

Morning Coming Fast

The faucet drips,
keeping time with
forgetful sun, and
the oysters sleep unaware,

darkness clings to my room,
on chairs and bed frames
casting silhouette, and maybe sadness;

A boys dream
somewhere happy
someplace died,
whatever remains in comic books
and side scrolling video games,

Tally them up to
something lost- four strikes,
a diagonal is five-

the future presses on like the sun,
in my room
coating everything
in shining gold,
the burn-
I close my eyes,
the oysters lie.

I bought this new text book of walking history and it taught my students to mix water and concrete

The soil is weightless,
yet the trees form concrete walls,
a quiet liminality exposed,
past bleeds into present
clean air and the rumble of the automobile,

Thundering silence
and we shouldn't be here,
though we need to be;

understand or forget.
to ignore, and crucify
the steady beat of identity,
fragile and benign,

clouds heavy with rain
beating down,
a memorial hastily constructed,
following the bend and curve of road and river;

the discourse of commercial markets pursued, 
a discipline of asphalt and ignorance,
governments and private wealth,
a history of interstate highways,
walmarts, shopping malls, and
supermarkets to worship
and write about in circular ads.
the new history,
the new past,
heroes and gods
barely perceptible
a new identity dissolves.

double-click

Art.

I hate art.
Everything about it.
Abstract, Impressionism, neo-abstract-impressionism.
A Spam filter on the other hand,
is beautiful.

It protects me from being forced to determine
if I should read an email with the heading:

STOP. You need LARGE PENIS. Tired of unsatisfied women? 77% off TODAY ONLY.

Monet would be jealous,
but mostly because he slowly went blind.

Who has to write it?

Write yourself...

All these ideas and nothing is free,
meandering ideology and modality
and, what do we attain from it?

Confusion and unreality
in lost hours,
for nothing.

A paid copyright
for a story no one wants to tell,
or read.
A discourse of fancy,
a result like struggling plants
in winters cold soil.

A dialogue without end
or adversary.
 

I think the server crashed

Welcome! You have entered [The Lounge] at 4:02 am
[The Lounge]: The Demogoblins has entered at 4:02 am
[The Demogoblins] 4:02 am: my glorious drills reversed
[The Demogoblins] 4:03 am: like so much meat
[The Demogoblins] 4:03 am: thrown in my face by a butcher named server crash
[The Demogoblins] 4:04 am: o will we never be blessed by tiny pixels and text based lifeforms as we were before this
terrible rapture
[The Demogoblins] 4:05 am: have not, each one of us suffered enough
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: and now to be forced to remember
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: in the dead of night
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: 406 eastern standard time
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: the former wonder of two +2s
[The Demogoblins] 4:07 am: i cry foul world
[The Demogoblins] 4:07 am: cruel and steely like the guillotine
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: you slice at me
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: love,
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: The Demogoblins

SPAM

The Tomato Giant...
What the fuck is that?
These ads are becoming too abstract,
a tomato isn't even in the shape of a penis.

A dinner for two without reservations

Sometimes I feel like ceviche isn't actually cooked,
like, how do I know that the citrus acids
had enough time to prepare the fish
so it isn't raw?

Then again I know the water in my fish tank
has a good pH because the fish are still swimming
and waiting for me to feed them,

I see my reflection in them,
grey cast eyes looking through glass,
unable to see through that glass,
out into an alien world of careless giants,
marching across suffocating carpeted valleys
towards soft leather mountains,
unknowingly contemplating their end
with every moist flake ingested,
turning in constantly shrinking circles
until they cease to exist or give up living--

on
the other side of the glass
of course,

Once again though,
I'm reminded,
I still haven't answered that ceviche question.

Bob Costas Valentine

Huddled around blue pulsing light,
radiating without warmth,
are skating pairs,

flamboyant clothes accompany
zero missed calls and jumbled silence,
I'm alone,

There is chocolate somewhere
(though I'm allergic)
and the passing scent of melting wax
weighted down by burning wick,
carefully sculpted, adoringly prepared,
these tables across which lovers stare,
are empty but for my glass, coaster-less
and also alone,

a charming reflection of Olympic feats
looped and replayed.

SNOW

I haven't abandoned you,

a bitter winter, and I'm
Knee deep in a misplaced tundra,
snowflakes gnaw at my fingers,
the coarse wood and cold metal
of an old shovel, it's true
we've all seen better days,

But when were they?--

you remember? and I--?
I won't forget you
when the snow melts
the streets are dry
and the squirrels come out of hiding.

Is this the end of the postmodern hero?

Is this the end of the postmodern hero?

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