at least it's better than instagram

Notice something about the modern pop poem,
it is almost always written in two stanza lines,

of the protagonist it says something vague
like they were recalcitrant; with a semi-colon,

it then mentions a past event in their life,
of course this was on a farm somewhere,

that perfect litttle spot in the barn away from,
where mama used to, all red and like

some obscure and possible supernatural
undertones to finish, a bit of fantasy,

tending toward dark and removed imagery,
doing no work of itself, a mirror deftly cultured for the reader.

then it ends, rather abruptly, always simply, a weighted remark
about childhood that the poem supposedly alludes,

where it is accepted by solicitation by the Atlantic,
or the New Yorker to waste away online with paid for praise.

kiss them cheeks all up

the bus opens up

around the hill

against the curve

away from the light

the baby standing on her lap

jerks the opposite way

two women in the back cannot resist

the pull

the shrieking brake

the mangled exterior

they would spend the day

kissing

what about the baby's head

the head-on collision

how the bus would kick

think about the baby

your lips on its cheek

dead tire marks in the road

a sheet of glass

limited connection

rise and scroll

where there will be new things

normal aberrations

words within the picture frame

would you prefer to exit
                                        or wait?

chattering teeth

broken code

scroll and click

and you will glimpse glowing stars

depressed horizons

a picture frame within reason

a choice to say whether yes
                                             or no

schematic drawings for the purple machine

the garden in the basement,
lately I have forgotten it,
soon, negligence,
then rot;

schematic drawings for the purple machine;

in a dream,

the insides of the house
I grew up in were gutted

replaced by penthouse views
the skyline, new york,

it was up to me to pay the bill;

if standing on a chair
you look down through the camera lens
the blue prints will clear

there, find the doorway;

walk in,

that's where it must be hiding,

the machine,

the one that makes the garden,
where the gas is pumped in
and the chemicals mixed,

how many floors below
make up the basement

the reaching arms of plants

the many acres of dirt torn up

Go On, Breathe Freely Released into the Wild and Available Now!

Well, here it is finally...95 pages of poetry from Chatter House Press
with the wonderful Penny Dunning editing...

Written in rain-soaked notebooks folded and tucked into the back pocket of worn-down corduroys, this collection of poems tell the tale of a ragged band of East Coast wanderers out to find that mythical American freedom of the West.

it's on the press website: https://goo.gl/iYgH4R

and Amazon: https://goo.gl/6fC2kO

sneak peak poem-- 250 Miles Wide

250 Miles wide

What’s Missouri but

a big endless white

cast of clouds above my head?

From the floor

of the backseat,

in the crevice by the sliding door,

I am borne into that

unknown space

by our van that like

the sacrificial lamb of America

has given itself over to our quest;

hear the harmonics

sullen pang, fundamental,

on the lips of the young babes,

ball the jack

to the shining grasslands

of old—without a song,

just a thought—a collective

yearning to get at that thing,

that very thing that has escaped us,

unspeakably, on the horizon.

playback

recorded:
                love is a fucking cock.
not the actual device;
the figure.
                cunt is a service enterprise.
the actualized body; the mind
redistributed to masses
                                        un-
fortunately none were chosen;

thankfully; freedom is in
                                        re-
mission; of speech
                               when required;
a figurehead, walks into a classroom
on the chalkboard you're asked to write;

do you? when read it follows
a certain thread; art than word,

body is a mental deficiency; a
cavity,

cited:
          where the coffins were exhumed.
not the fictional wood;
the corpses.
                    a copse of trees
a tri-nominal shape, one many two
thousand years old; a ghost

more so a; phantasm

the groaning bodies slick
with afterbirth; fuck
their veins fuck; their cunts
are cocks forced under the breast plate;

this one is called father

this other is named mother

disputed:
               this reality
many are the protoplasm;
arguably organ-less; comprised
of comprising organelles, this is the
body of seized function;
                                        the factory
landscape
                by definition a place of
value; traded
                     sexless convulsions
meaningful looks,

what wonder is? the sucking sound

end; effigy; requirement; obligation,

fantasy, quake
                        action repeated in linear step
to the drums; fucking release; materialized.

what dreams? what dreams. what comes?

what is
abandoned. what is remembered?

Social Currency

no one utilizes the people they know efficiently;
gather them up and stand them in a line,
shuffle them at random and offer them a number
that will be easier to remember than their name;
place them in little factories; with little windows; big walls;
make sure the doors are hermetically sealed,
watch them go to work; sending all that love down the line,
there you will reap the rewards of true friendship;
within a box, a bow wrapped and tied on top,
place the most valuable  commodities,
pack the luxuries with bubble wrap, this is where you
ensure the dividends are made; this is where you divide
the number of people by the number of their importance;
this is how you utilize your resources effectively.

about the waves and the land

as california falls into the sea
                                                slower than we believed
and the mud tumbles over itself
                                          attempting to break free
as the ocean rises up to meet it
                                              250 feet away
and see where the shoreline
                                           becomes the sky
as the water is as blue as ever
                                         sparkling against brown earth
and the canyon turns the roadway
                                                  inside out

there'll be a tombstone along
what once was route 1
sinking slowly to pacific floor

all the tortuous gray
will be forgotten

all the cars will rust
and drown below

unseen

forevermore

Ben Kingfischer was live.

FIRST SHOT. EXT. DAY.
[camera shakes, there is a finger on the touchscreen
caressing play] open up to whirl of color blue on green
on what is that grass maybe a hand or arm flesh color
mess [camera steadies] Now the voice of the
narrator.]

NARRATOR:

Hey guys, Oh hey! Is this working?

SECOND SHOT. INT. HUMAN FACE.

[camera quickly pans to face of Narrator, pulls out

zooms in shakes is steady if not slightly off kilter

the narrator waves, behind you can imagine some

scene worth showing in the narrators mind this

is all conjecture]

NARRATOR: 

Hey, guess where I am?

THIRD SHOT. EXT. DAY. BEAUTIFUL SCENE.

[camera pans you see what you want where you want

to be the narrator giggles camera panorama spin back

to narrator final reveal]

FINAL SHOT. INT. HUMAN FACE.

[narrator holding camera with two hands away from face

on an angle looking up imagine the bluest sky behind

there might be one wisp of cloud the sun is off screen]

NARRATOR:

Well, there it is guys! Told ya can you believe it?

NARRATOR:

All right see ya later! Update Coming soon!

END SCENE. 

Ben Kingfischer was live.

an act of mutation

some photos taken for granted

some lies cooling in the sun

some remnants of your past catching up

          reading the last line before
          the subway pulls up; rushed;
          forgetting the last 40 minutes
          that you read; being an angel
          thinking about heaven;
          how it looks; what it is

some thoughts written down

some one laughing behind the door

some place that feels like the future

          remembering that you'd been
          driving; stopped at a red light;
          panicking; thinking about how
          you'd made those turns; the 
          bodies that could have been
          left; in your path; could it
          be diverted; was it possible
          to jerk the wheel

some memories are entirely true

some shoes in a garbage can

some where you'll never know

          deleting the words as you go;
          starting over; reading a poem 
          from long ago; adding a word
          a thought; that appears a few
          lines below; deja vu; a feeling
          of familiarity; predictable 
          choices; same old stanzas;
          flat lines 

Behind the scenes; a youtube retrospective

it reverted back
      to the first draft
the pencil lines
             you get a look
     at that
                shit
what it was before
           facial recognition
       kicked in
                 cleaned it up
           smoothed out
                   those fucking
blemishes
     looks alright now
                          ready to promote
                 a video
                           trail series
    product placement
                       money-making
     unboxing
                it's important
  as an influencer
                    I'm speaking as one
                                                    insightful
        to know when you sell yourself
 that you're always
                 true to yourself
       like this poem is for me
  it doesn't matter what
                                     anyone thinks
           only that you believe
                                               are true
     to yourself
                               but for you to buy
               and like it
                     tho I don't care to ramble
on
      about how I am true to myself
  even though I'd like this
                                          to trend
                          see I'm an influencer
not a poet or writer
                    or even someone that reads
            tho I do
    but it was important to me
 to write from the
                             position
            of an influencer
                 it being so novel
     don't get me wrong
                                     I am staying true
to myself
          you can do whatever you want
    like I can
             if you like this don't forget
to like and subscribe
      for more content like this
                             exactly like this
             if you like and subscribe
  for more content
                I will front load this
poem with advertisements
      that will be pertinent to your interests
                                                   as an influencer
                            I am privileged with insight
            and if you guys subscribe
   I'll be able to bring you the content
                                                            you guys
                                          want to read
                     so even though I don't particularly care
     if you could share this
                                         even like this
                        go as far as subscribe to this
           it would be appreciated
                                                   especially
                            by someone like me
       who is an influencer
                                         speaking from the
                     perspective
                               writing from the
            selling from the
    operating from
                              the
the
             influencer
                               draft
                      I really feel like
       I don't care what
                                   anyone thinks
and I am happy that I can be myself
                              as long as you do what you want to do
              that's my advice
                                         as an influencer
pls like and subscribe guys!
                                              thanks!

Moonlit dance

your skin draws upon me in the dark
when i lay down i am nowhere else
                       i am parallel with the earth
there are many layers of concrete btw me
and the sun
                       the mattress hugs tightly on
your curves pulled into itself & expanding
the depression is covered over by long strands
of fabric intertwined without space
                                                       none of this
visible in the dark as i make my way by light
of your phone prone & left face down to sleep
your body is visible in the darkness
                                                         darker &
stiller than the night
                                 i have come merely to
stare at imagined ceilings before i sleep
the white paint gray and morbid
                                                    your soft
breathes your wandering thoughts building
dreams
            the earth rushing as always toward
the sun

Post-It Note Necrophilia I

scrolling bulge of the static frame
             surveillance scripture obtained
unoccupied screens
        image fidgets at intervals
13 1/2 seconds
     information mounted on the overlay
time     date
    camera identification
location
          name
reality distorted     sorted     recorded
              re-ordered
     frame      X      frame

Windows and Walls

each barrier must in its own way support the facade,
the tiniest of cracks, openings, must be filled,
there is no room for mistake, serious business,
if a bit of what's outside gets in, containment will be breached,
once again, serious business, what's at stake,
that's for me to say, not to think about,
just know that we have your best interests at heart,
and if productivity can be increased? a bonus,
you are part of something real and that must be protected,
when you believe in people first the love really comes through
in the product.

Domes [for Rent]

above our heads
they couldn't even bend
at the overflowing
slips of paper filled out
anonymously but with
names only the organization
will see along with social sec no#
and bank acc information
answering the proposed
question: how are we doing?
to construct a dome
one that appears like the sky
like even a single painted
on cloud was too much
they just didn't have the
manpower the official release:
We Just Didn't Have The ManPower
instead the tiles will suffice
linoleum and the loudest among those
not impacted without necks and
never looking up agree that
it would cost a lot of money to
find out if the sky is blue
or what a rain drop dances like
and who cares really what about
the taxes or the jobs can the
whatever is outside grant us that?
rightfully smug at their own
rhetorical jab that could not be answered
it's better within the walls keeping
our feet to the cool blessed cement
of the earth our fore-bearers always
meant it to come to this end
choice collapsed and fiction removed
great swaths of land brought to heel
by the might of mankind
did you see the hochs on that prime cut
of realestate imagine that with
steel beams stabbed and wiring
drawn in cut a piece off and
let's do business like how many
sq ft can be sold at your feet
dream of it imagine what those fields
of progress look like now as
they work for us
outside our protected vision
what they must be doing
how beautiful they must be
digging into the stars
pulling down all those
resource laden wonders
feeding the mechanized earth
providing for the future
below our feet