Dead Poetry

If in your lifetime no one understands you,
believes you, or loves you
as I do–
If every word you echo fades to silence,
meaningless to anyone who glances;
in and out like water,
and you die–
If even to my like-minded brothers,
lost inside their own echoes,
locked in dusty boxes on their mantle;
you’re invisible, irrelevant to them–
Even if you’re dying as you’re born;
Still, inside my body
as I write–
You still create a universe in me…
Expanding and alive between the ashes.

Open Eye

Annoying lights and noisy cars and full of stress and people,
on a boring street between two rows of dirt and grass in disarray,
the rocky sidewalk lifting, dropping me awkwardly as I trudge
among a slew of ugly buildings tossed about on either side.

I squeeze between a shaggy and protruding mess of bushes
and a rotting wooden pole that’s in my way and has no purpose,
and here the sidewalk ends and starts again across the street
and so I anxiously prepare to rush through lanes of busy traffic.

I’m agitated by the wait and angry at the scene, and then
I notice someone standing there across from me and staring,
but not at me– at all the dull and dirty things around me…
looking through his lens at something I have yet to see.


A gruesome deed,
But necessary, the one I must

Dirty jobs
Entail a bit of
Force, a little

I’m faced with a
Juicy problem to
Knock around a bit…

Look, don’t
Mean to burst your bubble, but you’re
Not hard to

Pain contorts my face, my
Reddens but doesn’t

Tweezing, pinching, squeezing…
Until my
Valiant efforts quit.

Wait, I’ll just use my
X-Acto knife.
Yes! Take that,

Logic is a Trickster

Now                think            upon            emotions

from                outside        looking         in

perceiving       my               logic            defective

this                 box              contains       boxes


Social importance.
versus personal priorites.
Cognitive decisions versus gut inclinations.
Biased to choose one over the other,
as each would choose itself.
Forced to comply and to assume each other
As worthy of my attention as any.
Learn to communicate.
Understand, I implore…
Each is meaningless without all four.

On Life, and Fiction

My life is a long, slow work of fiction,
but without an author.
My story is in the hands of the protagonist;
it’s up to me to find patterns and meaning,
to casually acquire information that might later become critical.
I sift through the characters and choose which ones to explore.
I decide when to be curious, and what about…
which opportunities to pursue, and which to ignore.
I control the conflicts,
and the settings,
and the moods.
And I’ll weave them all together into one central theme,
whatever that may be, and then my purpose
will be clear.
My story will unfold.
The final resolution will be told.
And, with all the pieces fallen rightly into place,
it will end.

Leaving you, the reader, hopefully,
dying to read it again.


to the dusty floor of your head.
It’s musty in there, and the air smells
like something long dead.

of waking on a sunny morning,
with the warmth from the window
wafting across your feather bed.
Kiss your love good morning
as you sit up,
and breathe…
And life courses through you,
and you feel the warm vibrations
and the subtle fluctuations
in your veins.

And then your body breaks
from the pressure
of the image in your head.
until your body wakes;
Rusty, tired, and underfed.

Scrabble Zongs

A Zong

(memorizing Z words for Scrabble)

You idolize, you seize the prize,
you vocalize of vitalizing zombies.
It’s amazing how lazily you breeze the maze,
you crazy lizards zooming through the kudzu.
Raze the roof with jazz kazoo,
you klutzes never sneezing to amaze me.
Waltzing with a dozen zebras;
Tis a zany thing to do,
but there’s zero else as ritzy at the zoo.
Keep your gaze at the horizon;
Be exorcized, or be blazed by my bazooka.
Blitzed into your hazy daze,
you doze into your booze.
It’s cozy here in these bizarre azaleas.

A Xong

(a logical followup)

Excuse me as I expunge an excrement, I know it’s extra rude,
But this excess is exasperating, and excruciating to exude.
Please don’t get excited when I express my exultation.
If I exclaim, “I exalt this excretion!” – that may be an exaggeration.

And please do not examine it; though it’s extraordinary, I expect.
But it’s just an example of the exquisite extractions I can dexterously eject.
Why I’m exploiting this experience is not exactly plain.
I’m experimenting, exposing my exports… I cannot explicitly explain.

This is an exoteric piece, I just had to externalize.
But to expedite the flux, I will expire that exercise.
Ixnay on the excerpt there, I’ll exchange it for this tale,
Take a Xanax for my anxiety, relax and then exhale.

You may think that I’m explosive and I think outside the box,
But from Xmas to the crucifix, I’m extremely orthodox.
Except – I’m excommunicated, and I’m lucky I still exist.
See, I had a little mix-up with a sexy exorcist…

We took an exotic excursion on an excellent equinox.
We went to explore the exosphere, and that’s not a paradox.
When we returned to Oxford, we were exiled, yes, expelled!
And quite transfixed by the six-six-six that damned us both to hell.

My exorcist was an extrovert who had claimed to be an expert,
But because of his hoax we joined the exodus, exiting the earth.
The crux of the story is not complex, it’s a simple axiom:
Expecially regarding oxygen, don’t exceed the maximum!


A Qong

(I should’ve quit before this one!)

Once upon a quiet quag
Under a quart of maqui
A squab was squatting, with quite a qualm
Quailing, squegging, rocking.

She quaffed some aqua to quench the qualm
Then queried to all of her quins:
“Won’t you quit that croquet game?
you’re acting like a bunch of quids!”

The quint, that is: the queen, the quean,
The quey, the squaw, and the squab
Were queer quintuplets, that’s a quack,
A roque and quoit squad.

The queen, qua the queerest one
Quipped back at the squibbing squab,
“Quit your piquing, you quirky quale,
or we’ll quoin you in a quod.”

The squab took her qurshes and flew away
On a quest to find a quern or quay.
and her quins just queued and quoted the squab
While listening to all the SQUAWK!

A Stong

(extending the challenge to use as many “st” sounds as possible, and to not write something really depressing and shitty. Whoops!)

I’m standing still by the whistling stream,
studying the stars,
and staring straight through the steady storm,
aghast at the vast distance.
This instant of existence
must be my last,
lest my stress persists.
I’m stripped of strength, I can no longer resist.
I insist
that this is best.
For I am lost until I rest.

A Thong

(ending on a good one)

Filthy authors, authorizing
thugs and meth and brothels,
enthralling youth with wealth and leather,
thin, with thighs that thongs untether,
though they’d rather
play the zither,
think, and bathe,
and thank their mothers,
and further their own growth in mathematics.

The thing is, youth are thorough, ruthless thieves
of filth and loathsome clothing,
thirteenth birthdays,
goth and deathly,
atheist and inauthentic,
not athletic, or otherwise worthy
of the thousands of things they slather on
and lather in,
and hither and thither, a swath gets on their teeth.
Their pathetic pathos
leaves them loath to breathe.

Therefore gather all together,
fathers, authors, faithful brothers:
think, rethink, and thumb your thick thesaurus.
Then stealthily your pithy words
will slither through with soothing warmth,
and put forth
what the soothsayer sooth-saith.
Then, thunderstruck, the youth will laugh,
and, rathe to take another path,
throw away their thongs and things of leather.
(The meth, though, is another thing altogether!)


(No one has answered this yet! Have they tried hard? Idk. But you could be the first!)

Put me in the front and I am not;
Put me at the end and I am many.
I am put together, I am: