Shit: The Haiku

Diarrhea of
the pen? Gotta let it flow
through a crap filter.

Modern-Day Dante: The Unfunky Monk Works in D.C.

I walk through elaborate
stained oak doors, and
people on the other side
want to know my thoughts.
They ask, “Where do those
doors lead?” I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”
The lines in my shirt point
to my face.
The lines on the wall point
to my face.
The microphone points
to my face.
And they ask me,
“Why does everything point
to your face?” I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”

I know things they
should never know.
I've seen things they
should never see.
And still, they ask,
“Will you tell us
what you know.”
And still, I say,
“If you don't know,
you never will.”
I hope.

I can't tell them of
the wormhole through
the devil's bowels.
I can't tell them of
the creatures, once
people, disfigured
with sin and white
with fear. Deformations
of imagination. Arms
like snakes, biting
their own faces.
I can't tell them of
Earth exploding
1 million times.
I can't tell them of the
sanguine screams of
children scratching
my nape like needles
through a lover's hand.
The taste of liquid
iron as it creeps
down my throat, melting
my lungs, squeezing
nausea through my
pores.
I can't tell them what's
behind those doors.

The lines to my face
are arrows piercing
my conscience.
I can't aim the bow
at them.

Those ignorant people.

Whiskey Smiles

His is a face made
for smiling. There will
be wrinkles on his cheeks
and crow's feet spreading
from his eyes like sprouting
plants from a seed. Fertilizer
is all he needs. Pour it
over three ice-cubes
and turn the lights down.

Bane

After Po Chu's "Rain"

I grew up an alien in a farm town
Looking up to outer space.
I worked on the long-range antennae;
The signal was seldom responsive.
Grain by grain, the land matched the sky;
The farms were parallel with infinity.
From my lab I'd see the moon;
An echo of my childhood song.
The stars were stolen by sparse streetlights;
Only a few would shine softly.
I watched as one came crashing to the ground
Turning the sky into a fire lake.

Mutated Calculator Funk: The Poem

Polyrhythms at breakneck
paces collide with melody,
Speedracer with ADHD
heading toward a wall
made of the densest material
found in the universe, breaking
through. Knocked-out and
jumbled, he picks up
his guitar, swinging,
a metaphor reminding
him to break it down.
Bring the funk, not just
thunder and lightning.
A hail storm smashing
windows costs too much.
Bring the funk, then
Hell, or both, but seldom
does pure Hell translate.
Bring the funk, mix in
some punk, 7/8,
5/4, remember to
bring the funk, then
break necks.

During a bout with insomnia...

I started a blog. I don't know what to do with it, but I've been planning on diving into this pool sooner or later.

Maybe it'll feature some of my journalism stuff.

Maybe it'll feature some of my creative writing stuff.

Maybe I'll just write about music.

Maybe it'll just fade like any other phase I go through.

We'll see, I guess.