fighting irony

Insomniac’s Prayer

Big Man in the Sky
Mother of all things Earth
forgive this day’s sins
the wasted breath
the refusal of touch
the denial of beauties;
everyday and profound.

New Age Source
Prophet of Consciousness
if you reside inside me
smaller than atoms,
Am I talking to myself?
when I say
You piece of shit.
You lazy fuck.

Or am I talking to God?

In a Past Life I was a Country Singer

I stand at the base of the stairs
you up above, on the landing
doing the angry finger dance
winding up for the
hurling coffee cup

In a past life I was a country singer
could make sense of the sadness
with 3 simple chords
Before that, a painter
with Wyeth-esque palette
not without talent
Before that…  it gets blurry
something Renaissance maybe
humorless days in the field
meditating on the Humanities
mindless back breaking labor
full moon manias
reluctant soldier
grieving Father
buried child
pure spirit

Now,
I stand at the top of the stairs
you at the foot
clutching a broken wrist
covering your bruised ribs
How did you get down there?
I know I pushed you
but it’s like I just woke up.

Passing bass, rattles the floor
a heartbeat on four wheels.

Ice Dreams (with Recipe for Oblivion)

The past is a glacier
Insomnia: Global Warming
There we are
floating through the Gulf Stream
in the backseat of that car

The past is an ice cube
Remembrance: the sun
There you are
like an insect trapped in amber
waiting to be swallowed
on the playground after dark

The past is a blizzard
Secrets: black ice
Here we go
let go of the wheel, spin
through the hotel room
rented on allowance

Recipe for Oblivion:
Do not go back to sleep!
Walk down those stairs
Pour bourbon over ice–
no longer a metaphor
just something to make it
burn less.
Sit in chair.
Sip.
Stare with glassy Anime eyes
at a stain on the carpet.
Blood?

Forget.

“The Physical Impossibility of Wealth In The Mind Of Someone Poor.”
(for Damien Hirst)

I didn’t write this poem.*
But it was my idea!
*So what?
Architects don’t build their own houses.

Fiction is the Best Way of Telling Our Truth

Thinly veiled, I write of our hardships
each one a tiny model sailboat
hand-launched into the dyed blue
seas of park lakes and reservoirs,
urban engineering at its Disney best.
You don’t see it do you?
Even our water is fake.

I didn’t want this poem to be about you
or us
especially (sigh) not about Me
It’s my day off from scams and schemes
and your day off from,
What exactly do you do all day?
But here we are again
trapped in midnight’s moonlit silence
before noon.

Pointing out scars birth-marks blemishes
Punching away at already bruised arms
With the Incredulity of Saint Thomas
in Caravaggio’s masterpiece
Sticking our fingers deep into each other
’s open wounds.

Come on baby love honey darling
Make it hurt like you used to;
Only you know how to turn me on.