fighting irony

Companion Piece to  Poem “Fine, This One Is About You”

Companion Piece 2
Watercolor, Paint, Marker on Paper
15″ x 20″

For You on Your Day(s)

When was the last time
I tried to write something happy?
Maybe it’s because I only write
in the mornings now-
the nights being so crowded and loud.

So it’s off to fight the good fight
every morning, your California son
incredulous to the ceaseless California sun.
Always waiting for the caffeine sunrise
never expecting its cloudy crash.

Or write something for someone?
I hide behind pseudonyms
abbreviations and allusions
under hats and thin beards
covers and blankets
characters and commitments.

What is there really to say,
Mom?
except those words said too often
and never enough
Thank You
I Love You.
Even a slice of heavenly French silk
loses some of its sweetness
if eaten everyday for breakfast.

So today, on your day
I think it best to take the literal approach
come in for a dramatic landing
out here, on display
in the open white fields
of paper plains

Without You:
I would not exist.

Chalk – Ambition – Blood

Give us more chalk
for the bullet filled walls
Or we will keep painting
your bathroom stalls

The neuroscientists warn
of unbridled ambition.
Imagine, they say, just imagine
a world where everyone is content
to only lead.
The hierarchy destroyed
by the world’s sudden
unwillingness to listen
to follow.
Everyone an Alpha.

Dear
Brother Banksy
Please
Ghost of Basquit
Give us more chalk
or we will use blood.

Companion Piece to  Poem “This One Isn’t About You Either,  or $1.77″

Companion Piece 1
Watercolor, Paint, Marker on Paper
15″ x 20″

If it Ain’t, Don’t

I used to be so angry.
My watercolor skies dripping red
my favorite orange, Blood.
My stakes deep in the grassy ground
defended with sweat
sweeping gestures of passion.
Woe be it to the boys, girls, dogs
whose only mistake was
wrong place wrong time
my clinched jaw, my gnashing teeth
indiscriminate
unprovoked.

Today there is no time for metaphor;
only time for money.
The sky is blue
the orange juice orange
the ground frozen dirt or scorching cement.
The anger
indifference.

Today there is only
broke strapped overdrawn
in the Red.

I used to be so angry he said
About what? she said
Everything he said
about all the Information without the Instructions.
The fun part is writing your own she said
No he said
the only fun I’ve ever had is in taking things apart
in destruction
She says-
I was never rich enough to break things for fun.

The next painting I buy
(I gave up the brush when she gave up the bottle)
will be of a sunset.
I know so little now of destruction;
everyday endings where the blood used to be.
And blue everywhere
absolutely fucking everywhere, Blue.

Only Sound I Hate More

than the ticking of a clock;
the thud of our minivan’s door
as I drop you off at the airport.

Her and Him / Bipolar Beauty / Creative Promises

Well hell
There goes my day
Her and him blocking the sidewalk cafe
Wearing: promise rings, skinny jeans
His cheese plate breakfast, her morning macchiato
too pretentious for rhyme.

If that wasn’t enough to lose the Muse
Bipolar Beauty to their left
Still incredulous about that night
back at her place, too much tequila, a
Frenetik: (Middle English, insane)
discussion of Who had What, Where
And how do we how can we get some?
Like, Now!
End Result: taxi tour to the ER
Panic attacking my heart
Thought: what a way to go brother
Here lies a man; died of a one night stand
and a single line of powder
too innocuous (for her) to name.

And Him: so exhausting.
Feigning ignorance, indifference, idiocy
Every sentence a question he knows the answer to
Or does he? He doesn’t.
Grading he on the same curve as she
Only Curve that Matters:
the small of her back,
the way she fits a simple black v-neck.

Man, I
Can’t wait to get to those pearly gates
God standing there
A scroll as long as Manhattan
Title: “Creative Promises”
With open arms, say
What about these?
Take your time son.
Money? Never heard of it.
Muse? Greek Mythology bullshit.
He (God) will chuckle
Yes, my boy, you can watch her now,
getting undressed, prepping for sleep, alone
Knowing: she knows.
But hey, you’re dead now (Thank God)
So it, you’re Watching: more nostalgic, than creepy.

Fine, This One Is About You

I promised to paint something for her
She was the only one who ever asked
She’s married now
has a child she loves like she used to love alcohol
and the backyard confessions it birthed.
Don’t be ashamed, I never felt so handsome.

I see it in your eyes, every blurry morning
staring out at me from the fridge
(Merry Christmas, Our Family to Yours)
a deadness, clearly claiming:
Mistakes were made.

So why these obvious signs
of boredom as I lead you
to the back of your house
(Home) to the bedroom
stepping over Bratz dolls
sweeping aside pink plastic saucers.

What, you thought I was here for the tea?

This would be so much easier
if it was dark outside
If we were drunk or stoned, or both
oh babe like we always were
before the apocalypse of our youth.
No, no, take it back, it was
more sunset than cosmic catastrophe.

But seriously, please, we’ve gotta get
Somehow (anyhow) outside of ourselves–
Look, I know, I keep bringing it up
but I’m so goddamn scared
I’ve never been anywhere
without chemical guides
Shaman Pharmaceuticals
Unless you know
of some other way out?
My world, it’s ending
Or worse,
Just beginning.

From David to the Pharmaceutical Goliaths

To Whom It May Concern
Please bring to market-battle
a pill for Anomie.
We’ve got one for everything else.
Everyday in my inbox, promises of penile enhancement
Funny word–more penal system or pianist
than male sex organ.

OK, Mr. Merck, if your impotent market research
shows declining demand for doping
unrest and alienation (personal and societal)
How about diverting a few of your billions
to a non-profit promoting the re-capitalization
of Melancholy.
Depression is too linked to the economic.

And what I feel upon waking has nothing to do with money.
(please scream this next one) Nothing.
I know, hard for you to fathom, nothing to do with
Profit or Loss or Earnings or Options or Depreciation
it’s just a feeling ok, a Feeling
Do you even have those?
Stop amortizing everything I say.

With all due respect, Ma’am
Do you realize what you’re asking of us?
Have you tried this yourself, Sir?
Giving over your life
to a diamond of compressed white crystalline powder
half the size of a pea, much less alive
So small in my hand, so tiny
as incidental as breakfast
Looking down, knowing
this pill is my Shield
this pill is my Slingshot.
Duck MotherFuckers.

Sincerely,

This One Isn’t About You Either, or, $1.77

I know I said I’d write one about you
one day
or worse, promised someone else would
outsourced the fitting flattering descriptions,
a touch of the flowery, never crossing the
line you use to protect yourself from aesthetes.

I apologize for my cowardice.
Now will you say you’re sorry
for keeping those at arms length
who have a sensitivity to the beautiful?

Besides Also However
If I were to write one about you
I wouldn’t tell you it was about you.
Be forced to admit how beautiful I think you are
Doesn’t even make sense
Your compulsive need for
Attention!!!
Have no real interest in giving you
Need too much on my own

I’d have to admit too
I can draw the comely pattern of your dress
know how your skin felt underneath it
from over top of it
and how you tasted like raspberries

Later, too later, found out, ha
it was only your dripping lip gloss
so sticky-sweet, so addictive.
Wonder how many of us have confused
artificial flavoring for pheromones?
Some underpaid Chemist our Cupid

Fucking hysterical now though
A taste I gave up everything to taste again
threw us all away for
I could have bought at the drugstore
for a lousy
one dollar and seventy-seven cents.