New Rituals
As phones stopped
ringing decades ago
and people we love
have mostly died off
we make new rituals
to mark our time on this rock
taking an inventory
of the flesh
finishing the book
we were distracted with
eating things
we’ve made ourselves
remembering cookies
by grandmas departed
staring into the mirror
until it smiles back
avoiding news
while playing back
songs we’ve found
that tickle our heads
and we hold
that hope
that love
finds us again
our finest work
etched on its walls
our sincerest tributes
screamed in its stalls
judgement of the morning
comes down to haunt
with last night’s choices
lost to the moment
politicians’ faces
in the light of day
world’s situations
against the love we’ve felt
all twisted together
splashed and passed out
in time for the morning
train smiling once again
The lack
you don’t remember
what you’re missing
only a diffuse pain
in an area it could inhabit
a desire
you can’t describe
nostalgia for a place
never visited
missing someone
you’ve never met
as memories
are replaced by media
you accept this feeling
as a sort of poisoned ambition
it fuels you
and you’re not sure
how you feel
about it
the gods are back
when things are this ridiculous
there must be a reason
if you drank the tea leaves, then
what are they trying to teach us
into the deep end
where there’s less poison
concentrate on good things
hope’s a deadly weapon
I take your gesture sincerely
even when I have no use for it
work it into pornography
preserved forever in latex
look at the bloodshed
look at the fashion
blended together seamlessly
in a very tasty salad
holidays attack us
suddenly nostalgia grips
you asked what the smack was for
here’s a use for it
follow the line it
wraps itself around
everything’s rubbing now
it’s all shiny
take your time
spinning it in mind
it comes out thick
smoking honey
keep on writing
stick it in blood
carving your thoughts
out of the walls
keep on writing
till you break your arm
then change hands
and do it backwards
The Golden Bough
why do we have to
sacrifice again
rains don’t come
nothing grows
you only know
what the corn knows
gods are angry
take off your clothes
squeeze betel
on your face
rub it deep
into your skin
kill the bull
drink from the head
feel the spirit
feel strength
why do we have to be
so primitive
these are the times
in which we live
The loneliness of the long distance writer
you lose track of the time
do you want some of mine
you live to be read yet
so shy with a pen
these dreams are safer
until they’re nightmares
you put them on paper
to share with your friends
does it matter how it happened
what isn’t traumatic
somehow if we read it
it hurts a bit less
several more lines to go
then you’ll feel less alone
the irony’s there; deeper you go
more like me it is
Purple Tuesday
You’re a little slick
called out sick
tried Monday
and it didn’t fit
staring in the mirror
for a full minute
you take a pill
pop in a disc
it’s purple Tuesday
it happens this way
once a quarter
you need a reset
purple Tuesday
your personal holiday
shared with your
favorite planet
friends are gone
weather sucks
megalomaniacs
destroy it all
you can opt out
in your choice of gowns
six hours are yours
off the clock
purple Tuesday
begins to play
here to celebrate
no one else
purple Tuesday
the parade
starts in a cookie jar
then goes straight to bed
I eat your left overs
knowing exactly what it means
all your spiritual power
flows directly into me
you are the chicken
I am the fish
crying like an onion
I chew your salad
I feel strange; transformed
with all this power vested in me
I will sit in my comfy chair
and read another book
