Back in the Deep-Fryer

Family, Internal Poetry, Problems, Prose, Stuff to do

“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”

He was a sweet man.

Said,

“Right?”

often.

Always called you by the name.

A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.

 

TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.

 

I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,

But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?

 

After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,

She finally succumbed towards the middle.

The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets

But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.

There are good people in my life,

Blessings in human form,

Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges

From their souls.

I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.

I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.

Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.

I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.

But how do I engage outside of that?

I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.

Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.

Keep writing with the focus of empathy.

Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.

That’s my code.

A Good Great

Amherst, Peace, Poetry, Stuff to do

I glance across the monolith

To the boy chewing on his headphone cables

And wonder what he’ll end up becoming after his time passes.

Will he make it big in his corner of the world, like I hope and hope I will?

I don’t know him well enough to find that truth.

I don’t know myself well enough to know my fate.

So I agonize over these forces with an imaginary locus of control.

I think of the article I almost wrote. The novel I’ve been trying to finish.

Something clicks in my head, an invisible loudspeaker materializes

With veins bursting in their forehead

Among the obscenities and cuss-outs, I hear this.

“Take it day by day and just fucking do it.”

All of this existential future dread took up the space that my improvement needed,

So I fell off of my rails and succumbed.

No more.

It’s back to the poetry. An easy routine whose greatness becomes easier in time. A photo a day to complement.

In a life where time is the antagonist and greatness the ends,

I realize I have nothing but time and greatness is subjective.

Bad people can get what they want and win.

They’re called great without ever being good.

Why put time in energy to compare myself to these vastly differing goals?

I’ve got skills to develop and time

To make my path to a good great.

 

The reflection in the mirror after 4 years at UMass will not encase me in who I’ll be for the rest of my life.

All we can do is move forward.

What a beautiful gift of a “can” that is.

A Good, Hard Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

The door slams shut. 

I pace over my torn carpet, taking slow, deep breaths.

I know today is a stress volcano, 

But I’m charging myself through its brunt, welding anthem in my pocket, hands first. 

“I can do this. I can surmount this. I am strong.”

 I’m becoming my own leader, rather than my torturer. But don’t get me wrong, I I have to make it a conscious decision to cup my fist. 

 I will not hang weights on myself through this day. 

 Im gonna make the bed. I’m gonna fold the clothes, grab my phone, read those pages.. 

 No. After the clothes I put in the money to get my next little book. It’s been too long. 

 Denial creeps itself up into my list. I feel the need to take a second and worry. But that’s why I went here.

 Im gonna take my worry and put it in the lines. I’m gonna wrap it up with a pretty verbal bow and send it off to market, where it’s fangs and claws can’t touch me. 

 And then, I’m gonna change my shoes and leave for the rest of this. 

 I’m gonna remember to get some vitamins next winter,

 Because the sun came out today and it felt like the first time on months where I could breathe, and open my eyes. 

Pompeii could unravel again before my open eyes, but I can handle a pocket-sized catastrophe. 

Lobby Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Politics, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

It was a regular Thursday. 

Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces. 

We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods, 

Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine. 

The surface deflected every scent but superiority. 

Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here. 

Only lobbyists. 

Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence. 

I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence. 

So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin? 

Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety. 

The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies, 

Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum. 

If only we could connect with this history. 

Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history. 

Timidness stands where reverence deserves, 

The wax coats these bodies fully

And I haven’t the chisel to break it. 

Hurry up and wait. 

Heat the wax, so it may set

And paralyze us all. 

Why must this be so on Lobby Day? 

The spiderwebs we’ve weaved have reverted to dusty dungeons.

The repetition for results is a game of catch

Where lyrical acrobatics create the illusion of

“Yeah, I caught it!”

The game doesn’t end.

The colors all bled into each other, the light murked into a dull brown

Like oatmeal getting moldy in the back of a murky store room.

But we’re here again.

12:24 PM and the day’s already been lived-

Everything else is necessary overtime.

I swipe hundreds of cards but couldn’t unlock my own door.

My laptop, like myself, incapable of charging their battery.

I’ve listened to maybe three songs in the past week,

But everyone keeps asking me to describe how music makes them be feel,

And be smart. Eloquent.

Genuine feelings turn into pedestal soliloquies that fade away like background trophies you don’t think you deserve.

Teeter-tottering between drowning and flying away on the boat, I’m jetskiing into an uncertain future.

I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen.

And I’m learning to be okay with it.

The first step to this peace is to start back in the things that made me feel alive.

The first of those, is you.

You reading this? Yeah, you.

Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do, Throwback

Perpetual motion boy

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Questions, Stuff to do

The gears are oiled, 7AM slumps stirred soundly in the morning meditation.

Loneliness hibernates as the wheels spin across campus with a pal.

He talks on the balls of his feet, a spring in his mouth

Punches soft through his own plastic shell of professional indifference.

Fifteen minutes is all you need to make a difference.

Skate across the pond touching baubles of different colors,

I know I am enough.

I can glide and sway to and from the things I need,

Swaying like palm trees in a strong balm wind,

Until the air pressure whispers cause a fruit to drop.

A whole fruit, plump with the merit of time’s incubation.

Life goes little by little, peace by piece by piece.

To go, and do, and move to renew

An infinitesimal sense of the joy of motion.

A body in motion stays in motion, until it wants to rest.

But there’s so much life to be lived, you know?

So goes this overcast Tuesday,

Where the monsters behind expectations came off a little less scary.

But where do the monsters go after a satisfactory day?

Do they come back, stickier than before?

Like the crack of a soda can, pssssssh,

They come flying out of the space of an awkward silence.

Eventually you’ll acknowledge every day is a roller coaster

And learn to take joy in counting the loops.

Sometimes, even after a day of perpetual going,

Things are still scary without needing a reason.

Perch:

Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do

My fingers tap tremolos against the side of the monolith.

I flap my arms loose and frenetic.

three poems, nine hundred cut words,

four minutes of recorded music and four hours work,

I’ve become the blue-hearted tactician

Who wishes to peel the muscle from their backs

And shape them outward to turn to wings.

I scale the vertical antagonist in myself,

Frequencies ascending with every boisterous, desperate step.

If I can take two steps up stairs, why not three?

If I can take three steps at a time, why not four?

It’s always only a matter of how far my limbs are willing to extend,

And then becoming familiar with that strain.

I’m constantly changing, a walking acid trip with wings I can’t keep

Frequencies so exponentially upwards and unstable

That the lines holding myself together quiver like Rick & Morty pupils.

Every day I rescind a little more of what makes me human.

The ascension’s robbed my eyes of their vials unless I hear something I deem

Worthy of aspiration.

Emotions are too slow,

And nobody can handle them when I try to ease the brakes.

It’s only okay to cry at the picture of one day making it there.

But after the achievement, the aspiration is tossed aside

Like the scraps of ugly old habits that found new habitation.

I’ve found human routine in inhuman matters.

Every step upwards is a step away from more people,

People I love become familiar faces that fade into greetings practice.

The self-proclaimed judge of frequency I play as, determines how to spend my time.

Who in the world gave me the right?

My eyes climb further to see colder

And narrow their gaze into squints I believe capture what I need to know.

My heartbeat hastens- Time exits my sweat glands from the inside out

And I devote myself to the love that doesn’t waste time with conditions.

Every step forward is a step away from the people I love.

Music, writing, and Osbourne are what take up the space of my love

In a place tens of thousands thick with people able, deserving, needing

Love. I don’t have it right now.

I don’t want to deal with flaws if I’m not helping remove them.

But where do I draw the line in my personal crusade?

I want to be the bird that perches on the peak and scans frigidity across the horizon.

How can I be  when the height alone frightens me so much?

I can see the fall.

Dancing Arms:

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Stuff to do, Uncategorized

It was when I discovered what having tired forearms meant.

Rhythmic Bopping speaks languages

That English and Energy share a stake in, cocktail parties

Keeping in singularity the flow around you, an orchestrator of attention.

Delusions of grandeur in sunset podiums garnering hundreds of looks

The twilit shadows deepening in sight and in sound in a ring,

Right on the old practice field.

Its familiarity receiving a sentiment always stronger than age.

I have finally conquered the sullen beast that is “petting the cat”.

As soon as someone breaks the horizontal plane in their wrists each downbeat,

It’s “Here Kitty Kitty,

You just ruined the whole rep.

Back to it.”

Bounce, swivel and jive in common, five-four, seven-four, all without a jolt.

My twinging arm feels comfortable in these movements.

Even in the three beat where I spread my wingspan like a bird of prey,

My shoulder feels comfortable.

I look like a goon, but I’m alright with every bit of it.

And in an hour, I’ll do it again.

Fifteen minutes, maybe more.

In order to do what it takes to make it in the first place,

I can stand some tired muscles.