Independence

Autonomous

I’ll call it love

because this one

stayed ’til morning.

She must not have

had a place to sleep;

need and loneliness

often end up

drunk and naked

in the same bed.

When they finally leave

I always try to tell myself

that I am a lucky man;

no woman to nag me

and spend my money.

Independence

is what the lonely

tattoo on the back of their necks

to make it seem like a choice.

I don’t really remember

what it is like to be part of a “we”

that lasts longer

than the inevitable hangover.

I suppose some truths

are much less

self-evident

than others.

SMG

CombatWords!: Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence: "Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence If I was rich, I'd be stalked by the hungry suits, craving my signature. I would ride the taxi—..."

Notes on Poetry Composition

Notes on Poetry Composition

When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.

I throw out the poetry textbooks and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
and kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection letters and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that's refined me, then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

SMG

Cutting

Cutting

A razor’s edge glides
through dermis
with a surgeon’s
disconnected precision.

Crimson tattooed
parallel lines
concealed for now
on the inner thigh.

Ejaculated blood spatters;
a decorative memento
for the bathroom floor.

Endorphins engage
serotonin orgasms,
and the impulse wanes
while platelets seek
companionship.

Tonight she will sleep;
tomorrow’s hungry voice
but a whisper that will grow
in the darkness.

SMG

Label Whore

Label Whore

_________________________________________________________________________

Please feel free to leave comments as feedback is always welcome; good and bad.


Thank you


SMG

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

The  forms of  these women  tend to
fail  the  function test but the aesth-
etics  and  hedonists  never  did  sit
together  in school I let Ezra pound
modernism  into  my  brain  until  I
questioned everything I learned on
Sunday Kandinsky waxed  theosop-
hical while feverishly waving  a pro-
tractor and paintbrush  in the air of
post-war Germany’s zeitgeist ornam-
entation gave way to the  functional
man  will  occasionally  impractically
fall for the aesthetic form of a woman
with no regard for the school to which
she belongs.

SMG

Voicemail

Voicemail

“Hi Marty, it’s me.

I woke up this morning

and I couldn’t remember why

I was here so I think it’s time to go.

I know I loved you once

but the wind has changed direction

and I need to follow it. I wish you well

but I’ll understand if you can’t return the favor”

SMG

Letters to the Editor

Letters to the Editor

I sat at my usual stool at the bar

and ignored the bartender’s scowl.

“Yes those eight quarters are your fucking tip”

I thought without a moment of guilt.

Now that football season is over,

I find Sundays are best spent drinking and reading.

I refuse to jump on the machine

that is New York on any given weekend.

This city has no use for the disengaged,

or the conscientious objector, but I don’t give a shit,

so I hide in dim corners until nightfall.

I was avoiding the sun and working

my way through a bottle of decent single malt

with an uppity west-side literary rag chaser.

I get a copy in the mail every time

they print one of my poems so vanity

forces me to at least give it the once over.

It was filled with everything you’d expect,

two pieces of short fiction, one pretty good

and the other not great, but a good story none the less.

Two dozen poems of various length and skill,

covering everything from love to Iraq and back again.

The Letters to the Editor were the usual prattle

bemoaning the dearth of true art in Western society.

One letter made it quite clear that sentimental crap

was unwelcome and pleased nobody.

Another, written by a grumpy little man,

railed against every poem (all of them) that did not

meet his educated discriminating standards.

As I read his editorial, I could picture the smirk spread

across his face. His little diatribe against the unworthy

amongst these pages, penned with great concern

for future generations of poetry readers everywhere. 

A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicion

that the angry yellow sun should have mellowed a bit,

so I snatched half the change off the bar and walked out.

On my way home I gave the change and the magazine

to a homeless woman who thanked me with a blessing.

When I got back to my door I paused just long enough

to watch the remnants of tangerine melt into the Hudson,

and I smiled as I imagined the coming night.

There was poetry to be seen on the faces of the city

and in the single blade of grass pushing defiantly

through the Lexington Avenue sidewalk.

SMG

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Six

26 characters are all I have

to express the emptiness and joy,

the throbbing and the ecstasy.

26 characters bracketed, dashed,

lined, paragraphed, grouped

and end-stopped periodically.

26 characters tussled and tossed

like chicken bones thrown

by a Shaman seeking truth.

26 characters carefully queued

and collated with a chary caution;

lined horizontally and stacked vertically.

26 characters afloat in my soup;

they jump from the spoon

and refuse to be digested.

26 characters are all I have

to express my love and endurance;

my desire for but a glimpse of you.

SMG

D'Verse Poet's Pub Form for All (accentual-alliteration)

Benefits of a Catholic School Education

This is my god and I carry him round
I keep him boxed so he's easily found
Given to me when I was a young fool
I learned about boxes in parochial school
All life's questions are all answered for me
in a book the box factory gives away free
I go through life with their words on my lips
my mind is in neutral so my tongue often slips
Many a man will let his god run around
I fear this behavior is truly not sound
My god kicks, screams and tries to get out
but he's safer in there I have little doubt
I'd let him loose but I'm afraid I'd abhor
life with a god not contained in cardboard

SMG

Prompt HERE

D'Verse Poets Writing Prompt

Form for All ~ The Rondelet

Prompt Here

And the Days Run

And the days run

together like delta rivers.

And the days run

faster as we become undone,

broken glass shattered to slivers,

disappointment life delivers.

A man, in time, slowly withers--

and the days run.

SMG

d'Verse Poets Writing Prompt

Renewal

a distant thunder, pounding rain,

the potamides, will dance again

water down the mountain slopes—

the spring ritual invokes

the nymph’s blood of renewal

to sate the valley, poet and the fool

SMG

Prompt HERE

Contributor’s Copies, Chapbooks and Other Printed Self-delusion

Contributor’s Copies, Chapbooks

and Other Printed Self-delusion

 

My fingernails

are dirty from yet

another recycled

toner cartridge

and I think

it’s raining again.

83 hours of

Formatted

screen shots

and Ctrl/Alt/Delete

have rendered

me useless

to the merry-go-round.

 

I’m not sure

Jesus loves me

anymore

but my bottle

is still half full

so I’ll worry

about it tomorrow.

I can’t remember

what it’s like

to use a voice

that requires

no fingers

and I am closer

to pixilated

ethereal avatars

than I am

to the guy in 1B.

 

I ordered a can

of expanding foam

from a late night

TV commercial

because this gap

in my chest

is becoming

just a bit

unmanageable.

 

SMG 

Screw You Walt Whitman!

Screw You Walt Whitman

Obscurity and irrelevance
are scarier than death,
so I write to leave my mark,
but I am writing in chalk
on the sidewalk of 7th Avenue
and 42nd Street. Tomorrow
my words will be washed away
by fashion footwear
and afternoon thunderstorms.

My fears breed behind decorated walls
and seem to be immune to bug spray,
but I can still chase them
out of the living room
when I turn on the lights.
I have no philosophy
that explains the nature of man,
and my lexicon is the product
of a public school education.
All I have to work with is Silly String,
Paint by Numbers pictures
and an old Poetry Writers Guide
picked up at a yard sale in Queens.

I have Body Electric nightmares,
and Walt Whitman keeps hitting
on Jim Morrison while he plays
the piano at Rick’s Café Américain.
Despite my best efforts the hairy bastard
won’t even look in my direction.

*(Re-Print from Notes & Grace Notes September, 2008)

Ordinary Excrement/Alternate Time Period

Ordinary Excrement/Alternate Time Period

A coat and tie stops
a passing shopping cart

to ask if it can spare

some freedom or maybe

a few pieces of mind.

The shopping cart

ignores the intrusion

and mumbles

“quit yer job asshole”.

A group of ponytails

and short skirts peer

over a construction fence

to ogle the hard hats

as they sweat

in the late afternoon sun.

A new pair

of black Florsheims

stalk the sidewalk

in search

of an unsuspecting

pile of dog shit

or a freshly discarded

piece of chewing gum.

The desk clock

refuses to move a hand

and instead

flies a bird salute

at the pressed empty shirt

that sits in the chair

once occupied

by possibility.

SMG

The N to 59th (by @HannahMiet )

 

Hannah Miet

a real writer you should know!

End Jamb

End Jamb

The conversation was rife
with well timed
pauses; intended
to keep balance at
bay. I raised my glass, sipped
slowly--deliberately.

“We really need to
talk” echoed over
the tinkle of
glass and silver
night.

“Maybe some time” // “apart”

(caesura)

The evening’s exchange wore down, then end-stopped.

SMG

Across the Night

Across the Night

I surrendered to my desires

and fell into a fitful sleep.

Lucid dirty blonde dreams

and tattoo fantasies ensued.

A night of cold sweat lust;

thoughts of the base and dark

spaces between you and I.

Could you feel my tongue

part your thighs as you slept?

Did my desire penetrate the night,

find you longing on the other side

and hold you on the brink

of torture, need and ecstasy?

I thought I heard you sigh

as I devoured the skin of your neck

and took you from behind

those hungry tanned eyes,

and handfuls of flaxen hair.

As the morning sun invaded

did you wake with a start;

spent, chest still heaving,

the chill of the dawn air

dancing on your skin

as wanton hands had done

in the unrepentant night?

SMG

Search for Comparison

Search for Comparison

I can't find a metaphor
for life, love, hate or death,
a cab in the Manhattan rain,
or a cresting wave in Kansas.

I desperately need a metaphor
for lies and truths, wants and wishes,
a star for navigation through the night,
a thunderstorm on a sun parched face.

Tonight I crave a metaphor
for God and angels, for heaven or the cross,
like a starving man at a kitchen window
drooling over others' food in vain.

I haven't any left, no metaphors
no joy, only sadness, abandoned by my muse,
a fish flopping aimlessly in the sand,
a sorrowful dog standing on a country road.

Beneath the Rose

Beneath the Rose

Meet me

under cover(s)

in clandestine

destinations,

trust betrayal,

lust and fate

to Harpocrates

discretion. 

Beneath

crimson petals,

we can sate

carnal appetites,

well beyond

prying eyes,

our secrets safe

beneath the rose.

Meet me

in our holy place

and confess

your dark wishes.

Let us do

the unspeakable

shielded by

the gift of Eros.

I will hold you

and whisper

“Sub rosa,

my secret love”.

For we are gods

and our deeds,

cannot be judged

by mortals.

SMG

Listen to @m_blanc_ read "Beneath the Veil" (the poem posted in the comment below)

Solstice to Equinox

Solstice to Equinox

Anaïs, Anaïs;
Litha has passed
and we are left
to mourn the coming
autumnal balance, for
creatures such as we
crave the severe
and eschew
this gentle world.

Travel with me to
The Tropic of Capricorn
and leave behind
the ever shrinking
days of Cancer.
There we can live
in eternal summer
and Black Spring.

Grieve not my love,
for with the arrival
of Yoole’s long nights,
Sirius shall align
with Orion’s belt
and point us back
to the elliptical
apex, and June.

SMG

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")