Pass The Time, Pass That

ideas about things
you have them
you hammer out the gnat
but the gnat
flies around
there’s a coin
you ask my side
I tell you to go ahead
with your plans
you stand on your crybaby ledge
at the reading
go ahead
and jump, you’ve already
stepped on necks
and cracked necks
and bragged about the details
it was a necessary move
I say the ideas are not
all fleshed out
the living breathing manual
continues to update
reschedule itself
along the way
faster now
a way of being…
one little mistake
ends it
sends you to your grave
or you can take the misshapen heap
and call it… what you may
don’t expect me to respect your trash you call art
there is a sign pointing at your narrow mind
you are the kid that peed in the pool
there is a circle around you
I see it all so clearly
no clapping
Daffy Duck is daffy-ing
death defying
deftly prattling
tampering with the volume
adding more than enough salt
game over meal prep
word spread
her idea is Him
His idea is her and her and her
go figure
snow figures in snow
look at my eyes, she requests
a real man will retreat to the tool shed
and not even tamper with blunt instruments
blunts showered down from heaven
of course they became illegal
did you smoke the smoke that went
to your brain?
yes, and the smoke
wrote my high school paper
and got me through high school altogether
altogether now—we’re all in this together
but we annoy the daylights outta one another
play Putt Putt in the night lights
like it’ll help pass the time
our laughter makes a butterfly
on the other side of the planet
laugh its little ass off

Who’s there?

“How does it feel so gooood?” says the blonde on the corner. She stretches her arms and legs receiving a suggestion of October. The breeze is sexy today. I suggest it now.

It is Vacation Day 2 and my hangover ain’t so bad. The dreams were strange—I was in a bar getting rowdy when I received a phone call from a blonde at the bank about my debt. She admits a mistake which led to my debt in the first place. She starts crying and says, “I’ll probably lose my job… but at least I can reduce your interest rate…”

Summer is over and I anticipate taking things a little easier to lock down on nightly napkin writing at various pubs and feeling the buzz of the future life with the buzz of this life here and now. It does require a little faith. The sentence you write may or may not have merit. They call you a poet warrior, but do you have the courage to hack down your own sentences along the way? If not, you’re not a poet and you’re not a warrior. You’re just a broadcaster. It is a welcome challenge to depart from writing the longer pieces and come down to the shorter lines within a flakey, unforgiving six-inch square. Not only do I read these pieces on stage the very night I write them, some people—as I’m writing—are curious to see what’s cracking. They offer large sheets of paper to sink my teeth into. But this is the process and it’s taking care of me. Who imagined such a revenge plot would take root here?