2014 Redux

I swear this challenge gets harder every year. I skimped on it in 2013, but decided to go back to the whole nine yards for this year. The following is an amalgamation of most of my poetry in 2014. That is, I tore up 209 poems and made it into ten, brand new mini-poems. Enjoy!

One

Welcome
to #poetry-

black tie audience to my asylum,
violins in a symphony of vices,
orchestrating
late night speak of stars
that align watching
the planets
collide;

because God, I’ve
lost my
mind to
worse
things.

At a fraction of
their worth the stanzas disperse,
engineering
a verse of
algebraic
worship,
an everlasting
tourniquet to hold my skin

together until
the
equation
finally
works.

And if these
ghosts of mine are as cold
as the winds outside that charge
my windows,

I’d sell my
soul to calm their
devils on a principle.

Two

I’ve inherited
the Wild West of feelings ,
shootouts each noon by collapsing
saloon ceilings.

A black gold river, its
ripples splintered into
sinking weight.

Wanderer in a welfare state-

(“who agrees to walk
forty nights across a
desert seeking water
that lies
the other way?”)

because I caught
nine to
fives premeditating
a long-
deserved demise.

But I am no anti-hero,
just a failed rogue,
a renegade who
took my
crumpled heart
and unfolded
it to
split second atrophy,

an audio visual
masterpiece of my soul
revolting against all

four walls of
my body,
opting for a
new way to express
anger and sadness and
violence and zen-

subzero on
my feet in summer,
when the proverbial pitchfork is

closer than
the pen.

Three

I was the child of two mothers,
both named for
a life form
of flora, one of whom stole the
other’s unfinished work and listed
all its flaws.

One furnished
my bedroom with hope and
the other with hearsay. In one
I played with plastic men,
in the other
I raised a
homegrown ghost

(and God, the bones),

wooden caskets one
mother asked I keep closed.

She treasured relapse far
more than progress, preferring
weak October whispers over the
final
April groan

and to this day
my faith’s not returned to me,
only choruses of
flame formulating
accordion
infernos.

My home
grown ghost
tries to suggest
I have failed.

To him, I’m just
another left-wing,
blue collar
philosopher king
running
his mouth about
destiny to absolutely

no avail.

Four

This writing’s
been on
the wall
since I was
small.

Hey, I
was young and
raised two
mothers to
be as ambitious
with my lovers as I
was with my calling.

So I destroyed the
myth that lets exposed
wires safely
kiss and
aimed their sparks
at your
misinterpretations;

trying to exonerate
dead
dahlias by thoroughly
dousing them
in nostalgia.

It makes bottleneck
romance
my own Dead Man’s
shaking hand,

a brigand of villains
more subtle than
sunken.

And I get that everyone
has their battle to fight. We’re
all stranded up
shit river with
paddles for
wings.

These things have a way
of mushrooming out of

control like

withdrawal blues
and shotgun
family values.

I open my flask of
and take
another fucking swig.

Five

Flipswitch futures sicken
youthful skin-

this is MY
revolution and
your rhetoric has no
resonance in the
solution.

War on oneself can play
tricks on weakened
hearts
and
weathered minds,

so that peacetime feigns
whole vigils on
its behalf,

and I’ve taken too much of
this battlefield drama
to heart,

driving coffin sales
through crossfire so that
ghosts in the currents
would pledge a
constant assurance
desire is a succubus and she’s

the most habitual
of liars.

Six

Our future’s a goldmine of
the stupid and
asinine and
I pined thinking nothing would ever
grow upon this
soil again.

This is
my paramour, and she
ain’t my anamoly but
my norm, warm to
the touch in all

the ways
I’ll never be

and my hands aren’t
hers to mourn.

That pain was
like a dream at first,
only hurting
the way you remember
younger injury.

Seven

From the
first day I haunted you
it took five cigarettes in
a row to

euthanize any
sense of time
that followed it.

I’m peeling away,
absorbed in
all-nighters with
my friend nihilism,
throwing caution to
the wind wearing
silk linens
watching
so many stars burn out with
mathematical precision.

I haven’t curated
fingerpaint artists but
maniacs and arsonists,
turning most
wicked in my coming
of age.

Old songs came
on the
FM waves
as I’m blazed in
the backseat of denial,
touching a door handle
a door I spend hours
and days imagining

won’t be there
tomorrow, watching a
sequence of sunrises I’ve
endlessly
borrowed.

Penning warnings to
wartorn mornings was
a warmth I
never knew
I’d want.

Eight

I was twenty when I met my
inner cynic,
a girl who
wore lipstick darker than
January days;
kerosene to
my conscience,
autonomous fires awaiting.

A dragon of
my making, fire breath
flaying the horizon,
spelling out her
rage in an anagram
because it spells the span
of time she’ll keep me in
her heart
struggling

to
forget
what she’s seen-

of the wines she has tasted and
the men she has pleased.

We’re Wednesday warriors
waiting on
the Friday night

lights,

and even if her fate
just ain’t in my cards I’ll
carry her place in
my alterknituniverse
with me.

Nine

A Sunday driver
of life’s survivors,

I can feign a
creaking bed and gift
you Christmas mornings feeling
adored
but you’ll be
a tenant of my affections
and nothing more.

I haven’t strength until I step off
that runway on some
runaway Sunday
on a morning
markets of optimism
make morgues of our mastery,
as we eye prizes at the galleries
neither of us have
the aim
to win,
but we passionately
shoot to kill anyway.

Listening to
sweet brawls of dialect it took you
years to perfect-

of all the ghosts I have
been left with,
I am her lion and she
is my lamb
and no wars worth

their salt were conceived
without a human fault.

Ten

We woke to red and green in
a spinning ravine.

I was never a victim of my story but
undisputed champion
of its
lore

but under
duress all my tired eyes
can suggest is
to prepare for

the worst,
my love, or
hope for the best.

No poet goes to Heaven but I’m
in lock and
step with you,
inner animal on
the loose,
because screw
the therapeutic cause.

You are
the gold digger and my head
is the vault.

Tonight our
long cons play God,
a cosmic
thought that holds
romance-thin bonds together.

I’m your agent of
chaos now
and

forever.

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10 thoughts on “2014 Redux

  1. I don’t know if the 10 are meant to be read as tenths of a whole but that is how I read them. Knowing that these words literally span many months and even more pages gives them more gravity somehow. I have an image in my head of one of those little puzzles with the sliding tiles – a single picture divided up into a grid to be reconstructed. The temptation to slide these mini poems around one another to change the order and extract a different meaning – and then slide them around again is great. Love this! Xx

    Like

      1. Wow…I look back and forget half of what I had written…this really came out great. Perfect patchwork…and btw, I thought I was following you but it says I’m not…did you change your addy here?

        Like

      2. I actually had to have over two hundred poems open in front of me….took about three days to cut it all up and glue it back together 🙂

        I upgraded to my own domain last year, but I wasn’t aware it was causing people to unfollow me.

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