Friday, February 16, 2018

Previously Published on Blue Collar Review . . .



You’ve Got Mail

I remember the first time my computer chimed
those three little words.  It was intoxicating,
a new electronic drug.  I would race to the office,
excited to dive in, read, respond. 
This amazing telecommunications development
drastically cut down on telephone tie-up,
eliminated the need for counterproductive
five-hour meetings.  Unfortunately, I was not
the only addict.  Soon bosses and co-workers felt
the need to spam me their every half-formed thought,
and what used to be a friendly intonation
became a monotonous echo of exasperation.  The next
generation replaced vocabulary with notification tones,
gave us a choice of sounds to tell us our inbox was drowning
as progress became synonymous with paperless.  Attachments
poured in, piled up, mixed with spam that slipped
through filters, turned into nightmarish migraine.  I thought
it couldn’t get any worse, then the powers that be created
the phone app.  Now I hear that infuriating beep
on and off the clock.  Hell, I even hear it in my sleep.





(http://www.partisanpress.org/)





Previously Published on Blood Moon Rising . . .



A Moment of Psychopathy

descends, two worlds turn red:

Eyes lose focus,                                                                      Eyes close, remain
memory and time                                                                    still.  The memory
stop.  Hands hold                                                                    of final moment burns
the stains of guilt.                                                                   into retinas.  Violence
Nothing can erase                                                                   is taken to grave, closed
the feeling that lingers.                                                           inside casket.  The only
The tangible excitement                                                          link holding pieces together.
echoes, begs for repetition.                                                     Carnage with a cause.










Previously Published on Blood Moon Rising . . .



Sociopathically Stable

The glass swirls black.  Visual viciousness
vies for swallow.  Swelling with pleasure(?),
you hold the chalice to the moon.  Disemboweled
rainbows whisper from subconscious depths.
Miasmic prophets of indistinctive relief.
Is the word of the day bottoms or up?  Neither
seems contextually accurate.  As your mind
wanders to a different plane where pain goes
to pearl -- that is a lethargic subtext
for your dream.  But can you get there
on a one-sided kiss?  Are such nonsensical attempts
at functionality even relevant?  When your lips
are already stained with poison . . .

. . . Is there really any reason not to drink?





(http://www.bloodmoonrisingmagazine.com/)





Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .



There was a Gnat

in my toilet.  Just flying around
inside the bowl.  I tried to shoo it out.
Ignored, I flushed nothing, hoping
it would spook.  Finally, I could hold it
no longer, dropped my pants, prayed
it would not fly up my butt, then laughed
at the thought of the poor creatures surprise
when it gets hit with the first drops
of an unexpected golden shower.







Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .



Kneeling Before the Porcelain Throne

Acid.
Corrosive waves
attack me from inside.
I am waiting for eruptive
vomit.








Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .



I Am Toilet

paper, random roll of almost attached pieces,
thin as air.  Crumpled in fist, I become barely passable
tool to clean up, dislodge random shit.  I am raw,
irritating, a pain in the ass.  I am disposable,
dropped and forgotten with every flush.






Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .



The Elastic Gait of a Memory

The rain is like a screw,
twisting its sound to undertake the moon.
It settles, a kinder tension – ash-like
in its accrual.  It abstracts the steps
of pressure.  Every
                                drop
                                         institutes
a re-active response.  Trigger
is the echo of elemental automation:  Midnight’s cloud
disseminating.

A new filter formulates . . .

adjusts/converts/segments nothing
more than the dusty expression
of a star’s silent stare.




(http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/)





Previously Published on Blue Collar Review . . .

You’ve Got Mail I remember the first time my computer chimed those three little words.   It was intoxicating, a new electronic dr...