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Between the Lines

As you were describing the novel

plot and symbolism
character dispositions,
rising and falling
actions
twists and turns in
theme, setting, time
line for line

your friend

lifelong chum
whose booze-
breath babbles
but can still saddle a
stallion sentence

interrupted you

hurdling himself
to the middle of
the mute in
your mouth
between words

to laugh and say, “ha that’s clever”

never  can your momentum
find its way back
now that the conversation
lost its slack

because he didn’t understand you

intelligence
is social currency
you mustn’t act cheap

And now three years later

three years packed into
the empty space between
the lines of this poem

when you think about that novel

infrequent but happens
time to time

you ponder what significance

a different denomination
of social currency

your friend understood in that one part

understood an
overstatement

What clever irony

the currency
of past
prospects

eluded you,

our poetic protagonist

you thought

infrequent but happens
time to time

,that your friend realized secondhand

he was always able to read
between the lines

Dust

…other people.
They are
The city.

The city is
A person forest.

The city park
Bench
Marks
A person for est.

The city is
An (est)imation
Of
A nation.

People concentrate hard
When not
At parks.

The city washes blood
Red hands of
White collar crimes on
Blue collar backs.

The city
Evokes in me
The cliché,
Which is itself
A cliché
Now
To call
Something a
Cliché.

The city is
The common man –
Home from work,
Covered in filth,
Pours a drink,
Sits down to unwind:
Wound up
From drinking
At the filth
Of Work.
Work.
Work.*
Work.
Work. [1]

(*Driving to Wednesday work
Following a marineairforcearmynavy
Semper fidelis veteran:

I hate his truck,
And bumper labels
(adhesive fables),
And I think all American veterans
Are pathetic,
Because any child
Born under the sun
With a magnifying glass
Can burn ants.

I hate him as he
Leaves, turning
Left under
Leaves that
Left tombstones shadowed.

Living domestic partnerships
With drugstore flags,
The tombstones told tales
Of domestic abuse.

Realization shot,
And now
I hate myself
For hating him.

I hate people
That I barely know.

I hate myself
For writing poetry,
And for thinking
Poetry is art,
And for thinking I’m an artist
Because I say Poetry
Isn’t art,
And for thinking I’m making
An artistic statement
By saying I hate myself
For thinking I’m an artist
Based on my realization
Of thinking I’m an artist
For claiming poetry
Is not art
Ironically
In a poem,
And so on.

But I don’t hate hate.

Love
Is the (square) root
Of all hate.
Hate
Is the product of multiplying
Love against itself,
And fear is a factorial!)

1. Sometimes I happen upon ideas within my head that I think are marvelous, and I instantly sit down to work these ideas out into art, or craftsmanship, or utility, or for no reason but compulsion. But as I get through the work, I realize that the whole idea was fleeting and broken into pieces not fully materialized.

The meat of the work comes out instantly, because it was given to me in insight, in epiphany, and the completion of the rest will rely on a substantial amount of personal energy and commitment. So now the work gets abandoned, neglected, and every return meets me with another layer of dust, until the idea is unrecognizable. I might come back and try to complete it, but it won’t measure up to my original vision.

I don’t know… these are no more than just pixels on a screen, right?

And oh ya: Sartre something or other, blah blah, because hell is…

Butchers

The working class

Are butchers

Carving pork butt,

Forever trying

To make ends meat.

The Sky/The Sun

The Sky

The sky,
Cast iron
Overcast;
While
Egg-yolk
Sun Slipped
Under
The skillet

The Sun

Bottom of sun
Pokes from clouds.
I’m mooned
By sun.

Note #1

Syntax is often paid
for the intoxicating indulgence
of word play.

Living Through Chemistry

Chemistry is everything, nothing isn’t chemistry,

Bonds bounce through our brain.

Making us laugh, sniffle, sigh, cry, fuck, eat, wonder, act, react, this, that, on, and on

Making us go insane.

Chemicals are everywhere, housed in matter,

But it doesn’t matter.

No matter what we know,

All is the same.

 

We know only of making things

As means to know more about making more things.

There are no ends, only means.

Everything is mean!

An eventual regression to the mean.

“I thought she was a great person… until we hung out more.

I then realized that she was a waste of time.”

That’s because you didn’t collect enough samples at the beginning.

You needed more data.

Only then could all her qualities collapse into average.

Everything is average.

Mediocre.

Outliers are only there to make you question:

“?”

But in the mean-time, ordinarily, I’m usually typically average,

and questioning?