may 4th, 2011

horseshit

Talking heads on swivel sticks

yammer incessantly

into my bleeding ears

while I stare ahead,

nodding on cue

like those fucking tchotchke desk birds who drink water.

I am a trinket who serves no purpose,

waiting for someone to leave a window open

so I can fly into a nearby propeller.

I haven't been published in almost a year

and tonight I'm reminded of that fact.

I open another beer and write this angry poem

out of frustration,

out of malice towards contemporary literature

and the art I have chosen to pursue.

I love writing,

god I fucking love to write,

but the apologetic "thanks but not thanks" emails

have been laying eggs in my brain for a while now

and I think they're beginning to to hatch.

I hear the first one poking its legs through

like a smoke bomb seeping through a screen door.

I hear another--

and a few more--

and soon a colony has formed

and I'm banging my head against my wooden desk.

"I'll kill you all I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"

I scream, waking up my neighbors who shout back,

"We're trying to sleep here, shut the fuck up asshole!"

"Ah, fuck you!" I holler back.

I start bashing my head with a frying pan,

pausing only slightly to finish the beer in hand

and regain sight.

"I'll kill every last one of you eight-legged freaks!"

I'm convinced they're scared,

hell I know they're scared.

Shaking in their tiny fucking boots I bet.

"I won't give up until you surrender

and crawl out of my ear waving tiny white flags!

Fuck your insincerity!

Fuck your half-assed template compliments!

Fuck your desire to print vanilla poetry!

I'll have my way,

one of these days.

I'll have my way and when I do--

I'll tilt my head over the garbage disposal

and shake all you bastards out into hell.

Go ahead and accept bland bullshit,

you're nothing more than colonies of insects."

Did I mention that I haven't been published in almost a year?

may 4th, 2009

an older poem...

the painter

I am a painter, not much else.  Houses are what I mostly work on, sometimes apartments.  It's not glamorous but it pays the bills and puts food on the table.  I have a wife and two boys.  Eight and Twelve.  They really grow up fast, shit.  I paint and I eat with my family and I go to sleep.  Things are steady, I love my wife and my kids, but I am angry.  I am tired of all of this.  I paint.  I eat.  I hug my kids.  I go to sleep.  I wake up and repeat six days a week and I am angry.  I can do better, for them at least.  I can do better.  But I am tired.  I paint and I paint and I paint and I sweat and I get a check.  No one congratulates me and no one notices me.  I kind of... blend in with the paint.  I don't like my work, but I am good at it.  I am quick and I am efficient.  I am a hard worker, but I get tired like the rest of you.  Sometimes I just want to hop off the ladder, remove my overalls, and walk.  Doesn't matter too much where.  I want to walk until everything is alright.  I paint houses for rich white men who enjoy the feeling of masturbation.  Men who want the house painted because their wives want the house painted.  Change she says.  Change is good, so let's accept it.  Let's paint the house honey.  Men who drive nice black cars with nice black slacks and nice black combs.  Men who define success as blind attention.  Devotion for the sake of devotion.  I don't want to be like that.  I want success and money for my family, but I can't become someone I am not.  I am a painter, not much else.  My family is my everything, and they are my only motivation.  A little selfish isn't it?  To bring two more people into this world so you'll care about yours enough to keep going.  It's what we did though.  Now we have two boys and I work for them.  I put up with horeshit for them.  And for her.  She is the only woman I will ever love. 

I was painting a rich white man's house last week when he came out of the back door and mentioned a spot I had missed.  He pointed to it and became angry.  Why haven't you gotten that spot yet?  He held a beer with his right hand and pointed the tip towards me, snapping his jaws with white spit and stripping me of dignity.  He was lowering his moral standards just talking to me.  When are you going to paint that spot?  I told him I was getting to it, that is was just about to be painted.  I want that spot painted and I want this house to look good.  I want to look good, yes yes.  He walked away and continued to suck his own dick.  Stupid nigger he mumbled under his breath as he opened the patio door.  That was all I needed.  That was it.  He shut the door like the cocksucker he was and I went to my car to grab a can of black paint.  I brought it back and began painting over the white coat I started earlier.  I painted like a man possessed.  I slammed the brush against the wood and watched the bristles spray off in every direction, spattering black paint everywhere.  I dipped my entire brush in paint again and drew a thick, black line across the wall.  I stuck my hand into the bucket and soaked it in the paint.  Then I punched the wall until my knuckles bled, which didn't take long.  I hopped off the ladder and threw the dripping bucket at the wall.  The man came outside but I was already gone.  I walked away.