On the Snowy Road

i should not just sit
and try to kerouac away
but should think first
ponder, be more deliberate,
and think about, deeply,
what i am trying to say.

Proud of Myself

i was thinking
a rare event itself
of writing a poem
expressing
the depth of passion
and innocent wonderment
the unbridled joy
dare i say ecstasy
of writing this thing
this little ditty
this minor poetic work
almost without using
any fucking curse words

change in tone?

am i more angry
less content or
just plain old pissed off?

what is that word
from my youth? 
from my sophmore year
the best year to be a
real true communist
in the purest sense
what is that word?

just kidding...
i knew it all along
discontent
i am discontent
disenchanted with
the stupid economy
collective greed
the widening disparity
in rich & poor & the end
of the american century

i should write all my poems
during bored meetings
choking on the spreadsheet cell
dyslexic points of power
focused on the ugly truth
sow's purse, silk ears
blah blah blah...

too white to be a rapper
too old to take up arms
too lazy mostly

i suppose the tone has changed

output

two poems in two days
be still my racing heart
two poems in two daze
with almost no meaning
or insight, devoid of feeling
with symbolism so subtle
even i don't see it

but look at the productivity
two poems... unphased

poetic drought

my muse
is on sabbatical
basking
in the south
of france
or
maybe... well
I just don't know

she, herself,
never writes

A Healthy Purge

Well… echoing Ronald Reagan

While hazy hot dawn sun pours

Through almost dirty windows

Trying to cleanse out cobwebs and

Years of moderate underachievement

(Except in my imagination)

Does that count?

Why not?

Oh to be Independent

I should be writing outside
Under a, uh, whattya call it,
Oh yeah, a Banyan Tree
Fecunding profound sounds
That might even mean something

But no…
I am sitting inside watching TV
And typing a kinda poem that
Well… ok… I’ll just say it,
Will never ever go viral

Attention Spam?

yeah... i can't spell
or can't type or both

excuse me
give me a huge fucking break
or don't, i don't fucking care
or otherwise do or
why i would i be writing this
trying to explain

i have ASD
there i said it the first step
of my fifteen step program,
yes i am that fucked up
i need three extra steps,
i am very special
delusionally unique

stop laughing you fuck
attention spam disorder
is crippling and there is no cure

you hear that?
no fucking cure
i can't focus
and when i can
fucking spam
attention spam
fucking attention spam
a tough road to hoe

what the fuck is next
TASDS
you still fucking laughing?
Tourettes Attention Spam Disorder Syndrome
all mine
just me
fuck off

OK... not just me
Mikel Shpiel had it too
(his grandmother was
armenian don't you know)

to sp: with profound apologies

i would have been like gomidas
(dang
i should have capitalized his name
neon
blinking lights)
i should be more armenian
but for the lack of skills and language
that now has to be unnarturally learned

can one write good poetry in a
second or third language... and yet
that skill thing is still in the way

instead i am not even a poor man's basho
or varoujan wanna-be sometimes
oh my god
using bad language and imagery
that offends or confuses

who is the real armenian?
me? you? dear
saint of the port?

mattered not to the turks
who would have dragged us
both from our beds, kicking
the digested food out of us
maybe have forced intercourse
with you
(and me? ugh)
and killing us
for being the same...

armenian

Confession

I have to write
Myself to a better place
Pen and type away my
Anxieties, guilts, and burdens
Crumple them into paper balls
And shoot three pointers
Time running out in the finals
Beating the buzzer
Swish… all gone

I wish

No Fooling

Tired

Or at least I was

Two Starbucks later

Awake and alert to

All my flaws and

Undone to-do list

Growing like some kind

Metaphorsisized cancer

Maybe I was better off tired

Could have just taken a nap

Escaping the natural way

Fuck even this

Poem is for shit

And yet…

I am really in a better mood

Than you might think

Gotta find my glass

And half fill it

Jefferson Airplane Groove

iPodding in the past
listening to the airplane
hurtle me through time
back

a yearning aura
instantly glowed
bubbling youthful
from that weird
innocent time

everything could be ok
but probably not and yet was
in that summer of love

airplane chords change in
smooth druggy wonderment
almost jazz not quite rock n'roll
clear clean ballards sung slick
with jorma licks

like a youth we never had

Too Much MK for a Haiku

I think I finally
Understand Leornard Cohen's
I loved her perfect body with my mind

January 6, 2010