Matter Dematerial
Poems of Little Substance/Subsistence (Pt. 2)
Time is an Illusion
For those that say time don’t exist
I have a test for you
One that I hope your view does twist
Perspective tried and true
If time does stop inside a kiss
With breath inside your breast
Then how come when alone you miss
Those moments when you rest?
We would have no sign of fleet
If time did not stand still
And in those moments would not greet
The hot, rapturous fill
Seconds become valuable
When facing down the dark
And our perspective fallible
Illusive as the spark
Love Me Back or Be Tortured Forever
God is a funny, little guy
That seems to be the consensus among Christian churches
The notion that you can put God inside of four walls
And say that he cares about you
Is a strange idea
Yet, time and again, a concept of infinity gets condensed
To be used by the handful with well-constructed rhetoric
And say that you have failed
To be alive the right way
What are we but specks in an ocean?
Maybe the ecosystem is in balance
And the same ones who preach
Fill us with microplastics
Art
I give away my art for free
Quite a lot of the time
It’s not that I don’t like money
I really do
I just think that a lot of the art I make
Doesn’t belong to me
It’s entertainment for the masses
For me and for you
That’s why when I stash these books
It won’t indent my heart
As if you stole a piece of it
Swallow but not chew
I bet someday it circles back
And I can make some bucks
To spend on making other art
Keep doing what I do
Don’t Start That Fire
We have a lot of red flags
To look out for in a man
If he starts a podcast
If he talks badly about his exes
If he gaslights the blame onto others
If he calls himself a “high value alpha male”
It’s old news
We’ve been around that block
And the world is wising up
But one trait gets overlooked
If he records his own, updated version of
“We Didn’t Start the Fire”
I will crash this car if you don’t turn it off
I’ll see you in hell, dude
Universal Remote
My cat stepped on my remote
The cutest toe beans
Deprogramming to death
Like so many birds on my stoop
Look up at me with those eyes
You don’t know what you’ve done
Everything is so innocent
How can I be mad at thee?
The remote isn’t made anymore
It is ancient in terms of technology
What is the code for my TV?
What is the code for my TV?!
Beep, beep, solid red dot
Input from memory
Three more beeps then quiet
Ask again later
Scouring the website
Of a popular manufacturer
They claim to not have the manual
They want more money from me
Buy again, buy again, buy and be free
Until the next time, that is
Remotes should not be so sensitive
That an innocent cat can erase their mind
Junk Fees
Junk food should take minutes away from your life
You know, like in that movie with Justin Timberlake?
Everything is paid for with a little clock in their wrist
Once it reaches zero - That’s All Folks!
Junk food should be the same for me
I want to see it actively ticking away at my life clock
It’s not enough to feel it in my body
It’s not enough to have acid reflux every night to the point where I can’t sleep
Junk food should have these junk fees
A candy bar will cost you an hour
Or two, Depending on if it’s a “shareable size” or not
Walking Halloween in a rich part of town reaps two hours a bar
I would have walked through the neighborhoods
Pillow case swinging so happily in my hand
I would have made a costume worthy of praise
I’d get more candy than anyone
I would eat so much I’d become a pinata
My mom would marvel at the sight
She’d ask how much I got
I’d smile and say I wouldn’t live past 60
My Father Wrote Poetry
My father wrote something like thirty books of poetry
He sold them online, on Amazon, etc.
They cost a dollar each
I don’t know if anyone ever bought them
We heard he died two weeks after the fact
His family and friends couldn’t contact us
In this day and age, that seems impossible
Still, his Facebook wall was odd
He updated a post saying goodbye
Not to me or my siblings, just in general
“It’s been real, but I’m moving on!”
“Zeppelin rules…” and the such, in salutation
He wrote something like thirty books, and I don’t think he left a note
Which was like him, and like me
That was something I would do
Much like writing a book of poetry for no one
Pumpkins
All of my life
I’ve tried to like pumpkin
“The taste would be good!”
Was my assumption
I’d have it in pie
And that was okay
But eating it raw
Is never the way
For it is a gourd
Like spaghetti squash
Which mother would make
My appetite quash
I’d try it pureed
Before working out
Mix it with some yogur –
Sorry... Threw up in my mouth
And finally seeds
They’re so good for you
Pop them in the oven
But tough is the chew
I’d rather just carve them
Admire their worth
A fun pumpkin bumpkin
For holiday mirth
Check Yourself Before You Rack Yourself
I’m at the skatepark and I’m going to ollie real good, but I don’t necessarily have much confidence in the height that I can get yet, or in the fact that my feet have to get out of the way of the skateboard otherwise it is going to hit one or both of my feet and influence the way the board moves under my feet and whether or not it goes in the place it is supposed to go, but I don’t really think too much about it because I’m pretty good at doing my ollie, so here it goes and Oh No, I’m instantly feeling my big, dumb feet not going to the appropriate place and the skateboard actually never got stopped by my forward facing foot and is still climbing toward my body which is already succumbing to gravity and falling on my skateboard as the board itself is not completely perpendicular between the ground and my groin and this is already going to hurt and time is already starting to slow down and I am reevaluating every bad or dumb decision I have ever made in my life that had led me to this moment where everything is going to come crashing down like so much body weight on the tip of a rather pointy, wooden board and here it comes and OH!
The board has made contact with my balls.
I will never ever live this down.
It split the crack perfectly too.
Should I call my mom?
I taste hot metal.
Everyone is laughing.
Time slows.
Goddamnit.
Uppies
“Uppies!”
Why do we talk to our dog like this?
“No barkies. Good girl, you didn’t barkies.”
“Wanna come uppies?”
Let her on the bed.
Why infantilize her?
She’s twenty-one in dog-years.
She can gamble in Vegas.
She wouldn’t be very good.
Horses can count, but dogs can’t.
To my knowledge…
“Wanna go outside? Go peepies?”
“Go peepies and poopoos?”
“Should I hit or stay?”
“What does that bark mean?”
If Mr. Ed was here, I’d fucking sweep the table.