Sometimes the pillars of the temple stand apart

They rehearse the wedding details
In the middle of the arts fair.

Someone’s selling handmade pipes
While the groomsmen stand in line.

The wedding planner wrings and wrangles
And a jewelry-maker works a deal.

Many random people block the bride
Unsure of where and if they fit.

I’m watching all this with my poem.
A half-full beer within arm’s reach.

Random people weave around me.
No one’s sure if this is it.

Sometimes the pillars of the temple stand apart

Tearing Away From The World

I told my son
About your dirt road
And how we’d drive too fast
Just to kick up dust behind us
Like a demon’s sandy sneeze.

I told him about the graveyard
Across the rocky road
And the long-abandoned church
With its broken stained-glass windows.

I told him about the dull lights
And the squalling caterwauls
Late nights on your back porch.

I told him what we found there
Among the crooked, sun-sprayed tombstones.

I told him all these little things and more.

He responded with a shiver, “Oh, Daddy! Daddy, why?”

Tearing Away From The World

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Come up, come up

Let us show you the attic

Easy now, mind the dust

Mind the dust everywhere

Stand up, stand up

Tall now, look around now

There’s a box of old books

Too fragile to read through

Those cobwebs in the corner

The prior owner’s condition

Gaps in the insulation

A real character builder

Now step over here

There’s something to see

Look down, look down

Yes, that hole at your feet

You see? Sleeping soundly?

Not knowing you’re up here

And oh! how you’ve wondered

And held your suspicions

How easy we’ve made it

For you to never stop watching

Never stop, never stop

Who’s she dreaming of now?

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Give sorrow words, not antacids.

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     to think it wouldn’t happen to one of us
     though all of us are dying a little every day.

A maudlin fog grips the city
     that you’ll never see again.
A million icy particles suspended
     right in front of our noses,
     too tiny, too gray to make out as individuals.

Your son and wife are in Florida.
Only they know why.
In Florida, waves of melancholy
     lick the dirt-sand shores.

In Florida, seagulls gripe about their diets
     so the children feed them Alka-Seltzer
     and watch them fly away.

The children hope to pop the birds
     like balloons past their prime.

In California, children also hope to pop the seagulls.
The children have turned toward a cruel science.

Where will we be when the fog and the cold lift
     and all homes but one are warm and lively;
     when the ladybugs think they’ve found holes in the windows
     then spend the rest of their lives
     in a pane-centered community;
     when the rainwaters drop and the rivers brim with water poisoned
     by our desire for more life and our desire to grow,
     grow as fast as we can?

Where will we be when the woods
     call us back to make love in the forest,
     to make masks of shed bark
     and clothes from fallen logs?

Where will we be when you won’t;
     when you won’t ever again?

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     and arrogant still.

Our children are ignorant and growing.
The trees promise a wild, quiet fog.
Ice hangs from the leaking gutters.

Give sorrow words, not antacids.

Tonight, Madcap Poetry at Uptown Arts Bar in KC, MO

https://www.facebook.com/events/1019515224872771/

Join Fountainverse: KC Small Press Poetry Fest organizers Jason Preu, Samantha Slupski, and Brandon Whitehead as they welcome Nathanael William Stolte of Buffalo, NY and Cringe-Worthy Poets Collective Press. Special guests, Chigger Matthews aka Matthew Haines and the one and only #bathtubpoet, New Jersey’s own Damian Rucci!

The return of BDUB 4000, the original robot poet will be the star of the show! Don’t miss this funny and piquant event, which brings some lightheartedness and humor to poetry.

No cover, but LOTS of amazing books will be available! Bring cash for poetry to stir the soul and tickle the heart!

Tonight, Madcap Poetry at Uptown Arts Bar in KC, MO

To That Which We Are Entrusted

And who was Joshua anyway but a common man come to tell the common man how to get by in a world like this?

This here world built on rich men’s dreams in rich men’s eyes for rich men’s bodies.

You see, a rich man ain’t got to love nothing. Only thing he’s got to do is open his purse and say the word.

Hell, sometimes it’s better if he don’t say any words a’tall, just hush it up all quiet-like so there ain’t no trail, ain’t no truth to the matter.

But a poor man’s got to love everything to get by in a world like this, a world he’s set to inherit.

Got to love that what itint fair.
Got to love that what puts him down.
Got to love that what hates him just for watching the same goddamn blue sky.
Got to love that what hates.

Got to love
that what hates.

Got to love murder by the ruling class, stuck through with a handful of rusty nails, up on some old dirty wood, bleeding out over all creation just so the other poor folk’ll keep in mind: all your days you got to love that what hates you ‘til this here world sets you free at last, free at last.

To That Which We Are Entrusted

The Claims of the Giants

In mythology, the giants were birthed from the blood of Uranus’s castrated prick wherever it splattered across the womb of Gaia.

The earth sometimes takes issue with the heavens – and can react in most uncontrollable ways.

Still, the Olympians killed the overgrown with the help of the mortal, Heracles.

In economics, continuous growth is a virtue, coupled right alongside a few humans’ endless creativity.

Earthly wealth often forgets the heavenly birthright of the tired and the poor.

Still, money talks and human capital jaywalks with the help of a demographic fighting its long-term survival.

In biology, we call continuous growth a cancer.

A body sometimes rebels against itself to save itself with no awareness that it’s ending itself.

Still, the old gods watch the new giants’ invisible hands; the old gods quietly wait for a new Heracles to nock an ancient, accurate bow.

The Claims of the Giants