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Home page > English > Poetry > R.I.P.

1)

It is still today.

It is not yet

tomorrow.

My saber gaze

breaks open

boulders you

dare send.

Earthen pots

tremble, implode

forget. I do

not. Cut my

teeth on oil.

Milk my sperm

for flesh. This

licorice flavor

is not mine,

but mulch.

Too much mulch.

Send water -

we are thirsty.

Why are we so damn thirsty?

2)

It is still today.

We will never live

until tomorrow. Live.

Migrating birds remember

their agony; so why

can’t you? Here

lies the lie

of abundance:

a punch in

the bread basket,

the last toast

gone cold.

Dissect & offer it

to the birds;

they will feed

their dreams,

or ignore it.

Either way:

offer it up,

to the birds.

3)

In an age without memory

regret is the only currency

of worth.

4)

In a time without worth

we knock on dead doors

with stony fists.

5)

In a fist without worth

6)

There is no first without worth

7)

There is no fist of worth

8)

Only fists - do your

homework; excel at

marauding; get a

good coffin

The Best

Satin Pillows

Double Lid

Rest In Peace

Among the greatest

worms sorrow can buy;

they grow plump -

warm pie - for birds

whose bellies,

tight on cold toast,

primly decline.

9)

Pretty costs, but

ugly is always free.

Cultivate the Hideous

The Leprous, Cankerous

& you’ll never want

for Love. Repeat it:

I serve only the

future mulch…

In one swerve

of S you’ll

find me - armies

marching through

my thumbprint.

The Dow on decline.

I flit thru canyons,

swat pterodactyls,

match the pyre,

weep with Jesus,

relegate infinity

in time for toast

and tea. Say it:

no ideas but

futility. Butter

this mildew, and

feed it to

those birds…

They will not have you either.

10)

Today

I hereby accept

the title

of Champion

of Mud.1)

It is still today.

It is not yet

tomorrow.

My saber gaze

breaks open

boulders you

dare send.

Earthen pots

tremble, implode

forget. I do

not. Cut my

teeth on oil.

Milk my sperm

for flesh. This

licorice flavor

is not mine,

but mulch.

Too much mulch.

Send water -

we are thirsty.

Why are we so damn thirsty?

2)

It is still today.

We will never live

until tomorrow. Live.

Migrating birds remember

their agony; so why

can’t you? Here

lies the lie

of abundance:

a punch in

the bread basket,

the last toast

gone cold.

Dissect & offer it

to the birds;

they will feed

their dreams,

or ignore it.

Either way:

offer it up,

to the birds.

3)

In an age without memory

regret is the only currency

of worth.

4)

In a time without worth

we knock on dead doors

with stony fists.

5)

In a fist without worth

6)

There is no first without worth

7)

There is no fist of worth

8)

Only fists - do your

homework; excel at

marauding; get a

good coffin

The Best

Satin Pillows

Double Lid

Rest In Peace

Among the greatest

worms sorrow can buy;

they grow plump -

warm pie - for birds

whose bellies,

tight on cold toast,

primly decline.

9)

Pretty costs, but

ugly is always free.

Cultivate the Hideous

The Leprous, Cankerous

& you’ll never want

for Love. Repeat it:

I serve only the

future mulch…

In one swerve

of S you’ll

find me - armies

marching through

my thumbprint.

The Dow on decline.

I flit thru canyons,

swat pterodactyls,

match the pyre,

weep with Jesus,

relegate infinity

in time for toast

and tea. Say it:

no ideas but

futility. Butter

this mildew, and

feed it to

those birds…

They will not have you either.

10)

Today

I hereby accept

the title

of Champion

of Mud.


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