Some of the Music

“I would like to thank you for all the things that are going to happen,” I say to her, but  she doesn't understand.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m saying, but I refuse to tell her so. This isn't the time. But I look her squarely in the eyes and say, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

My words are lost on her. She snubs her nose at me and walks away, shaking her hips as she leaves. I watch the way her body moves inside the frail fabric that covers her. Her skin is screaming to be released.

There is no better place to encounter strangers than at the park. In the grass, alongside the curb on a bench cast of metal and wood, I watch and wait for passersby’s, holding onto myself in a way that appears as if I were cold, but the sun is shining and it is as hot as Hell.

I’m still watching the woman walk away. I’m stricken with the way she moves, and I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime soon: we’ll kiss and fuck away the cares of our unfortunate encounter and pretend it never happened. Her name is like a spice… it could mean anything; anything at all.

I think of nutmeg, but I’m positive that her name is Pepper. It’s an odd name for a girl who doesn’t believe in the future. There is a faint smile in her eyes before she leaves; the kind of smile that is as telling as a gentle gust of wind blowing against a forest of fallen cotton, brushing against the earth that has born them.

Thankfully, I don’t really care.

I’m just here to pass the time.

Across the park, under an enormous elm tree, I watch a bird peck through the grass, searching out seeds. It rummages through the waste until it finds what it is looking for, and flies away.

It’s time for me to make the future happen. I stand and brush myself off, leisurely looking at the bright sunny day that is beginning to recede behind the horizon, making way for the nighttime as I take to the sidewalk and begin to wander.

In no time at all, I’m a block away, walking along the thoroughfare that takes commuters from one side of town to the other. If visitors don’t stop for gas or food they could drive right through town without even knowing they had ever done so. It’s a sad state of affairs for our community because no one ever stops.

Down the next street and I've picked up the scent of the woman I saw earlier. She’s still walking with her hip motion guiding the way. A short business skirt is about her waist like a white flag of surrender. With a cock-eyed glare from over her shoulder, she knows I’m following her. She passes the drug store where I live in an apartment on the second floor.

I smile and she seems disturbed. She crosses the street and is inside the bar before I can blink. I follow her in because that just happens to be where I’m going. She twitches when she sees me follow her in, but she takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. I pass her up and walk to the stage.

Mike and Stew are already there so I know it’s my turn to take the stage. Stew taps the top of his snare drum, tuning it by ear when he notices I've arrived.

“You ready, man?” Stew asks me.

I nod.

I turn on my amp and pick up the guitar from the stand and toss the strap over my shoulder. The instrument is as stained and worn out as I feel, but has that certain something that old guitars can’t live without. There is character in the strings, a blood stained soul just beneath the bridge. I slide my finger along the volume knob and the sound erupts from the speakers, slow and deep with a bark as I strum the strings.

Pepper looks in my direction. Her eyes are at ease when she realizes that I’m supposed to be there. A smooth little smile punctures her mouth and makes her lips tighten like a rosebud about to bloom.

A blue note blows out from my fingertips and into the strings like a waterfall cascading over worn and weathered rocks into the river that awaits its arrival. Subtly, I purge my emotions into the plank of wood strapped across my chest. My voice comes out in a crack like gravel being raked over well worn leather and I’m drawn into the woman’s gaze. She can feel what I have come to do and her lips pout in agreement.

Right along with me, Mike thumbs his bass, creating a harmony made of butter and melting ice cream. He taps his foot to the beat, keeping time while I moisten my lips and sing the woman’s name over and over again in a type of code that can only come from a John Lee Hooker song.

She responds as I caress the neck of my guitar, pulling her lips in tighter as she closes her eyes. I go into a vibrato, holding the wettest note I can find for as long as the guitar will sustain it. I’m in her head and she can feel me from across the room; she can feel my hands slide across her back, sending waves up her spine and into the pit of her sex like some ghostly thing composed of fuck and musk.

She pants as I belt out the next chorus, wetting her panties like an expectant school girl, giggling on the inside like virgins often do.

The old timers are moving on their chairs and upon the stools against the bar. Heads lower as they snap their fingers to the beat of the drums that pound away behind me. They’re inside the music, swaying and moving like they’re hypnotized by every note, waiting for the next to release their hardened souls.

It’s my pleasure to make them melt from the inside; liquefying their bones into a supple soup of tone that erupts from my machine. I watch them breath to the music as I control the blood that courses through their veins. The sound is like magic fluttering through their skin, creating waves of motion that lick at their fantasies, purging them of the waste that accumulates from being alive.

My guitar screams and the crowd is awakened, holding their breath in anticipation. I give them what they want; I loosen their souls and take them higher than they have ever been before. The crowd howls as I bend the strings, coaxing out a heart attack of tone. They clap and hoot as the music moves them, but I’m not doing it for them. I’m playing just for the woman at the bar. I can see her loins shake beneath her skirt as she sweats to the rhythm. Her eyes are locked on me now, begging for more as I tear into a solo that sends shudders through the souls of the weary, the weak, the damned.

My body convulses as I make my instrument moan out like an orgasm, wrenched by the hand of fury and sorrow, guided by molten fingers and sensual tendons. I live for this moment. I live for the space of time when space and time no longer exist, but are nursed from the grasp of reality like an earthquake.

There’s a smell of love and violence in the air that couples with the scent of desperation and romance. I let the odor hang upon my senses while I urge the music forward. I lick the vapors from the swirling mass of sex that has gathered at my nose, holding it like an enamored child, waiting for it to cry out for an end to the ravishing night air. It’s as pliable as pure gold, as slack as a silk cord.

She’s right there at the edge of ecstasy as I hold the final note, letting it breath, letting it evolve into bliss.

And then there is silence.

I take my time returning the guitar to its stand, placing it upon the bars that hold it in place and draping the strap over the back like an angel that needs time to rest.

Pepper is looking at me, waiting for me, watching my every move. The clap of my boots sounds out along the worn and dusty floorboards, echoing in time with the blood that pumps through my heart. I approach her as she pants with the tingle of music that still courses through her.

I look her in the eyes, savoring the moment and wet my lips. She holds my gaze. Her mouth is slack and questioning. Her eyes are glistening with the residue of emotion that quickens in her chest. I lean forward and whisper into her ear.

A look of surprise spreads crosses her face in a smile that seeps romance and she repeats the words before they leave my lips, “Music is a gift.”

take three times daily with food

do what commands your attention.
be whatever it is that you imagine yourself to be.
let nothing hinder those rights of passage.

direct your compassion outward.
enjoy the moments for what they are.
live every breath at the edge of your seat.

find someone to love.
find someone who loves you just the same.
make that love a monument for others to follow.

take care with what you're doing.
be in the moment.
let all other things rest until they awaken to your attention.

say how much you love the ones you love.
let that love be known.

drown the fear
and let it take its toll.

allow for the good things in life
because no one will do it for you.

when you beat your head against
the wall, remember how fragile
you really are.

hard to swallow the pill.

hard to wash down the medicine.

hard to take what they
give you and place it on your tongue
and follow it up with a glass of water.

hard to wash the chemicals away.

often times,
the disease is much more pleasant
than the remedy. other times,
the illness is quicker than the pill.

we live in an elaborate fantasy
where the sickness is only a
remedy away.

love the ones you love truly
and without hesitation
before the sickness finds you
and forces you swallow the pill
that sours your tongue.

a poem about death

I Was 13 Years Old, Practicing For 14.
Eight Grade At Sawyer School In Chicago.
My Teacher Was One Of The Hottest Things
On Two Legs. She Taught Seventh And Eight
Grade In The Same Classroom (Because, Let's
Face It, They're Both The Same Fucking Thing).

One Of The Girls Stood Up And Told The Teacher
That I Was Seated On The Wrong Side. The Teacher
Looked At Her Files, Shook Her Head, And Told
The Girl That I Was Where I Was Supposed To Be.
She Asked Me If A Mistake Had Been Made. I Told
Her I Had Been Promoted, Entirely Skipping Sixth
Grade At My Previous School.

She Nodded, And That Was That.

now that i've capitalized a succession of words,
i'm going back to they way i want to write
<insert smiley face here>

the year before, i had been kicked out of a christian
school for, well, everything. now that i was free and
back in the public school system, i didn't give a damn
what grade i was in. no more shirts and ties. no more
jesus shit that didn't make any sense to me at all. no
more hypocrisy.

fuck it,
i was free.

that year was one of the most influential years of my life.
i discovered up tempo, bold, and positive forms of music
that went by such inspiring titles as D.R.I., Cro-Mags, Black
Flag, The Misfits, Metallica, Slayer, and so on. To my amazement,
these groups also enraged my stepfather. win, win!

i began to wear black.
i ripped my jeans.
i threw shit at passing cars with my friends.
i refused to cut my hair.

there was one guy i hung out with that would
dub tapes for me. he copied Master of Puppets
for me and i went home, tossed it into the deck
and
sat
back in my desk chair for what would become
the ride of my life. i listened to that tape so much
that i wore it out and had to have another one mixed
for me.
that was back when Metallica wanted their music
to be heard, before they were rich.

on September 27, 1986, i sat on the floor in front
of the television as the newscaster announced that
Cliff Burton had died. the backbone of Metallic was
dead, and what was left behind was... mostly dead
too.

but that album never faded in my eyes. it was the best
goddamn thing i had ever heard. in fact, i'm listening to it now
as i write a poem about death.

forevermore

sticky sweat along the flesh.
a damp somewhere in between.
the hallow sounds
rush.
marry me, my time of need.
the filth clings desperate
and the wind threatens to keep it
in place.
this lunacy
as a web gathers
about the skull.
this peace
in no other place but here.
tall fountains of madness
and numb acceptance emerging
from the pool, trickled down by
crashing wet.
O' hold this great nothing
in the hand
forevermore this
life does rattle
and hiss.
the worthless
emerge in wealth
and their sanity is only
as safe as time allows.
but madness is forever.
forevermore.

a chill air

he took a seat
in the old rocking chair
in the attic,
facing the window
with the sun coming over
the rear facing portion of the roof
like a blanket draped
over a newborn.

from that creaking chair,
he watched the children
play
outside
and remembered when
he too
was a child,
but no more.

a thin layer of dust
upon the window sill,
stuck by
oily things
that forever
drift
in the air.

a bird glides by.

then another.

and the scene from beyond the window
returns.
a man out there washing his car.
the suds slide in engorged bubbles
that rinse away the oils,
forever in the air.

he stands.
the joints in his legs try to resist,
but he pushes through.
he glances back before he
turns fully.
someone out there passes on a bicycle.

a small table. the varnish lost
some years ago.
mahogany shows through,
worn black with oils
always in the air.

atop the table is a phonograph.
the cone is proud on top
like a black and gold flower,
wilted slightly.

he winds the lever on front.
a few slow twists and the record spins. the needle touches.
the arm gives with the motion. dusty scratches.  the music comes crisp.

a song older than him.
a song his grandfather used to play.
a song without a voice.

he lowers himself to the rocking
chair once more and peers out
beyond the window.

a child laughing.

the sun behind. it washes the life
it sees. a cool wind, but
the window
is firm.
only the sound of a
lost breeze
saunters past.

cars flash by. interruptions of time
between the smears of color. a cat
on the porch across the street.

his breath is slow. he folds his hands in his lap.
the sweater hangs loose upon his shoulders.
wrinkles of time. lost. only one button is clasped
on the sweater. the others are free. an
exposed thread on his pant leg. not too worn
yet.

his bare feet work through the dust
on the floor. his hand trembles and
falls                                         still.

the music carries on. beautiful with
an echo between the beams overhead.
the air is still,
save for the movement of song.

his skin as a pearly. the veins show through.
sackcloth stained in streaks of blue. the wrinkles
are refined. he misses his wife's voice.
his daughter is gone too.

there are oily things that forever drift in the air.

the children are full of laughter outside. their veins
are just as blue.

Live on Kindle 01/30/14

http://www.amazon.com/Down-Swallow-Whole-Richard-Cochran-ebook/dp/B00I4ISLRY/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1391085109&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=down+the+luck+swallow+it+whole

Available to order.

Order print here: https://www.createspace.com/464216

Down
The
Luck
Swallow
It
Whole

is now available for order on Createspace. I was really hoping to put it out cheaper, but the overhead is pretty high with this one because it came in at over 400 pages. The eBook should be available sometime tomorrow on Amazon / Kindle for $2.99.

I would like to thank everyone for their interest in the book and their continued support. I will continue posting new poems and ramblings for as long as my good typing finger holds out. ;)

secret messages

the prize is
greater than the effort
  extended.
when you call the hotline,
they will tell you your future
for $2.99 a minute.
if you don't call,
the future may never happen.
give until it hurts.
give a vengeful god
your hard earned dollars
and sense (cents) -
make the donations run
like blood,
tight from the vein.
hallelujah!
allow the pain to begin,
let it remedy your
darkest sin.
cold christ like hands
taking away the
burning fires
of fear
across grief stricken lands.
the subtle swipe of
torture
waiting for the sun to come up
when there is only darkness
nurture the children,
the starving,
the blind, the deaf, the turned away.
the tedious words mean nothing
as the giant slaps away the faith
in broken messages.
hallelujah, destroyer.
hallelujah, O' god jealous of other gods
because maybe they have the answers
that He fears.
for $2.99 a minute, you can
receive the message too.

slight of hand

a couple of people are screaming
at the top of their lungs
while the rest of the gene pool
says
good speech
bad speech.

but what was said?

they're going to throw a bone
to the poor.

just more bullshit tossed on an
open pile of dung.

the truth is
puppets don't make decisions.

the cold hard facts are few
and far between.
and we're stuck in the middle
without a middle class.

and there is nothing that can be done about it.
it's all based on faith:
our money,
our liberty,
our freedom,
our corporation
of the united states.
we sold freedom a long time ago
and now we worship debt.

so don't blame the puppet,
blame the bank holding the strings.

my first flower

there was a small flower
that popped up
one spring
in an open lot
beside our house.

on the way to school
every day, I looked at it as I passed.
it was yellow
like a bad liver,
and it had a spot on one of its petals
wear a bug had taken
a bite.

I watched as it grew.
it faced the sun
every morning
on my way
to school.
it turned downward
every day
on my way back home.

the dirt around it was hard
and sometimes
I would bring it
water
so it could live a
better life.

one morning,
as I passed,
the flower was
bent down,
crushed in
the dirt.
there was a footprint
where it had stood
proud
with a single
bite
taken out of
a yellow petal.

I tried to lift it up,
but it wouldn't stand.

I braced it against
a twig,
but it was already
too late.

someone had come
by, and without
a sound,
crushed my
liver spot
flower
into the
ground.

This is the completed cover for the new Poetry Book. The art was done by Peter Fussey  https://www.facebook.com/pfussey?fref=ts

Down 

the 

Luck

Swallow

it

Whole

should be out within the coming week. I'll post here when it is up for order. The eBook will be out in the coming weeks.

As Always, thank you for Reading.
                                                  

                                  Richard M. Cochran 

when she's sleeping

at night,
when she's sleeping,
i apologize to her.
i tell my wife i am sorry
for only showing my heart
on paper,
for bleeding in the bathroom,
for having to apologize to her
in her sleep.
i regret leaving the word lying around
where anyone could come by and
trip on it.

i think i am also sorry
for never
fucking her, but only
making love.
i know some people just want to be
fucked. but i can't do it anymore.
i don't have the heart for it.

i whisper things into her ear
after she has drifted off, words
that tame me.
i tell her where it hurts.
i ask for medicine no one could
possibly provide. i think she has a
pharmacy within her chest and maybe she can
mix something there between her breasts.

sometimes she smiles when i tell her these things
in her sleep. i don't think it's joy, but something else
entirely. i think it's because she secretly knows my mysteries.

she mumbles something about love and i smile too.

i let her linger in dream and i close my eyes once more
so when she awakens she can apologize to me in my sleep.

the song we sing keeps us here.
it shows something timid and fragile.
it has a ring that only we know.
a subtle rhyme that begins all things.

we rattle the words
to the
unconscious part
of ourselves,
building
bars to our special cell
where we keep those
fragile parts
that no one can touch.

it hurts me
that i can't scream
the pain away.
it harms the
fabric
draped about
my wounds.
it sticks
to the scabs.
if i could only
speak, the
terrors would
subside.

at night,
when she's sleeping,
i apologize to her.

i'm sorry for the future,
for everything i
can't bring myself
to say.
for everything that
could rip the pain
away.

i'm sorry for the small breaths,
the little sigh.
i'm sorry i deserve this.
i'm sorry you need that part of me.

i whisper small something's
to her while she's sleeping.
when i'm old
i hope
she can smother
away those whispers
so i never have to wake up.

speak in whisper

the mark you wear,
lain upon your chest
above the heart of you,
the part they turned,
the part they soiled,
it is the love of you.

the nightmares may
never go away, but
the scars will heal.

what they made of you.
what they took.
what they tore.
what they said ...

all days end this way.
the tired, aching bones.
all nights are twin
when the nightmares come.

we are the broken freaks
they turn away from in
the dark,
the wretched wrecked
they can no longer cast eyes upon.

we are the beaten and torn,
the creased
the wilted
the troubled
the ones they made.

we are beauty eternal.
we are stronger than
their brightest light.
we are havoc.
we are
pristine.

make them scream our names
in their terrors.
make them remember us when
they tuck themselves in.
make them bleed our wounds
when they cut.

insight a war of spirit
and show them the damage.
cast away your gaze
from them
so they may never
be looked upon
again.

show them what they've done.
let them feel the hurt they've
dealt.
let them know you're still breathing.

let me take away your fears.
let me cradle you in my filth,
this place we belong.
let me touch away
what they've done.
let me be a part of you.
let me wash the crumbs from
your eyes
so you may never
have to see it
again.

let us love who we are
and what we have been
through.
let us moan
at midnight
for all the other
lost
that were broken by them.
let us be united in this
and turn them away.

let us feel this love
let us speak of it
in whisper.

gift of black

      i give the black
between my
  bones.

it's hard to unfold the mysteries
     and remain
  elusive -
      to keep it up without
      knocking over the family
      album.
      without turning over the
      dirt in the graves.
      without giving too much.
and so i bleed.
here, from this scar of myself,
i leak the temptations.
from this scrap of flesh,
i bleed.
i not I.
this is the small of me,
the part that whimpers,
drawn up into itself,
surrounded in womb,
a sympathetic nothing,
locked away behind
the artery under my heart.
     this is the black
            i give
  between
                my bones,
the child part that
cries for
                 condition.
    the tame,
                    peaceful
part that would be abused
             if others
knew it was there.
                      i let the child cry
                      for one day
it may
                     drown in its
prison,
                     way down deep
                in the black
           between
     my                     bones.
this is the blood of me
for which
you cannot see.

where i cannot see

you were always
everything to me
and i can no longer
smell your scent.
you reminded me
of compassion
and the reason why
we should hold on
so tight.

you were
everything to me
and the wind here
is brisk
as i think of you.
it lends tragic
through my clothes,
but the cold turns
joy against my skin,
and i need something
to hold onto.

you are
everything
and gone
floating off
where i can't
find you.

you are
everything
and my
heart is damp
with memory.

that simple smile
you held just for me.
the way your
lips worked
through the happiness,
freely handing it
over for anyone
to see.

you are
my everything
and you're still
here
somewhere,
but i just can't see.

i wish we could
touch one more time
and i know everything
would be just fine,
but the memories
of you, it's all i have
and somewhere
i hope
you're smiling
down
on me
from wherever
it is
that i cannot see.

all there is

enjoy sound

the last thing

you ever hear.

enjoy the

texture.

revel in the taste.

feel it upon your tongue,

smooth like cream.

let it linger at your lips

and taste it again.

that sound

the last thing

you ever hear.

imagine you're

floating.

ease back.

feel the tingle at

the base

of your spine.

hold it there.

let it swallow you.

the emotion is

numb.

the smell is

of flowers

in a field that

continue on

as far as you can see.

a hand

brushing gently

against your

cheek.

a small breath

in your ear

as warm

as mother's touch.

hold it.

ease back.

the world is heavy,

heavier than

it has ever been before,

but you are as light as air,

lifting.

and that sound is

laughter

because you

finally get the joke.

happily alive

try to think

                        back

to the 

very 

          moment

when it first happened.

try to think 

                         back 

to your

very 

              first

thought.

remember that time ?

the sudden

acknowledgement

that breathing 

tingle back

at the base of your 

                     skull -

that part of you

is the reason.

that part of you

is the 

same part of me.

we share in that

first thought.

that very thought

that grounds

us

together

is why we connect.

all other thoughts 

are rooted in that

initial idea.

that first spark of 

consciousness

brought about 

                        everything

that makes up

the small pieces of

you.

that first memory

                 is 

the very

vibration

that connects us

here.

we have first

thoughts in 

common.

it is our ease,

our 

bond.

it took every molecule 

in the cosmos,

perfectly churning,

                             spiraling

through DNA

to make that 

                   moment

                                happen.

don't worry,

your secret's safe with me.

i won't tell anyone.

                              but it makes you kinda happy

                   to           be

                      a l i v e

right now.

what is asked when they ask for death

ribbons in your hair
where
little dead things grow.

salt the scabs
it's
the only pain you know.

your heart here
in their hands
like mist.

the knot there
is a
fist
that grows every time
you take air.

every lung full
every beating hand upon
your chest.
the trouble stains.

small mouths
asking
for help.

all the time
you're rendered
like fat
from the slab.

they can't help the
hate,
the dismay,
the trembling
at night beneath the sheets
like the odor of sex
caught upon your lips.

the fingers that get under it all,
feeling away the tender parts,
they look like broken
ribs standing at attention
across bloody fields,
marching forward
through the great war within.

the great war and the
generations it
consumes.

harps strummed for the dead.

creation seems so far away.

if i could see you again

dark shades drawn
across leering window pane.
the face they can no longer see
is my own.
the frown i wear has disappeared
behind the night's shade
and the nerves
have set loose again.

what were we ? when you were here
        what is my name ? again

how the time unravels like sprouts of cotton
and the sun does not part the shades.
this shallow
this need
expanding inside
the hallow cramp
of what is left.

backing away,
the light too
is also retreating.

i can almost feel your hand
on my own.

pull fast
across the window
with dark cloth.
this time is ours.

the buzz of a million years
crying out for us
in this here and
now.
just you and i
in this
behind drawn
curtains
and dark shades.

your breath is
about me.

your calm is
my own.

a gentle
cry
from across
blackened night
draws us near
and i can hear
your
whispering
scream.

it is not unlike my own.
here, behind drawn shades
in the darkness of us.

our bones together at last,
searching the dark
for disease,
but nothing shows.

how is this ? here with me now
who am i ? i have lost my name

this, my leering lover,
covered in dark.
this, for you and
no one else.

here behind drawn curtains
and simple shades,
it is so very dark.

what we say when we talk about taking sides

every rule,
every idea,
every misconception
is of our own design.

the world we see around us
is our own invention.
we have let it come to this.

the laws we disagree with,
the politicians holding office,
gas prices,
our not so friendly neighbors,
it is all our fault.

we fall for the hype
and stand in long lines to
receive our just
dues
because we created the
world we are living in.

this is what happens when
complacency takes
precedence over
effort.
when it is easier to
live and let live.
when we fumble the ball
and hand over the game.
when we lose the will
to refuse.

this is our boredom,
our fundamental approach
to saving the world -
everything happening
as long as we don't have
to fight too much
for what we are given.

pay your ticket before
you are proven guilty.
accept your punishment before
a crime was committed.
execution before the
facts were gathered.

we allow this to happen to
our friends.
we allow this to happen to
our lovers.
we allow this to happen to
our children.

we don't put up too much fuss
and we teach the same complacency
to future generations
and they
in turn
teach the approach to
their future generations
and we eventually
become
automatons
jacking off in circles
for a bleak future
that no one ever intended.
you can see some of it now.
small parts of our laws
are becoming
confused,
rearranged,
spun in every direction
to benefit
the lawmakers.

the more money you have,
the less you have to pay attention
to laws.
the more money you have,
the more laws you get to
indoctrinate into an
already failing system
to keep the
little people in line.
the more money you have,
the longer you get to live
to keep the peasants
in check.

we are the pets of bankers
and politicians.
we are the pawns of
corporations
and secret societies
made up to always keep
us wondering
if we're being told the truth.
we are attended to by
ghost stories
and alien abductions
in an effort to
keep us off track.
we are misled and misinformed
and we let it all
come down to this.

we argue about whether it
should be called
Global Warming
or
Climate Change
while the smog lifts over our heads
and the oceans run thick with garbage
and the water supply dwindles because
they're cleaning the shit off of their machines.
we argue about bullshit when it is
clear that we're fucking up
our
world for profit gains and stock prices.
so it doesn't matter what it's called
when your kids can't breath
and finding a clean glass of water is likened
to how fast
a soda company can bottle it.

we pick sides on a failing battle.
we discuss evolution and creation
when it is quite clear we're monkeys
tossing shit around at each other
from the top of social ladders,
bent to make a buck at all costs.

clever slogans and disposable income
when we can't decide who
we should invade in the
next all out war with
oil and territory.

we seem to find bad guys
everywhere we turn and can't imagine they're
being planted into our imagination
by villains hoping
we'll look the other way.

it is hard to laugh when
you realize we're ding this
to ourselves.

The new Poetry Book.

If you've been following my blog, you're more than aware that I have been writing quite a bit of Poetry as of late. The poem is an amazing thing. It holds no particular standard. And, in my opinion, it is the freest way to lay down what the mind fancies. It helps to do away with structure to lend creativity a hand. I have been jotting down Poetry for twenty eight years ever since my grandmother gave me a notebook when I was ten. Some of my past Poems have made it onto the blog, but most are new, showing more of where I'm at at this point in my life.

My older Poems were a bit too experimental so I decided to use fresher stuff. That's not saying those older works won't appear at some point, just not right now. 

I have compiled a couple hundred poems in a new book titled, Down the luck Swallow it whole. It comes in at a little over 400 pages and will be out shortly in print and eBook on Amazon. The cover art is being done by Peter Fussey. I'm very happy with what he has shown me.  

I decided to tackle Poetry again because I'm at a place in my life where I'm not as concerned about marketing and sales as much as I am with getting down the best work I can. Some might even go so far as to say that Poetry isn't marketable at all. I might have to agree. The Poem is a special thing and it is only meant for a certain select group. Not everyone gets it, and that's nice in a way. I can concentrate on what I love to do without worrying about spending appropriate amounts of time splattering my new wares on social media and all of the other avenues allotted to an author.

I rely heavily on the readers to share what I do with their friends and family and anyone else they think might be interested in it. It helps me identify with what they are into, and what they enjoy about my writing. I have to say that I'm quite impressed with how many people share my stuff. It makes the hours of work worthwhile, and helps the ego make friends with itself. 

Again, thank you so very much for taking the time to read my work.

                                                                                 Love Always, R.

much ado

an incredible amount of nothing
from breakfast to bed -
nothing to be done about nothing.

it feels all right that way.

the job.
the sorrow.
the word.
the mother's milk.

grind up the days like
herbs in a medicine bowl,
turning the mallet until there is
nothing
but powder.

and then something shows.
it comes from nowhere. almost.
a tuft of cottony seed on the breeze.
a seed from a pod. a drip from
a faucet. a fetus from the
womb.
always small from large.
always something from
nothing.

an incredible amount of nothing
is all right. it pays the bills,
doctors up the moment. this is
fair enough
reasoning for all things. it happens.
it happened.
                   it will happen again.
    all for nothing.
just the way it should be.

sparking meat in a red sauce

the spark was there just a minute ago
and now it is gone. a
flash in the pan upon
                                                                                 crooked fingers
holding too tightly,
lifting the sauce and the
spark is gone away                                       somewhere                                         unseen.

an obscenity.
                               a true crime.

vanished like that (snap the fingers)
so sudden, but where does it go?

                               there is talk
                                                    of holy nights                       and bright, yellow                            days
but without spark, there is only someone else                                        to           take         its        place.

a happy soul one day,
                                                                        fertilizer the next.

placed in a box
                        and
                               lowered
                                            into
                                                  the
                                                       dirt.
        ground up in instant meals
                                                          found           in             the            freezer        section.
processed and tainted to the tastes of a new world.

                                                                      and someone is born in that very second-
                                                                                           maybe the spark
                                                               still
                                                                                            exists.

you and i

i burn in this,
our love.

i tend to this,
our rape.

i give and
nothing
seems to come.

i repent,
but no gods
show their
face to
receive
my sin.

you tire
of the motion.

you grasp for
a feeling,
but the nerves
no longer signal.

you bend for this
and the string of
light
penetrates
you through
an all imagined
soul.

we render ourselves
powerless.

we cry at the
dirty sun.

we find
no solace
in the words
of broken
heroes.

they crush
spirits
with their
forked
tongues
and their
slit eyes
which mock the
trials of
our seed.

they batter the ground
and air
with lies
and trailing
topics,
spit the cancer
in our mouths.

i give
and nothing
was there to be had.

i frown
through diluted
tears
that wash the
splinters
from my eyes.

i scream
and the voice collapses
so no one will hear.

luscious sin and burning sun. no water to be had to drown our troubles.

the dust of
our fathers
rests below
the skin.

every misgiving
is there to be
peeled away
until the rot is
exposed to
dry the
disease.

every wrong
made suddenly right.

every wrong suffered
through the next
generation to rise.

and we are left
to sort out the
deception,
to make
it good again
or to fallow each
of their
steps and keep
the deformity
alive.

we've not done well
by our predecessors.

we're slowly gaining
insight into the scheme.

at a slow pace, we
sort through
the dirt
below
the flesh and
down into the bones,
dragging broken
nails there
against the
marrow
until we find the
root of
their
treachery.

and it seems
we have a long
way
to go
before we
can call
ourselves
human
once more.

but hope is never truly
lost unless
we completely
give in
and allow the nonsense
to continue.

and may their sins
be sorted
through the
Hell
they've made
for us.

so we may not waste
this moment,
shine a light upon
darkened land
to illuminate beyond
the pollution,
past the smog,
and into the eyes
of those to come.

wonder at their pain
a moment
and feel for their
future
and see how it
mimics our own.

bones above the skin

85
people
own
half of
the world's
wealth.

and there
are children
in my neighborhood
wearing third
generation
hand-me-downs
with parents that
work two jobs each
and do side work
on the weekends
to get by.

most states are nearly
bankrupt.
the cost of healthcare keeps building.
the cost of rent is hiked up
so much that people
have moved in
with their extended
families.

and eighty five people
in the world
own
half of
the world's wealth.

there are two types of
sickness in the world.
one is to be physically
ill. the other is to be
mentally ill.
when the woman
down the street
has
eighteen cats,
we call her sick
for hording cats.
when the guy next door
has a home
overflowing
with garbage,
he would be
labeled as unstable.
but when someone
collects money
into the billions,
they are referred to
as thrifty,
as smart,
as wealthy.
when they are
actually quite
ill.

their minds are diseased
when they can horde that much
money. they
casually look at the world's
problems as not their own.
they turn a blind eye to inequality
and poverty
as if it were just
another pile
of shit,
mistakenly stepped in
on their way to
the bank.

and for some reason,
we envy them.
we want to be just like them.
but the problem is that
we'll never be able
to stand up to
their type of insanity.
it's because most of us
have a conscience.

the special feeling way down where it hurts

the luck is
the luck,
a turning,
tumbling
escape from
what the rest
of us endure
daily.

the luck comes
and forms in its
own way,
under its
own set
of principles.
it can neither
be contained
nor extracted.
like a teenager,
it does what
the fuck it wants
when the fuck it
wants to do it.

it goes without saying
that
the luck
is an asshole too.

beating the hope
from charred souls
like drill sergeants
with a taste for blood,
the luck is abusive.

but above all,
the luck is a farce
we conduct
upon
ourselves,
taping together old
wounds
in the hope
to make the
bleeding
subside.

the luck is
a pig
covered in the shit
of other pigs,
hoping to stay dirty enough
to not be eaten.

the luck is
an incapable lover,
grinding their
crotch into an
already
worn out
groin.

the luck is
an abusive father,
slapping
away the dreams,
one hit at a time.

the luck is
a drunk in the
street
stumbling and
never getting hit.

the luck,
the fucking
luck
is a battered
girl
just doing
what her pimp
told her.

the goddamn luck
is waking up
in a bathtub
filled with ice
and noticing
a scar where
one of you organs
used to be.

the luck is
a stain on the new
tie you bought
for an interview
you'll never have.

and with
everything the
way
it is,
who needs luck
at all
?

(untitled)

life
can be
a most wonderful thing
if you learn
to look past
the smog.

if it is fun,
there is a good chance
you can get arrested for it
so don't look too far past the
blinders.

at the very least, you'll
get a ticket and a mark
on your record.

but there is beauty there
beyond the pink sunsets
and white sandy beaches.

it's a type of confounding beauty
in the spirit
of
all things
that keeps the nights tucked away in
pastel boxes,
strung with ribbons and bows,
composed of fear and doubt,
garnished with failures
that end in victory.

look inside
and you will find
the mysteries
that beckon
the touch
of a
multitude of
fingers,
all probing around
for the same relief.

to really live,
you must lose hope
in the things
that satisfied you
yesterday
and find new dreams
in the coming
dawn of hopelessness -
to gain the most,
you have to
lose it all.

never give up on
not trying.
it's an improvement
on what's already
been done.

like feet wrapped
in newsprint
to keep the cold at bay.
tears strung like tinsel
in the Christmas tree
of your bones.
blood coating walls
of a new day -
this,
the filter faded
and shining the truth
beyond what
you love
the most.

remnants of me

sometimes it doesn't feel worth it.
the words are there.
the feelings court the heart.
the notes are all neatly placed,
and the decisions have been made.

a long black tunnel
leading to more darkness
like the murk of emptiness
enveloped in mud.

there's the story and the poem
and not every one hits the mark.
and the trashcan is full with crumpled
digital prints.
and the sound is muffled
by the muck.
and you can't tell if there's even
an audience.

but the words connect
and the sentences are broken
like they should be
and the point has been made,
but it is emptiness pristine.

it leaves a hole
in the ozone
of the soul
where the precious parts
leak free and i
wonder
if there's anyone
down below
to catch the remnants
of me.

who killed the buffalo?

disillusioned
disenchanted
and i wonder
where it's all
headed

these are not
the same people
i used to know

this isn't the world i
once held

with change
comes progress
with progress
comes lazy old men
lazy old men once
conjured progress
from a fountain pen
and a scrap of paper

they used to tell stories
one could relate to
they told stories about
the symptoms
now there's nothing
the symptoms are
full blown diseases
and the stories don't
bite down on life

the problems are still there
and the pills are said to work fine
but the cures have run away
like the last black rhino

we are all hunted by death
and tainted love
we are all the symptoms of our own disease
and the only light i see is the one
i turn on in the night when i stumble
through the kitchen

we need more disillusioned fairy tales
and heroes who lose the point
in old age
and well built woman
telling us we're doing it wrong
and a cigarette
to cough on
when we're down

someone killed that
last black rhino
like the man who shot the face off of
an elephant for the sport
or the woman who took down a lion
with a courageous rifle and
a camera to prove the end
is really just that close
we almost took out
every buffalo too
and it seems
we haven't gone
far enough

i flick on the light once more
and stumble past the sink,
on my way to shit out what i've done
through the hole in the back and
pretend there are better fairy tales
and people aren't enjoying
themselves too much
killing endangered
animals
on African
plains
purely for the sport

but
don't we kill
one another
purely for the sport
?

don't we load weapons
with anticipation
aiming for the head
so we can feel superior to
the greatest constipation of all
?

i look down into the bowl
and see what i have lost -
they're all there
swirling
in a soup we've made for
ourselves

and the last black
rhino is a memory
glancing off the sides
of a slick toilet
we've named for life

we brought back
the buffalo
to eat it
as a slave
to appetite

and some day
the elephants will
be gone
too

someday
we'll make
a postage stamp
to remember
their extinction
and mail letters to
everyone we know
with snapshots
of us standing over our
great kill

let it grey

older and the skin
is dirty,
no longer holding the shape
it used to.

a little older now and the
mouth goes and says
what it wants.
and the tongue is free too.

you'll have to pardon me.
you'll have to pardon me
being a little older now.

those jeans are worn
and the holes are but stones
wished into a pond.

the boots let water in and the dirt
won't wash away.
that there, under the nails,
shows where
the boots have traveled.

and the crook in the back
leans you forward though time
to where you can almost catch
a peek at the finish line.

the skin doesn't snap back
the way it used to. and there are
marks there you can't quite place -
some scar or another you picked up
along the way, and you can't recall
the lesson.
but you remember the journey;
the steps it took to get where you
belong,
the miles and miles
of dust settled
on already dirty skin.

a little older now
and you'll have to pardon
the vulgarity,
but most of it didn't
mean a damn.
unless you're counting those
few times when the lessons
stuck.

the happiest place

there it was,
layers of steel
and concrete
painted festive colors,
fenced in, and undulating
under the California sun.

there was the whoosh of a train
like a pepper grinder
plugged into the wall
and turned on high
while thrown into the
bathtub.
a giant mouse with
deformed ears and a
permanent smile,
waving his gloved
hand at passersby.
children screaming
murder at the poor
fellow .

i stepped in gum
and tried to grind it
away while i walked.

the smell of funnel cake
drew me in as i hobbled,
sticking every other step.

 i saw someone i knew
and thought, what a
small world. after all, it's not
every day that you run into
someone you think you know
to find out that it really wasn't
who you thought it was. or
maybe that happens more often
than i care to recall.

i scraped the remainder of the
gum off on a fiberglass statue of
an elephant wearing a hat. he had
mutant ears, but he was smiling so
i figured he didn't mind.

the enormity of the crowd was
awe inspiring as i searched for a place
to have a smoke on a map i was given when i
first entered. there, behind a trash enclosure,
strategically placed between a wrecked pirate ship
and the food court was my solace. i wrenched a fag
from the pack and placed it between my lips. with a
few quick flicks of the lighter, i was inhaling and pretending
i didn't give a shit, but the magic was all around and it was
hard not to care.

i ate something that tasted like a microwaved
hamburger, but not as good and washed it
down with a deflated Coke.

i walked by a ride and remembered that someone had
once died there. the poor fucker was decapitated
when he stuck his head off the ride and
they gave him CPR until he was in the parking lot
because no one dies in the happiest place on earth.

above the fire station is an apartment where the
creator used to stay when he was at the park.
i found it fascinating until i realized he probably did
it because if the chemical characters caught
fire, this would be the safest place to hide.

imagine your favorite childhood characters
drenched in flame, scurrying through an inferno,
screaming ...

my stomach cramped. a thin slick of sweat
dampened my brow. i was suddenly shocked
as i clenched tight and braced myself against
a teacup. a tear came to my eye. the fucking
hamburger. i knew that wasn't meat.
i walked briskly toward the restroom sign, dodging
hordes of smiling faces.

there was a line. i stood and waited.
i was faced with
a roller-coaster. shit,
wrong line.
i sidestepped a family
and tried to go for the exit,
but was promptly turned around
and led to one of the cars.

strapped in,
i began to panic.
i wasn't entirely sure that
i could hold out long enough
to get to the finish line. with a
jarring motion, the ride was
underway and i clenched as
we ascended into bright light.

i'm dead, i thought.

and then
i dropped.
the urge to shit had gone.
whatever had been
pushing at my
lower half had obviously
become frightened
and retreated back into
 the safety of my
upper intestine.

mouse ears
slapped me in the face
and i was crying.
a few loops,
a Hell inspired twist,
and i was upside-down,
choking on a chunk
of turd that had been smarter
than the rest
and decided to go back
from whence
it came.

the next few seconds
were a blur.
i might have thrown up,
but there
was no way to tell.
if anything had
come up,
it would have been
wiped clean
by the wind.

i got off the ride
and stumbled.
at least i didn't
have to shit anymore.
i looked for the exit and
decided
to spend the rest
of the adventure
in the
parking lot
within
the
relative
safety
of my
car.

pussy cat

she lived an odd
life as the cat lady,
three apartments over.
she almost never spoke
and when she did, it
was calm and so quiet
you had to really listen
for fear of losing the entire
conversation.

she lost her husband a few
years earlier and picked up
some cats to make
the loneliness bearable.
i don't think she intended to get
so many.

no one had seen her for
a few weeks
and the landlord got
worried.

there was an ambulance
and a couple of police
cars
in the driveway for
several hours.
you couldn't get out of
the complex
if you wanted to.

and they wheeled
her out with a sheet
covering her body
and she looked much
thinner than i remember.

from the doorway,
a cat cleaned its paws
and stared at
the ambulance
like it wasn't quite
full.

animal control
took the remainder of the
cats later that night
and the way they
would look at you
made you think
they hadn't eaten
in days.

so it is said

it wasn't
like there
was anyplace
else to go.

the drugs aren't
drugs anymore,
but chemical
highways
destined to
places worse
than the drug
that was supposed
to get you away
from it.

there's chemical
stuff to eat your
brain to mush
and leave you
heaped up in a
ditch with scabs
all over your face
from trying to scratch
away the bugs that
were never really there.

how about something
to take care of that
useless skin?
instead of track marks,
the bone will expose itself
and you'll die a worse
death than the witches
that were burnt alive for god.

we can all burn from the inside
out from concoctions made from
under our sink to help supply
fuel for the War on Drugs.
we can lean in and put
the gasoline
in our veins and
pretend it's something better.
we can die a little every
day for the sin of feeling better.
but we'll always have a good
drink to wash down the bile.
and that's much better
than being
high,
or so they say.

making the best of what time has to offer

you can't go around hating people,
but you can hate their policies.
it is an easy thing to meld into
an idea that it is people doing
all the bad shit we see on the
nightly news, but it is not, it is
their policies which lends them to
their own restrictions.

we have been doing roughly the
same thing for centuries, all the while
expecting different outcomes. it is
the brilliance of insanity at work,
correcting any practical thoughts
we may have.

when you take into account that
we all die
and our most basic needs
are
survival
and love,
it seems a bit preposterous
to think
that we're still wasting time
with politics
and greed
and war
when we have the availability of making life much
easier on the multitude
of human beings
on this clump
of dirt we call
Earth.

differing opinions on the old,
dusty tombs,
handed
down through the eons
has kept us restricted
when really,
they all say the same thing,
'be good to each other.'

maybe it's time to set aside
the parts about
who's dick goes where
and what particle of land
belongs to whom,
and concentrate
on the bigger picture,
'love'.

now love means
something different
to a great many people,
but its root is
acceptance
and
fulfilling
our basic need of
 finding someone
who also accepts us.

I talk a lot about misery
because misery is inherent
in us all
from
one time to another.
we share in the concept
of misery
and we build
from those experiences
to find the best way
to abort
our misery
and move past it.
but most misery
comes from others
making life
miserable because
they, themselves, are miserable
and they want
to gift that suffering upon others.
so when I talk about misery,
about suffering,
about the little death
that gets us all,
I'm looking for a way out.
and maybe my way out
is your way out too.

I'm sick of drinking
bottled water because
the water from the tap taste like
hell
and is filled with a bunch of bullshit
because someone wants us to
purchase our drinking water
when we have more than enough tax dollars
and
technology
to produce clean,
viable drinking water.

if we put as much emphasis
on drinking water
and education
and fair wages
as we do on the next elected official,
or the next iFuck,
or sports figure
with a multi-million dollar contract,
life would suddenly get a lot easier
for
the majority of human beings
inhabiting this small chunk of rock.

but the problem is that
we would have to break down the entire fucking
system
and rebuild it
from the ground up.
Capitalism isn't working.
Socialism isn't working.
Communism isn't working.
Fascism certainly isn't working.
And Anarchy sure as hell won't work either.
we need something for all the people
to get through.
we're only here for a short time.
we want to survive.
we want to live and learn and be happy.
we want to grow before it all ends
and we're off to wherever it is
that we go when it's finished.
so maybe we should make the best of it.
maybe we should start now.

flow free

the pain of purpose
is to move forward
in spite of it

a trained intellect is
only as strong as the
books you teach

our language is broken-
shards of words strung together
with sticky tape

i'm afraid this is as good as it gets

the puke is dried to
our chins
and flakes at the edges
and the man in the suit
talks the spit
and our sick heaves
where it belongs

i'm afraid we have gone far too far

the telephone is a part of
our head,
attached by strings to
the center of
our grudgefuck
reasoning

we have the bends
and the blood trickles
from the ears onto
whitewashed
floors
previously soiled
by our leaking
genitalia
through erotic
slideshows
intended to keep
us sleeping

i'm afraid you're afraid too

the creeps
keep
making up
new ways
to reinvent
the old ways
and turn our
stomachs like
dime store
lollipops
laced with
viruses
cooked up
in our own
water treatment
plants

they're making
us sick
with the
commercials
and the
complaints
and the
grinding nerves
boiled in wash buckets
filled with chemical
erotic asphyxiation
to calm all that ails you

i'm afraid we are the new drug

making ourselves high
on misinformation
to turn us
away from
the real news
and if they
splatter up
enough
bullshit,
we'll believe in
almost anything

how they get you
is by
pretending
they haven't
got you
at all

the words
get broken up
and become
something else
entirely
the words
are dying
by the hand
of our greatest
statesmen
our words are
tongue fucked
whores
making
mouth noises
while their cunts
are pacified
our words are too
tame
too restrictive
to let
the puke flow
freely

go slow

i need a simpler time
less shock value
more fair representation.

i need an old impoverished
woman to rise up from
my spirit and smack some
motherfuckers in the head.

i need common ground
a better place with which
to end an old struggle.

when you're old
you drive slower
because you're
not in a hurry
to cross the
finish line.

we need more of that there.
more independent thought
reflecting a slower pace.
more people tired of going fast
for the sake of the bank.

> we have to take our time
and let our old impoverished women out
to smack some motherfuckers.

< enough with the trolls and
the naysayers and the broke
pimps with make-believe money
and a loose tongues, sorting
out the problems of the people
by telling them their faults.

< enough with the silly shits
badmouthing the people.

let your old impoverished woman out and
lift your purse to the wind for
prosperity to begin again.

drop the act. you're better than that.
nobody you know has money so stop
pretending. and you don't have any fucking
money either so let go of your make believe
world and drop the shiny rims on your car
and get with it.

proud and penniless
the prideful impoverished
blacktop millionares.

i is not

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afford a moment

why are we paying attention?

isn't it a bit expensive for our tastes?

there is a definite illness

that happens when we sample

music and call it our own.

there is an illness when we download

books off of pirating sites written by authors

who can't afford the covers they commission.

there is a profound illness when we expect more, 

but want to pay less - when we're put off when the

'more' that we buy is actually less because it lasts

half the time.

there is a sickness in the world when we conform to

our government rather than having our government 

conform to us.

there is a disease happening all around us, but we're

too sick to put up a fight and pay our way out of the debt.

there is a virus, so deadly, that it has rendered us useless. but we don't have a problem paying for bullshit we don't need.

we don't have a problem looking the other way when we see someone living on the street. we don't have a problem mocking each other and being bullies to smaller bullies than us.

we don't have a problem not asking questions of ourselves to better ourselves to make ourselves more attractive to ourselves.

we need a better plan, a better idea of where we're going. a better solution to an old problem. a better life for living now. a better environment to leave behind when we're gone.

a better today for a better tomorrow. a better way to pay attention because the one we have is no longer affordable.