Poetic Referendum(s) On Life

Head Full Of

Not a pretty start to the day when the shit storms of May come early. Profanity. Sorry, Gord.


Placeholder Title:”BS Bunker”

Saddlebag bullshit camps around me,
spares what it might from the sheathing,
armor of publicly distributed weapons:
happily employed by co-workers,
bill-collectors, raging motorists vying
for the coveted fastlane to…?
anyone might have mad-cow dis-ease —
flies buzz around a hot-light-bulb-brain.

Close your home, sealed within are the really insane:
resentful children, spouse, mother, father, in-law?
Words reverb from thick, dull walls into ears
you can’t pack with enough mud. Hide in your bunker:
clay, lime, sandstone, vat of sangria. Seek refuge
within quarry, behind granite rock, remains of wayward meteorites,
all blown to smithereens, tainted by grime-dust. Or,

retreat to the crystal caves. Bright gems wall eyes for hours.
And diamond, fucking diamonds! brittle as glass, tracked
by networks, hyperlink clicks, the geo-positioning.
Heat-seeking shrapnel screaming, shaming your name!
You’re just a boy in bright pajamas again: different flashlight,
probiotics, but still colorful crusader comics.

Hiding in the tightest, darkest recesses of closet-head,
you have seen lifelong where horses and cattle fed,
scoop BS remains, packed in army green knapsack,
all school daze backpacks, and the accumulated life luggage.
BS brims, beautiful savior of high piled excrement — to your rafters,
filled until safe, unseen by naked eye, or those equipped with scope,
angling full you. Your BS need apply, as self-preservation deludes.

Lay forgotten in shithouse-sewer-rubble, and BS, forget even
who you are. Holographic stench-heaven lower, wafting from blurred sky.
Wisp cloud trails blind two eyes dimming, sinking red-lava-globe still
tempting to dream that fourth dimensional arch slide open, gleam
brilliant avenues paving escape.

Something happens
after decades in that BS hole.
A mirror reflection? One squint-eye opens?
much like the coveted gem that cedes to pressure…
implosion, explosion occurs…and what’s the difference?

You arrive from sanctuary-purgatory a different man with your stink,
befoul the virtual neighborhoods, workplace, shopping plazas, crush-
compactor house. Anywhere, free to congregate, delicately defecate your art.
It won’t remove the stain-smell skankier than skunk, but
if one nears, they should know what they’re in for.

Acquire a taste to risk. Bear heart, soul, all eminence
to judge, jury, wannabe executioners. Giggle-swing in that galley.
You can’t be killed for a greater love, greater good, right
or wrong. Witness yourself. Testify. You’re a diamond now
and black, flawed as they come. The fuck with them.


5.17.24
You do not want a machine head, but…



I become semi-consciously aware (but not slow my writing) lyrics looping through my head…’breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…’ muffled ‘blood is like fire, wine?’ What? And ‘disease’, the hard rock panic, climb-apex with swelling pace, before tempo change, wind down, instruments quake and rest near finish and go right back, indiscriminately to places in song, whether near end or hover over chorus/open.

No meds, one cup of coffee after decent sleep. Aware all the more this dull, quiet morning (peaceful unrest). I’m used to it. A lesser person…? I guess I’m tough? Why soften the statement, Brian? All…one finger tapped on iPad. Can’t line fingers on keyboard — what breaks me when I try type, can’t see words go up on screen, or fingers, or oops the caps or number lock buttons. Disable feature somehow? Irony much??

The interior of this poem is being written separate…speaking to the influence(r)s from year 1 to death. Why we become liars out of self-preservation. Why we fight by any means for our share, earned respect, when told FREE! but duped, unfair. Told to act citizen-Christian, if proclaimed, held to higher ideals. Or, be labeled hypocrite, phony, criminal or worse for being human by folks who judge…because…? Who won’t risk as I have, cowards.

I seek forgiveness from loved ones and God. Simple: ‘Thank you, God. I’m sorry.” From my heart. He knows why. I know and I work daily to be better, overcome what attempts to antagonize abd provoke. It’s akin to being spat upon.

None other will I cede to without mutual honesty. And not my place to speculate, say from this limited perspective. Never assert…again. But, likely to err. Soooo.

But capitalism over consumerism, I’m going to fight the power until it is just and/or acknowledges without BS any truth I can accept to loosen my grip on those shitbags.

Poem interp: Protagonist is BS and poem demonstrates how one might use it to get through life as comfortably as possible, just worse. Doesn’t make it just, but flawed. (Now I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit, ‘We’ve all been treated like shit…’ and the provoking words that follow. Not intention of poem. One thing leads to another when you’re me.)
Unspoken: truth gets dirtied up.