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Dead Microphone

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Trotsky

Rose and Gray

Here I stand
More or less intact
Sunshine on my back
In fact, I'm fine
I'm getting by
One reassurance at a time

I would write myself
A battle hymn
And sing the words
Day in, day out
But self-talk
Has a self-defeating way
Of burning out
And seeding doubt

I stare down my demons
But they don't tend to flinch

The guilt, the insecurity
And all this fucking baggage
If there's one thing that I've learned
It's that this shit is made of plastic:
Throw it all away
But it will stay right where it lays
It takes so much longer
Than a lifetime to decay
It's in the way

In the ocean of the mind
It flows into a garbage reef
Soda cans and grocery bags
A monument to grief

An image of the struggle
To move on; it would resemble
The visage of an old dog's foggy eyes
 

Trotsky

Florida Man

This one goes out to the Florida man,

The crazy motherfucker on the news     

He rode a parasail into a hurricane          

He gave an alligator weed and booze       

That gator is still out on a bender            

He bought some gas station mystery drugs                                                    

The Florida man used a homemade flamethrower                                            

Inside his house to kill some bugs

 

I think there is a Florida man sleeping in my brain.                                              

And I relate to that fucked up gator's pain.

 

When the Florida man is loose                  

He flies like a goose                                   

Straight through the propeller of a jet     

The gator doesn't curse                            

The fact he'll one day be a purse           

And a pair of boots, no value in regret     

 

I am the gator; my teeth are cheap souvenirs.                                              

Take one from my skull and trade it for a case of beer.

Trotsky

The Reluctant Self

There is a point of no return
That point isn’t clearly marked
Some stray dogs keep watch nearby
But don’t count on them to bark
And let you know to watch your step
They have their own concerns
This place has been their homestead
So long as the sun has burned

On which side are we standing?
Is there no one who can tell?
Denied are all the wishes
Of the ones who dug the wells
Scarce sustenance is offered
By the crescent, cross, and wheel
The fittest ones among us
Still await a chance to heal

And I am the reluctant self
Confined to the first person view
I would like to be something else
Not someone else, but something new
Stranger than animal, alien, android
A difficult thing to conceive
Something unmoored, entirely free
Or merely a grain through a cosmic sieve

Trotsky

Life is Lowly Anonymity

That title of this blog post is a line from a song. Not one I wrote or anything. 

But on the subject of things I did write, I deleted my old blog because there was way too much shit I was no longer even remotely satisfied with, and because that's what happens when self-consciousness and impulsiveness are dominant traits in one's brain. I'm starting over with a convenient word doc anyone can download at this link: http://docdro.id/2PKGIO2 

Therein lies the poetry that survived the purge, a small volume titled Recursions. That is the complete collection of all my poems which I still like. Most of it has been posted here before, but one blog is better than 20. It opens in a new tab and everything when you click it. That's that. 

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