New Poem: Juxtaposition

Juxtaposition

 

Riots again.

 

The current president

is calling for those who protest murder by the police

to be murdered by the police.

 

The previous president

is saying murder by police

should not be normal in America in 2020

Even though he went dining and dancing on Martha's Vineyard

on the night of the 2014 Ferguson riots--

 

doing absolutely nothing to change

what was absolutely normal

about police murdering black people in America.

 

A black woman dies in Toronto with police on the scene

and some people assume they killed her

and some other people say the police here are different

Canadian police aren't so racist--

 

And I remembered the Saskatoon Police

taking Indigenous men and dropping them off in the snow

to freeze to death twenty years ago

(although they admitted they'd been doing it for at least forty)

and no, it's not the same thing--

 

But a white supremacist cop

is a white supremacist cop

and it's not much of a juxtaposition

between theirs and ours.

 

* * *

Two New Poems: "Ghosting," and "Market 2020"

Ghosting

 

I'd like to apologize for ghosting you

It wasn't my intention--

I have a bad habit of assuming

that I won't be missed.

My more natural inclination

is to assume that contacting you

would be bothersome to you

"oh, it's THAT guy again"

and I tend to prefer being alone anyway.

 

I admit that when I was younger

there were girls I didn't call

and if they called I told them I was sick

or I just wanted to be friends.

I suppose I could have been more straightforward

 

But ghosts

are naturally inclined

to be cowards.

 

* * *

Market 2020

 

During a moment

in which 100,000 Americans have died unnecessarily--

 

and many more are fighting pitched street battles

for the right to not be openly murdered

by those sworn to protect them--

 

A moment where the American government pledges

$484 billion to help those suffering (April 24)

And it is announced that America's billionaires

just got $484 billion richer (May 22)--

 

And the government reminds American workers

that they are human capital stock,

a term which fixes value on a worker's ability

to make billionaires even richer,

 

It can be hard to find the motivation

to perform the little tasks

like sweeping the floor or making the bed

or writing another stupid poem.

 

There is no end to that which must be protested

And no end to that which must be done.

 

* * *

New Poem on Alcoholism and Sobriety: "Peel, Bark, and Root"

Bark, Peel, and Root



At about three months sober I started to crack.

I recognized the benefits of sobriety

I wasn't planning every minute of the day around my beer run--

I wasn't swinging on a three-day cycle

between craving, drunk, and hung over--

I wasn't snapping out in rage quite as often

(sometimes, but maybe less)

and I didn't have to hide or lie or make excuses--



but I was starting to crack.



I was hitting two or three AA meetings a week

Whenever I could fit them in

And I was feeling all the stress.



When I was drinking, I had a bunch of small-to-medium problems,

And a big problem, which was drinking.

But when I had a drink in my hand, I didn't have any problems.

Now sober, I still had the small-to-medium problems,

Still had the big drinking problem,

But didn't have the relief of getting drunk.



I broke and got a pack of dealcoholized beer (0.5 %)

to try and take the edge off.

I told my temporary AA sponsor about that and he said

that was slippery-slope material.

Better to try some chamomile tea to try and calm down.



So now here I am with small-to-medium problems,

A big problem, and a long time standing in the coffee and tea aisle.

Chamomile, spearmint, orange peel, and lemongrass.

Black tea, chicory root, ground coffee beans, and cinnamon bark.

Ginger root, blackberry leaves, linden, and lemon peels.

Licorice root, anise, cardamom pod, clove bud, and black pepper.



What the fuck, man.



* * *

Two Poems: Universe and Stained Glass

Two more poems. Did you know I have poetry books for sale at Amazon, Smashwords, KoBo, Nook, Apple, and literally everywhere else? Just saying.

* * * 

Universe

They're not getting thrown out

you patiently explain over and over

they're just going into storage

we can take them back out another time

and it'll be like having new toys all over again

 

but they're not even really toys

they're just things

a random collection of plastic bits

accumulated without intention

tiny dinosaurs, fairies, heroes, cars

doll accessories, pirates and pieces--

a mismatched menagerie of junk

an unplayed-with universe

acquired on every visit to the dollar store

in every happy meal, inside chocolate eggs

and found every day

when a child walks down the sidewalk

 

a treasure for an hour

then forgotten,

and you think of their grandfather

who had to make his own toys

for himself and his cousins on the farm

from wood and nails

and bits of string.

Stained Glass

The past is an abandoned church

the scenes of your story

play out in the dusty images

of broken stained glass windows.

Let it come down.

* * *

New Poem: Misanthropic

Misanthropic

 

Like many of you,

I enjoy fantasizing about the Apocalypse.

 

Or more accurately

I enjoy fantasizing about after the Apocalypse,

when all of mankind has been wiped out

except for me, a sexy love interest, a few buddies,

and a gang of villains we need to overcome.

 

We see it all the time in books, films, TV:

a burned-out, empty world

with the sins of mankind scorched away by some disaster

of our own making

 

and we die by the hand of Hubris.

 

It's a fantasy born of fear, misanthropy, and narcissism

(everybody deserves to die except for me because I'm special).

Billions have to be wiped out to atone for the sins of the specialty classes:

the oligarchy

the aristocracy

old money

the political class

the industrial giants.

We fantasize about wiping out 99.99999%

When all of mankind's worst is based on a blueprint from the 0.00001.

 

The problem is, it's always wrong.

In the fantasy, it's always an empty desert.

But really, without people here,

In a few months, it would all be oh so green.

 

* * *

Read Among the Humans today!

Two Poems: Luminous and Membranes

Luminous

I admit to having issues with my appearance

I have compared my body to a sack of potatoes

Even though I know it's a good body

It gets me around, gives me little pain

And I feel ungrateful for not loving it more

Because of mere aesthetics

 

I fantasize about a body that is sleek and shiny

All smooth and graceful, strong and fast

I smash myself in the gym and get strong

But I never get sleek

Abs are made in the kitchen, not the gym

And my kitchen is full of cookies and beer

 

But it's a good body

I am not sleek or shiny

But I am luminous

 

Glowing from within.

* * * 

Membranes

Our bodies are full

of semi-permeable membranes

 

which are membranes designed

to allow only certain types

of molecules to pass through

 

I wish we had the same for our souls

that the love would pass in

and the hate would be rejected

turned away by our membranes

and we would be happy and full of love.

 

We don't have those special magic membranes

so we have to do the sorting ourselves

 

and that can be very, very tiresome.

* * * 

Explore Nolan's titles to read more.

New Poem: Clothes

Clothes

Every year or so I decide it's time

to get in the best shape of my life.

I return to the gym and pound weights

until my schedule changes or I catch a cold

and lose momentum and give up for a while.

But dammit, this time I wasn't going to quit!

I worked out with dumbbells at home every single day

and hit the gym three or four times a week

and my arms and shoulders and chest grew and grew.

My shirts didn't quite fit anymore--

the armpits were too tight.

Yeah, baby! I was going to get so freaking huge

I would need all new clothes! Muscle clothes!

Then my elbow started to hurt.

It always made a grinding noise

because of a high school bicycle accident

but this was serious pain.

Doctor's diagnosis: lateral epicondylitis,

commonly known as tennis elbow,

which I'd gradually given myself over ten years

of trying to be Champion Dad,

pushing my kids halfway to the moon on the swings.

Idiot.

Now I'm going for walks,

waiting for my elbow to eventually stop hurting

so I can lift again.

And all of my shirts fit loose.

* * *

Like my poetry? Try About a Bird or Suggestion Box!

New Poem: Cannibal

Cannibal

In the beginning everything comes cheap

you can burn ideas

spend details freely

spill ink like water from a well that doesn't dry

maybe what hasn't arrived yet in quality

is made up for in quantity as we burn and burn

quantity comes first

quality comes after quantity

the trouble is getting to quality without burning down the house.

 

Make it through to an artistic plateau

what do you find?

A tabletop, empty of obstacles

and of inspirations.

 

What then?

What now?

 

Strip the old machines for parts

cannibalize your own brain for ideas

until you're picking through the scrap.

 

Get a job, old man, you're through,

and you never made it.

I hope it was worth it.

(It was.)

* * * 

Two Poems: "Gigs" and "Muse"

Here are two poems, based on single words suggested by twitter mutuals. To see me reading these poems, click here to see the video on youtube!

"Gigs"

I read the term "gig economy" for the first time today

meaning that many people

especially the young

do not have full time jobs

with nice fat paychecks

and annual bonuses

and insurance packages

and three or more weeks paid vacations

per year

 

Instead we are a floating army of freelancers

scrambling

banging from gig to gig

trying to piece together an income

but disqualified from being technically poor

because we were not raised in shacks

and because we own coffee makers

although insurance packages ad regular paychecks

are entirely alien

 

The context was an explanation of why

angry disaffected excluded disappointed oppressed people

were free during the day to show up at protests

meaning protesters and obviously unemployed

and therefore want a socialist revolution because

THEY ARE LAZY

when in fact those people work from home

refilling their coffee makers

staying up all night

banging away at a losing game.

* * * * *

"Muse"

There's a cold draft on my legs and ass here

Sitting in a neighborhood pub

Getting a pint of lager before lunch time

Trying to soften up a bitter spirit

 

Cold hands make for difficult typing

And emotional exhaustion make it hard

To pull words out of an empty heart

Don't I get to have a muse to inspire me?

 

This poem, interrupted by an angry phone call--

There isn't much peace for me, no break

No quiet moments, no relaxation

And no, no muse to whisper beauty

 

Sorry if you were looking for something soft

Grace and love and desire and wonder

I'm just trying to get by here

And if whispers of beauty arrive in my ear,

They'll have to come from you.