30 Poems in 30 Days - #12 Poets

Of all the venues in all the cities in all the world...you've walked in here.
First timers and audience vets, you are here today as equals
And while you differ in what drew you in
Some - a wary curiosity
Some - a staggering addiction
Some - a desire to expand
We are all of us present through the draw of words, and the power within them.

To the night cats of the audience - play to the poetry in a unified rhythm
drum out a brand new beat generation - shoulders, hips, and finger-tips
rap-tap-tapping on the nearest available surface

Hit the mic if it's open - unclench those timid teeth and let go the flowing frustrations - give your shoulders a night off, and share the weight with us lest they develop a chip. And cast away what false application you have witnessed of the term "poet".

We are all of us, poets. Metaphor is common to the mortal mind, and with time, comes the ability to employ it. The weather reflects the mood of someone - and pathetic fallacy will follow.

We are all of us, poets - though we suffer illusions that we practice the elusion of allusion.

So speak, if you would speak - or listen, if you would listen. Just be sure to do as you would.

And to the listeners - we exist only due to you. Poetry inhales in the writing and exhales in the reading, The mouths and the ears - the heads and tails of this beautiful artform. Those receiving aurally what we deliver orally - let us inject ink through our words, and tattoo you in patterns of shared experience.

It is every writer's dream to change a fellow being to such an extent that it can be seen by the world around - so as to gesture to the effect, like an architect to a finished building, and say "I did that."

If you would, dear listeners, take our lives into your hands, heads, and hearts - take our experiences and our frivolities - take us by our hands, and let us march into eternity, marked by the lives of every poet we may or may not have ever met.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #11 Reign in Ascent

I've developed a sense of self-preservation
spending sleepless nights staring heavy-lidded at tar pit skies
starting staggered strategies, soul-shifts, soliloquys, super-hero aspirations
Fixated to define myself, guideline myself and live by truths I won't possibly forget
Marking calendars as though each day were a new year, making resolutions when I lack the solutions required for the prefix.
I can visit a mental gallery with each previous incarnation of myself taxidermied and posed in genuflect to hail the me that exists this moment - each level an upgrade, signifying my status as 'most improved to date'

Today's model has developed a sense of self-preservation
having identified core behaviours known to tax my sanity so heavily, it would seem my mind was at war.
Behaviours that twitch the veins in my eyes, that curl my toes as though I were attempting to grow roots
Past instances of myself flash in the faces of those unaware of the aggravation piling up
And I see the history of everything I needed to change, everything I can't stand about every other person I was
plastered on every pillar of flesh and bone that speaks with a different voice.

I watch myself be insincere to women, and hide my true feelings from them, only to complain to the world that they didn't love me because I was too nice.

I shake my head in embarrassment each time I hear the words "I love all music except country and rap". The me who didn't see the blind arrogance in dismissing a genre because of a distaste for the examples he'd been granted.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs at every mask of me who sits quietly all night, eyeing the stage in the vain wish for enough courage to step upon it.

These compound as flash-fire images of regret upon regret upon regret
Every girl I never kissed
Every song I never sang
Every word I never wrote
Every chance I never took

These regrets are the newest ammunition loaded into the .50 caliber tongue in my head, and I spit them fully automatic through the skulls of each face before me.

I look forward to aging, to learning, to getting to a point of old where I can wield the kind of wisdom I've always wanted to have - the wisdom that can help me write a poem to leave this one in the dust.

See, I've developed a sense of self-preservation
To strengthen my sanity and build fires upon past mistakes, in oath to myself to never again develop regrets for things I didn't do. I will take this stage and aim no lower than I can imagine, and it will be my life's work to rule this entire god-damned world, or die in the attempt.

I will incinerate the hall of my once-was incarnations, and I invite you all to help me pour the gas.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #10 A Moment to Reflect

Raindrops on the rearview stood stalwart
Automotive blurs flew past without definition
and somewhere in the middle, time froze
She unclasped sweaty palms from the wheel
unbuckled and exhaled, she swore she saw flames in the opposite lane
Clear signal...no going back.
Feeling well-seasoned in disease, cooked in a carcinogen marinade
seeing sick silhouettes of splintered spines and spindly fingers clawing the asphalt behind her
Off to meet the maker, though she felt like the maker's meat, slathered in sauces of otherworldly delicacies
To be served up on a plate for his dining pleasure.
Faces of fear in the mirror, so much closer than they appeared
Time, death, regret...catching up quickly
She knew time would return any second now.
Would that she could freeze it a while longer.
They told her she had one month to live.
Just freeze it a while longer...
One month to live...
Just a while longer...
One month...
One month when she still needed seven to balance out the loss.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #9 Bainbridge on Calvary Hill

In hindsight we were mad to ever think we could control it
We stood so proudly behind flimsy safety nets of semi-scientific arrogance
Never realizing our heads were already in the lion's mouth
even when its saliva fell from the sky

Strong minds unburdened by such restraints as subtlety
Under the corporate dollar, we cast modesty and caution to the winds of fate
Seeing the face of Christ each time we passed by a mirror
and the heir of Lazarus in each of our stolen corpses

FLASH

Five years and we're living in a filmscape highlighted by
greyed out borders between nationless stretches of land
Our precious things have been turned on their heads
The money we did it for now worth less than the paper it's printed on
throats are being slashed for mouthfuls of water
and we're all wishing to God that we could turn those diamonds back into coal

The safety was never there, but the illusion's gone now too
and safety has just become another word for death
Humanity's greatest regret - not replacing "could we" with "should we"

FLASH

To the moment they find us
The moment they remember the pride in our faces as we smiled and waved for the cameras
The moment we realize why celebrities wear sunglasses in public - so as not to be recognized
When they crowd us and damn us, beat us and call for our blood

These people have turned weapons on their own children
Some to save them the pain, some to save themselves
These people see us as the bringers of their downfall
As though we had "Enola Gay" tattooed on our foreheads

FLASH

To the moment the first one goes violent
To the moment the bites fester and kill in moments
To the moment our act of God is taken from us, and spread through infection
Now we are all sons of bitches.

FLASH

To the laboratory where we crowned our apostles
The room destined to be our Golgotha
As man shows the monster within, the rage and pain of a life unjustly destroyed
Howling, and weeping, and clawing justice from our flesh
And we cannot protest
For we are delivered to safety at last.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #8 3000 Miles From Grace

We danced at evening on the surface of the sun
A focused frenzy with intent to burn the star of its fuel
that we might prolong the cool evening breeze drifting through open windows
because I never grew tired of watching steam coil from her shoulders
Heart singing rhythm like an organic metronome, we stepped in time
Dancing Austen's dance - The Mr. Darcy scandal tapes

Three step movements to two step songs
Around every judgement saying we were doing it wrong

See...I don't dance. Not ever, really.
I mean real dancing, just letting go and moving.

But there have been rare occasions.
Sweet little moments in life I was overcome by emotion
By sheer absolute joy of living, and hell yes, I danced.
And it was clumsy as fuck. But I loved every second of it.

We danced to songs not made for dancing
awkward bruises, eyes rolling in the background
This dance belongs to none of you.
This dance belongs to us.
And we'll stumble and tremble and laugh
And we'll Dance Austen when we can
And yes. Our dance will end.

But I don't dance. And you made that a lie for a little while.
My feet moved in impractical ways
And while I may not now, I know I can if I want to.

And to every sneer baited with accusations of not dancing by the rules...
If I'm happy enough to dance, you'd better believe it's on terms and laws far above your understanding
And you can watch me and roll your eyes from beneath my clumsy, shuffling feet.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #7 Final Moments of a Pest on a Quest

Cockroach lived in the pipes.
Emerged in the porcelain wasteland to hunt sustenance.
Skittered across checkerboard surface, tripping in shed hairs of the sentinel.
Wary...cautious...terrified...but so hungry.
Sentinel was a creature of territory, a creature of rage.
Cockroach knew to be spotted was almost certainly to be killed.
To be starved though...unacceptable.
First threshold breached...Cockroach found new ground...slalom of soft fur grass, grey, filthy beneath.
Much to cling to....much to tangle in.
Must be quick. Must be cautious. Must be fed. Must remain Cockroach.
Tremors felt...Cockroach froze. Sentinel? No. Tremors from above.
Journey continued. Soft purchase in each step, a joy to travel.
Shame these lands had become so dangerous.
Crumbs beneath carpet...not for eating. Cockroach maintained pride. Filth is trap set by Sentinel.
Shaking in air, metal ringing, deafening - alarm! Sentinel returning!
Cockroach readied an escape...but...cannot starve. Must find food! Will avoid sentinel.
Hid beneath great structure of dead hides, felt great portal slam shut, tremors grew in fierce magnitude. Cockroach clinged to soft grass. Felt tremors abate as Sentinel rested in distant area.

Opportunity seized!
Cockroach dashed mad, reckless and tearing through filthy grey fur grass - so soft, so comfortable, so deadly in a hurry
Hunting ground reached, Feeding box located - Blue, upright, open...left on floor. Possible Sentinel trap?
Too hungry to care. Painted beast upon box...orange and black striped, red cloth around neck, white belly, mocking smile. Must be meant to frighten others away. Cockroach not gullible. Knew sweet flakes reside within box. So hungry.
Sudden tremor...Cockroach did not notice approach...distracted by food.
Heard last sounds
"Aww fuck!"
Cockroach felt pressure on his back.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #6 Keeper

It's an open flame.
A brilliant element of endless utility, bearing warmth and illumination

Build a life of flames however, and watch the world around you burn
Faith, as is fire, is a situational entity,
and neither should be employed blind

Salvation and Death lay upon the same card
Be wary
Be watchful
Be not afraid of seeking other routes, if one would lead you into darkness.
A soul forsaken is but a repercussion of a dangerously irresponsible way of life.
Running blind, juggling torches in a field of children, doused in gasoline.
In the name of whomever you name - live with care in each step, or risk the plummet.

30 Poems in 30 days - #5 Eyes Up

To the children of the twilight breeze - Let us venture North
To a place where the grass underfoot still feels alive
A place we are wary of unseen creatures, rather than they be wary of us
A place where the last streetlight can scream its false powers, but still never be heard

Children of the twilight breeze, let us fall to our backs and revel in the story unfolding above
Let us join great Orion in his celestial hunt, fasten our belts with the Alnilam buckle
Stand on feet of Rigel and Saiph, raise our weapons with Betelgeuse and Bellatrix
And let us hunt mighty Taurus across the night sky

Let us be fools in Cassiopeia's court, jesting of our importance while she lay recumbent on our longest-lasting source of astonishment - casting evidence of our ignorance as long as we dare to see - The hydra, the pegasus, the dragon - These are no myths in the twilight realm.

I ask you - What is Hollywood in the face of Andromeda?

In this place - The bear hunts us.
In this place - We are insects to the Scorpion

In this place - We bid the sky good morning as we lay us down to sleep.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #4 Ain't No Phoenix

Been so long since...ain't nobody recalls what did it.
Ain't nobody recalls the blue sky we sing about
Seen pictures, sure...don't mean a thing.
How you gonna explain sunshine to a man ain't never seen it? Or warmth to a man ain't never felt it?
Better luck explainin' colour to the blind
We live this land...beneath that grey blanket, snowin' ash and rainin' acid...and that lightnin' don't ever stop comin'.
We ain't explorers. Just scavenge what we can, an' take it back to the fortress. But time goes by, an' we find ourselves movin' out farther and farther, into more treacherous territories.
The fortress is a great structure, filled with level after level of history. "Library" stamped on the front. We got people assigned to readin' what books ain't been burned or eaten by mold. See if we can't learn who did this to us.

Got a funny feelin' we're not gonna like the answer, we find it.

Had a wife, once.

Threw herself off the fortress roof when Doc told us she was with child. Said she weren't gonna be held responsible for bringin' a life into this Hellish place. Told her suicide weren't right. She said murder was worse, and she jumped.

Funny thing is...I can't tell if I disagree with her choice or not.

When the world ain't sustaining. When the knowledge is slipping away day after day. When we lose another few lives every time a group'a bandits come lookin' for trouble, well then...the hell's the point?

We call the elderly "Teachers". They make sure to pass down skills like readin' and writin', so's we don't lose it all. But I'm beginning to question the purpose in trying. Life, and living it, have become futile.

Thousands of years of history...I don't even know where I live on the maps. All's we got is "Fortress".
Can't even see the god damned moon they say we once walked upon.

Another day. A few bullets less. A longer hike. A smaller amount of food brought back.

Ain't no phoenix risin' from these ashes. just the slowly closing hand around the collective throats of a once proud race.

Teacher taught me a poem the other day. Death be not proud. Fella thought he'd be immortal by writin' these poems.

Death ain't proud, son. Death is patient. And when he comes for us all, ain't gonna be nobody around t'see your damn immortality.

No matter how long it takes. Ash is how it ends.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #3 Anything But Numbers

There is no force as devastating to illusion or reality as that of cold mathematics.
Our lives and bodies grow and shrink, across a length of time that seems relatively vast to our own consciousness - to the point where we most often don't hear the tick of each second delivering us one step closer to everybody else's fate.

Numbers and me...we never did get along.
Ever since 06/17/85, when I came into this world blue and strangled - maybe my prejudice against digits came then, when the first ticks I experienced could well have been my last. Maybe that encounter with the grim accountant left me jaded as green beads on an abacus.

My life has been one of words. Philosophies. Painting by anything but numbers. And while cold math has facts, and facts I respect, I hold more value in the truths I uncovered by stepping outside the lines.

Give me a number for something that can't be calculated.
Just give me a number.


In one second, the human body pumps 83 mL of blood.

In one second, 694,444 cells in the human body die.

In one second, a human takes on average 0.2 breaths, totaling 1 breath every 5 seconds.

For fun, let's add love to the equation.

In one second of love, the heart beats faster.
So give me a number for love.
In one second of love, the lungs take more breaths.
So give me a number for love.
In one second of love the body is washed over with the tingling sensation of each and every cell desperately clinging to life.
So give me a number for love.

This poem lasts about two minutes.


You've pumped 9.96 Litres of blood
83,333,280 cells in your body have died
and you have taken 24 breaths.

And if you loved it, those numbers get higher.
So give me a number for love.
Give me a number for this poem.
Just give me a number.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #2 Battle With the Saucer People

They arrived spreading filth. The saucer people had invaded, seemingly overnight, and infested the kingdom I call my home. Caked and covered in crumbs and curds, blanketed in forcefields of dust and general laziness - They were simply the filthiest dishes I had ever encountered.

Cups and glasses lay strewn about errant cutlery and stacks of plates, all varying in sizes and patterns, but each more wretched than the last. At first, co-habitation seemed a viable option. I believed we could truly live in peace, and learn from one another. The dishes had other designs. I was lulled into a false sense of security, thinking myself safe from harm, when the girl from down the hall swayed elegantly into my abode.

It was mere moments before she gagged and ran, tears of shock and horror painted a trail over which she would never again traverse. The bastards had tricked me.

"Fool!" They seemed to roar; "Week old tuna in a bowl is NOT an aphrodisiac!"

I was crestfallen at having been duped by their sinister play - Tagged out before getting to first base, when I had hoped for second or better. The sadness quickly gave way to rage. Oh, they would pay.

I threw open my armory, a man possessed, and donned the rubber gauntlets from Dollar-storia. And that was when I saw it.

"Hello, old friend" I said, as I took my faithful weapon, excalisponge, into my hands. With a maniacal grin on my face, and Dark Side of the Moon playing in the background, I filled the scouring pit with boiling water and a chemical solution intended to flay the very skin from the greasy bastards.

Collecting them was treacherous...for they were low of mobility, but excelled in hiding. "How deep does this go?" I cried, after discovering the fortress of spoons caked in crusted yogurt beneath my mattress. Clothing monsters and cd-case banshees all seemed to conspire against me, tripping me underfoot and hiding further of the dishy scum beneath their ranks. But they could not hide forever. I trapped my quarry, and threw them unceremoniously into the boiling chemical pit I set out for them.

Excalisponge in hand, I took to scraping and lashing madly at their bodies, watching their armour flake off in the hideous bath. Suds were their blood. I swear I almost heard screaming, but perhaps that was just the Great Gig in the Sky.

At last...breathless, sweating, and out of music, my assault ceased. I drained the scouring pit and rinsed each dish clean in a ritual of tidy baptism. I kissed Excalisponge and returned him to his home. "Rest now, friend."

And one day, they may rise again. One day they may seek to destroy me in full, as they so nearly did. But little do they know, I possess a secret weapon. An ancient artifact of dirty-dish-destroying power! I wield an ancient scroll, on which is scribed the spell "dishes be done", handed down through the years by the eternal tribe of roommates.

30 Poems in 30 Days - #1 Mighty Jotun

The people of the country called him Jotun, and he lived atop the spine of the world
Last of the great builders, he was the guardian, the keeper of the spindle that rotated the Earth
Without the cycle, those in sun would be burnt and blinded, those out would grow cold and ill
His task was to preserve the world, and the life upon it, as decreed by the gods
And mighty Jotun, tall as thirty men, would sacrifice all he had to succeed
Thus, did he forever turn the spine

He was first approached by the people of the country in earlier days
"Great Jotun" begged the people, "The winds and rain throw and freeze us. The shelters we build of stone and wood do nothing to protect us. We beg you to build us homes out of pieces of the spine of the world."

"I cannot." Replied Jotun. "For if the spine were to stop spinning, the world would surely perish. But still, I am sworn to protect you."
And mighty Jotun, tall as thirty men, reached to his back and removed a section of his own spine - throwing it beyond the horizon.

"When you return" he said "You will have such homes as can weather any onslaught of nature."

The sacrifice had stooped Jotun, and he stood at a height of ten men less, but still did he forever turn the spine.When the people returned, generations had passed, and the world had changed much.
"Great Jotun" spoke the elder of the people. "Enemies from another country would invade and destroy us all. We request you to build us weapons out of pieces of the spine of the world."

"I cannot." Replied Jotun. "For if the spine were to stop spinning, the world would surely perish. But still, I am sworn to protect you."
And mighty Jotun, tall as twenty men, reached again to his back and removed a section of his own spine - throwing it beyond the horizon.

"When you return" he said "You will have such weapons as can defeat any army."

The sacrifice had again stooped Jotun, and he stood at a height of ten men less, but still did he forever turn the spine.

The people came again, many more generations later, and the world had changed much.
"Jotun" announced the representative of the people. "Our inventions can not function without the blood within the Earth, and we will surely die without them. We cannot reach the blood alone. Build us a drill out of pieces of the spine of the world."

"I cannot." Replied Jotun. "For if the spine were to stop spinning, the world would surely perish. But still, I am sworn to protect you."
And mighty Jotun, tall as ten men, reached again to his back and removed the last section of his own spine -
throwing it beyond the horizon.

"When you return" he said "You will have such a drill as can bore through any stone in an instant."

The sacrifice had rid Jotun of his spine, and he could no longer stand. He lay on his stomach, but still did he forever turn the spine.

It was but one generation before the people came again, and still, the world had changed much.
"Beast!" Called the Leader of the people. "Our status must be known to friend and foe across the Earth, but we have no such thing to show it. We demand you give us the spine of the world."

A fire came into Jotun's eye. "You would destroy this world for your shelter. You would destroy it for your wars. You would destroy it for your trinkets. I have sacrificed to give you these things, and now you would destroy the world for your vanity."

And mighty Jotun, tall as nothing, began to stand, fury raging in his features. The spine of the world began
protruding from the Earth, supporting Jotun to his feet. He stood again - tall as thirty men, and roared a sound the likes of which no man had ever heard - toppling them all to the ground, leveling their buildings, shattering their weapons, and annihilating their industry. And finally, the spine of the world broke, and Jotun fell back, impaled on the fractured remnants.

The world stopped turning. Those in the sun were burned and blinded. Those out grew cold and ill. The people perished one by one, and the planet grew dark.

Mighty Jotun turned the spine no more.