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from a couch, cynicism’s promise

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

cynicism is no excuse nor accident

it slowly seeped into our daily strolls down public sidewalks when we habitually asked ourselves “who belongs?”

atheists skipping over cracks, struggling to explain what’s and why’s to children not embarrassed that they’ll die with these questions, without the veil of ghost voices standing over them saying ‘because i said so’ fear flavored with fake sugar promises of gates we can’t all pass through

it’s just a phase

“they’ll” find god

gay lovers holding hands at ages younger than “they” think can understand what it means to be attracted to something you own, our procreation practice promise is superior

it’s just a phase

“they’re” just trying to shock us

black men clad in cumbersome pants hustling through frantic streets side-stepping their glance, a missed chance, averted eyes dig trenches, the ‘others’ ocular lens looking for a restaurant, that’s “worth the trip”

it’s just a phase

“we’ll” stay safe

mexican children running through fence lines, making good neighbors, how’d they get here? don’t you dare take what’s ‘ours’, scared and alone disheveled streets, scarred fields chemical laden waiting to be consumed, doing what no one wants

it’s just a phase

“we” need the help

continually asking, is this the ‘see something’ they said we should ‘say something’ about?

fear: separating migrant children from families

fear: separating mom and dad with alcohol and opioids to soften the blow of fear

fear: separating you to false god forgiveness for fear acted upon with a sneer

fear: separating you from me during sun-glow walks under orange and purple skies, seventy degrees, with a slight breeze, we could be gathering and discussing the tease ignorant assholes in alley way corners are trying to trick us with, and laugh them into the shadows with optimism’s promise, that we’re all in this

together

without fear

from a couch, pushing through

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

hair tossed aside

falling down

covering eyes, masking deceit

daily newspapers filled the beat

quickly tossed aside, recycled

redrawn

same words, different names, pictures with paragraphs stripping the game of any integrity left dripping onto bathroom floors during bowel movement rituals greeting morning

be your true self, beneath the veneer, it’s hard not to like the man with money, he enjoyed her company

he left her falling like a squeezed lemon, bitter displays, what you want to hear at the brink of devastation

never committing

sleepy soup brained middle men hopped on a choo choo train and wished away every friend they ever had, too much to relate to when minutes are split by today’s deceptive practice

wash, rinse, repeat?

admit that thinning spot is reality

expose vulnerability

move away from our dailies

into a grave

relieving concerns

we forgot how to behave

from a porch, let’s swim

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

howling back

walking cold, sweatshirt stretched as hands pull pockets past a waist strapped

just in case

in case my instincts and common sense, kindness and corner stance, can’t ward off an error by undereducated, underfunded, drug riddled corners with resting peace officers taking a hit

skim off the top

i’m drawn to the chalk outline, urine soaked sidewalks with prancing foreign faces finding clever-phrased posters drawing them in for food, or other shit we don’t need

the ocean is waiting for me

let’s swim

from a booth, upstairs at city lights

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

amongst you

i hear the shuffling of papers, folders opening and closing wondering if we’d gone too far from nights dancing with words, shooting stars glazed over, realizing dylan was a person

the best of my generation

they read words in corners and debate your mind

it’s theirs

clothes hang in a breeze only this town can laugh at

they grin and won’t finish the book

we thought we should discover, why this upstairs reading room is full of fears

cameras snapping, you ran out the back door after drifting through monsters in the basement odors where stairs creaked giving you away to the only celebrity status you could have imagined a poet to have

snapping fingers and gay men touching genitalia to press our comfort level to heights ignored by the dragons next door, they’re selling culture

walking through back streets

is any of it here, have we maintained a museum losing intention of what a place like this creates

i’m scared, scared that as i write this poem in your echo it’s an ode to something shit on by our generations dabbling quick pulse obsession with taking a picture outside and proving our worth, i’m done

your paper is now being crumbled, chair wheels spin, i hear you pacing around the room

are you waiting for me

staples

dropped articles, a tape dispenser

my heart races

are you going to open up, wait, lighter laughter

women’s voices, talking about their mother

what she used to say

songs she’d play

‘it cracked me up’

‘that’s so great’ it sounded fake, maybe your voices did too, i immortalized fakers

i’m done; in the poetry room

kids are impatiently waiting in streets honking

time to pay my money, as tribute, to standing, sitting and waiting

where you once dwelled

thank you

from bed, fragments joined

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i don’t need to give you a beat

strip down, hold your own spoon

reading fragments, my life and mind

you should relate

ball point pens, bastardized purity

cannonballs drop and fly, one we smile

the other we die

if i provided the rhythm, sishboom-ta-sish-ma-bleepity-ba

the mistake is made

you’ll be gone, believing me

cadence in footsteps racing on moving sidewalks, bastards, i’ll say it again

there is no father, pretend

answers aren’t magic

amend, times change, however tragic

revolutions rearrange, chaotic static

pathways we once trusted

slap your knees

move your mouth, soliloquies

you don’t need me

there is no part

parting, to the end of this musical

joining the ripple

losing your need

for me to provide a beat

from bed, wrestling with the past

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

tag team matches were my favorite

the way they waited until just the right moment to slap hands, and rage on with new energy

rope shaking

coordinated uniforms

a bond taking on the world

i spent a lot of time watching them

legs crossed

sunday mornings

on-and-off eyeing last weeks doritoes crumbs hiding deep enough in green-shag-carpet pockets to be vacuum ignored, my “operation” ready pincher-fingers poking and prodding

i never ate a booger, but the red dust collateral-damage fragments found their way into my mouth

from time to time

hey, my stomach rumbled, and i couldn’t miss the match

bulldogs

warriors

bushwakers

brothers

and freebirds

i believed them, more than the moving voices thumping around in their own safe rooms behind and around me, joined together islands making a home, house, encapsulator of secrets and mirrors

alliances changed

interviews hijacked

an interpretative tussle-dance playing out on colored tubes while making sense of a childhood in real time, similarities shifted in my springtide mind (he is like him), connections made to characters

and caregivers

i, they, gave new strength and roles

i could relate

sort out the thunder from the rain

battle royals were saved for saturday nights

i hid under my covers while watching, wincing, and covering, real blood, real punishing blows, and coffin nails

they would leave

i’d get up

shaking my head

“was it real?”

from a porch, too angry to articulate

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

don’t tell me you didn’t have plans

that the same thing keeps ‘just coming up’

strategic

gain what you want, massage the message

it works with them

i already know your end game, so the steps you take whether stomping or prancing are all the same it’s the run up

to streetlight walks home, well, the home with a changing key for the next few nights that affect eternity and the buzzing of children who wait for your touch underneath their endured screams from someone who knows too much and can’t stand the throbbing pulse, pushing temples aside and blurring vision

double, now fly eye

learning to die

it’s simple division when one goes into two

you innocently mention the size of his phone asking if the number still works for the pad key code you used in madrid where you thought it was safe

where you hid

away from the throngs of passerby’s and street scene dealers whispering away cries from a thousand miles away, never to reach you

the ones who’ll believe they’re at fault

i denied myself trust once

engulfed in escapes through time and space to tree fort saturday nights letting him trace the lines leading me home

from bed, crossing property lines puts you in cages

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

kids in cages for crossing property lines

stay off his lawn, if you cross this figment of their imagination it threatens an insecurity born out of their disturbed, dirty, dead-soul mind-frame, and Gogol isn’t here to hold the mirror to the flaws you absorbed from enemies past

one time monsters are now what you hope to be

morph

are you afraid?

afraid, brown people will spill over to overthrow this overture to a symphony sewing discord, redirecting our friendship glances another distracted direction, wagner would be proud

waiting for your ovation

glimpses into the ebb and flow, of dots and nature’s boundary, needs you have down below, who am i to judge?

we froze the friends above, they used to be unthawed

so polite

i’m done listening, trying to understand

you don’t deserve the second hand that is heard clapping in forests alone where you’ve yet to tap natural nutrients to buy and sell for a single cell, there’s a cell in hell waiting to capture your lifeless soul you bought and sold for no more than the price of gold

they’re digging it up for you

stand still

wait here

we’ll come to you

from a stool, letting go ego

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i lost track

not time

the rails that keep me focused

so desperate for you to hear my calamity, joys, and distant insanity

i force these worlds over yours

i used to ask questions for you

discovering, how we are interwoven souls becoming nothing

some might say one

yet

the soul is done when hearts are hung on strings dangling from willow trees alone in fields easy for us to find

in recent days

i’ve been self absorbed

soaking in how it all relates to me

i’ll wring myself

better yet, will you clutch my being, squeeze, and choke this misguided mess of a righteous asshole i’ve become

leave the discolored filth of ego on the floor, if you can’t see it, you deserve to slip

it will evaporate in time

continuing the cycle of discovering a path

i’m committed

to forget about me

how are you?

i’m asking for a friend

there are no guides, defined ways

only open movements left up to interpretation

understood

it all means the same thing

from a couch, streamy stream

Posted on by andrewsmeyer

i can’t stand to be behind what it is you do to be kind to the mental state of those around you

i talk to myself late in the night trying desperately to rewrite the codes stuck on spindly dendrite ends waiting for me to pretend i’m like all of you

and that’s true

except nights i understand my value

when you can find me on the front page of blank blank blank “today” or “telegraph” or whatever you want to call the pages splattered pollack like with information only relating a tradition that we have some connection to seeking truth

can you find me one?

a genuine, truthful, gentle heap of flesh who doesn’t cling to preparation for the next life

more strife?

i’m struggling to see through your blue blocker haze, it left me for days writhing in pain, as i slowly chiseled my words in stones outside your house until the reality that we can’t exist in a moment is captured and placed in a cage holding my head still watching the bird slowly lose the need for wings, and evolve into a position on the food chain as fodder alone

give or take the son-of-a-bitch

and those were the words you decided to hitch your family wagon on while slamming two for five dollar drinks with enough chemical energy chewing it’s way through ignorant nerves to cause you to swerve, and wish i’d cut you off, so you could go off, blow off, the head of a traitor only trying to find truth in the folded fabric of a flag used to brag that somehow you understand the past better than i, problem is, you never read a book

radio stations are modern day campfires where oral-tradition lies will give us another enemy-battle cry, or hero to try, and maybe this time it’ll be more believable than a white skinned man coming back from the dead

your sins won’t save you, neither will your disfigured dreams donning the newest fashion

you’re fucked