The venerable Catfish McDaris just posted 2 new poems of mine over at Ppigpenn: See the original post.
Here are the 2 new poems which are part of a manuscript in process titled DOOMSDAY JOGGING:
A Chinese chamber on the moon
full of rotten cotton leaves.
On my mission to the moon I found out my penis
did more than pee. It was Space Camp: Level 2.
There’s no way to know exactly what happened.
The uniform just rubbed it funny.
You only see the sun’s crown when the sun’s
got a nail poked through.
I did experiments on the dark side
while my friends touched down.
The person who holds their breath the longest
I looked in the mirror that first time
then pretended to look away.
I was in the bedroom but I wasn’t sure
who else was in the house.
You only see the sun’s crown
when the sun’s not around.
A young woman trail running in Colorado
was chased by a juvenile cougar.
How’d she feel squeezing its throat to death?
How’s it feel strangling yourself free?
Cesar said you punch a cat in the mouth
and grab it by the esophagus.
I’m sleeping off the puppy pee
I heard in the hallway.
To be honest, it wasn’t a woman who strangled that cat.
It was the boa constrictor fingers of a penised man.
I used to say penis to be funny.
Now I say it to be grave.
Astronauts from the six Apollo moon missions
left 96 bags of human waste on the moon.
Koala bears eat their parent’s poop. We learned that
by minding their business.
When you’re alone in lunar orbit it’s impossible
not to masturbate.
Pop like a Chinese cotton seed on the moon—stretch
clear to the light.
turn from grey to black too quickly
like a thin steak on a hot fire
proceed to the edge of global warming
flash your backstage pass
taste blood accidentally
drape clocks over the edge of a table
drape a handkerchief over a walrus
stagger like a zombie down your street
slip like thread between the teeth of a puppy
dig a hole in the carpet
hand over any unharmed baby
to your nearest firehouse
pop a zit on your upper lip
sleep in a field of nightshades
replace what’s clear with light
I’ve been in the rap game for over a decade. I’m the dopest rapper in the D hall. I have 2 raps from this academic year up on SoundCloud. Dig it HERE.
I’d like to thank Boston’s NIXES MATE REVIEW for publishing one of my new poems. See the original post here.
We Don’t Look at Each Other
We came to the edge of the forest
to practice the raising of our spirits.
We drove here in reliable vehicles.
We lined them up behind us.
A stealth bomber slides
across the sky. I imagine
how thermals feel up
its matte black wings.
I don’t tell the others.
One lady raises her open hands
to the damp particles
pumping towards us
from the forest.
She feels the spirit. It’s easy to see.
She jams her hands
back in her pockets
like the rest of us.
We’re strangers unkennelled
by irritable attention spans,
and a swirling boredom
with the modern world.
Soon we’ll be splashing
gas on the skirt
of this great forest.
Each person will pour
all they’ve got.
There’s no sense hurrying
The timer’s set.
The headlights at our backs
make it look
like a movie.
twitch on the silver
screen of the forest.
It’s this last bit of waiting
that burnishes our fear.
I’m pleased to have a poem posted on PROJECT AGENT ORANGE: See the original post.
A Poem by Tim Staley
I’ve read enough women poets to know
they bleed for life
and men bleed against it.
I buried the soldier in me
like a placenta that still
Lynn Strongin says,
be the most triumphant
in the end.
A mind isn’t tough at all,
it’s blown to shreds in a second.
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS
All I want for Christmas is a french kiss that lasts the rest of my life
All I want for Christmas is really a french kiss that lasts the rest of my life even when i’m sleeping, or grieving, or engaged in figuring out my taxes, or at the grocery store choosing avocados, pushing into them with my thumb, picking off the plug to see if they’re green inside
All I want for Christmas is my baby teeth in the place of my adult teeth because small, petite things are sexy
All I want for Christmas is to drop a hip hop album so gangsta they scrub all my cusses out
All I want for Christmas is to trade this guilty feeling of chicken bones poking through my intestines for anything else
All I want for Christmas is the Bible boiled down to a single SLAM poem, 3 minutes, no exceptions, no props, look me in the eye
All I want for Christmas is for love to feel the way it used to
All I want for Christmas is for sex to creep from the gutter like 3 tired, old raccoons
All I want for Christmas is for Martin Luther King to be celebrated
All I want for Christmas is the same Santa
All I want for Christmas are the lies to be true but never vice versa
All I want for Christmas is canned cranberry to be better than homemade
All I want for Christmas is this poem to reflect me and how I’m feeling, like really feeling, even though all I do is choose and follow the best I can
All I want for Christmas is to be smart, witty, acerbic, and adorable all in the first take like Lil Wayne in 10th grade
All I want for Christmas is my own prescription to anxiety pills so I can stop stealing my dog’s
All I want for Christmas is the ability to digest bad news and good news like a dog eats dog food
All I want for Christmas is Richard Branson to hug Southern New Mexico and not let go first
All I want for Christmas in terms of white dudes is Rip van Winkle and Mr. Clean
All I want for Christmas is for my internet to go down forever
All I want for Christmas is to be ok with it
All I want for Christmas won’t sit still
All I want for Christmas won’t come from the things adults do on film when they’re filming adult films
All I want for Christmas is to be there first like the hands of a clock
All I want for Christmas is dopamine, endorphin, serotonin, oxytocin, a shit-ton of it
All I want for Christmas—please, just one taste