Our brain ranks last in thought, nonetheless talks a lot

Octopus Photograph Burnt Orange Octopus Print Sea Creature
The Neurons of the Octopus are Vested in its Tentacles

The octopus is in its groove
Conscientious thug in a realm
Its neurons mostly sway in arms
Its brain is finer than the slots

Apparently the waters warming
Will do just fine, the creature,
Swiftly changing to demands,
Is no polar bear for sympathy

Our brain is in the tongue
It’s tied into a knot
Forests being felled in swaths
Thank god we’re half way in

Our brain is in the bog
Its fumes tally the decay
You see the compass arrow spin
We’re all heading South

Each breath falls off the shelf
Rum is running in the ears
Our brain ranks last in thought
Nonetheless talks a lot

Our brains are in our cocks
Acquiescing to its rot
The mind is tucked in fast asleep
Thoughts without being thunk

Our brain is leaking common junk
The info poisonous to touch
Were we an octopus to acclimate
We might just call the future lunch

Truth is a bowl of flaming oil and a dog.

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Bowl of Flaming Oil

A Chinese sage once said, “Truth is ‘neither this nor that.
It is a bowl of flaming oil and a dog:  Entranced, vexed, immobilized by 
        This is how truth burns”

Her bones are remodeled, she creates like a god
Eats in the convent with clowns and a snake. Sleeps in jail with silk sheets in the
        Bathes in a river of crocodile teeth

She vanishes with the failing light
Sheds her skin in a cave on the hill, uttering questions for the
        Scratching in darkness in the dirt

Then sunrise squints into her yawning eyes
A quiver, then a feeling: It is happening! Like a padlocked piano lurching into the
        To cast light on its keys

When It Finally Takes Flight Leaving You Free and Sad

Image result for albatross above ocean
When Marriage Finally Takes Flight Leaving You Free and Sad

When marriage finally takes flight
(and I mean ends)
You may be left with a freedom

From its triangles of elephantine memory
Free from a quarter century of cataloged errors

Free of her bickering clutter
Of those dishes and dishes
And stacks of sorry parenting

Free of her crystaline stare and conversation-less daze
Weekends of issues about issues
Free of nights sans joi d’vive et bon vivant
Or any French terms whatsoever

Free of marriage falling asleep on me
Free of her dirty pots

Thank god almighty
I am free [at last]
from her tasteless soups

Free, yet
When your marriage finally takes flight
(and I mean ends)
You may experience a sadness lasting more than five hours

You may burrow deeply under the covers
Through jungles of kismet
Sad as oranges rotting
Sad for the boys
Dreaming arguments
Slapping on cliffs
At the roaring seas

Low as an albatross
Warping the waves
Leaving a continent
Sad like a marriage
That should have not
Left the continent
Twenty-three years ago
(and I mean taken flight)
To flutter and skim the whitecaps
Eyes stinging shut
Far from shore

Leaving a continent
(and I mean leaving a marriage)
Soaring free as swells lift

Flapping as they drop

Terrified by the sight of my own blood

First Visit To My Grandparents

I walk the graves to find my own
Dripping genetic sweat on clippings of grass
Searching for their names, my name
In Pennsylvania. From Austria-Hungary

Past suicide row, the lawn mower calls it, by the scrappy trees
Where he doesn’t go. Finally, I kneel under the pines
Kissing tribute to their granite lives, smooth and burning
In the Slovak town by Hermitage, in Sharon

Where pig blood drained to the Shenango River
Where Dad’s pitch-forked fish bled in the Shenango
Deer grazing under the spent orchard above the Shenango
Cicadas screaming as the highway spoons the Shenango                                    

Numb stone walls, Sharpsville Steel, bricks
Muscarella’s Restaurant, beer and tattooed boys
Lawns of used furniture and tackle shop under the flag
Everyone grown old on the slag heaps by the Shenango

Patagonia, where the Slovaks arrived to steel mills and railroad Co.s
Patagonia, where warped boards are scraped of paint by years  
Patagonia, where unemployed weeds dawdle on the baseball field
Patagonia, where possessions of paycheck days are sold on lawns

With tongues of moss spewing fuck the future
Channeling fathers’ chapped knuckles across lips
Where slate turns to cardboard on sodden sheds
Walking the asphalt with get-by thoughts

I have come as an explorer
But leave having been ripped
From the old world, terrified
By the sight of my own blood

Fuck rummaging, I am everything!

Just About Everything

Fuck poetry’s inane means of shedding sorrow!
Rummage to the bottom for a source of new
I am not the Phoenix/the lotus/there is no sunrise at hand
Everything for which I’ve cared for is cast in sand

Fuck the Phoenix and the lotus and a new dawn
Rummage by the waterside for signs of birth
I am blanketed down for a winter of divorce
Everything I am is drown in ripples of remorse

Fuck the dying flowers in the vase of putrid water
Rummaged by a partner who tipped it over
I am trying to fill this page with honor, but shame
Everything since July has changed but my name

Fuck the dumb-ass stunt and blunt force of the F word!
Rummage my possessions for a key that unlocks
I am a diagnosis of cancer/lewd dancer/a weed
Everything that love has brought me just bleeds

We're told we should endure for this or that

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You’re told a new beginning is ahead
So noose a hundred camels while you’re on
It’s all post-apocalyptic now
Nose dripping freely in the lawn

The records spin on gasps of air in troughs
Which children drink from knowing they will die
The horns of Moses tangle in a knot
As fashioned for the canvass in a lie

Butter hails in the boulevard of splits
You ruminate or masturbate in shifts
Should poison think to pour itself a glass
You’re busy cherry picking from the if’s

We’re told we should endure for this or that
Eyes shut in tight cacophony
Authors lay out stones for walking on
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani

Divorce, a word for cowering at the hip
Insane asylums built for such a thing
I have a ticket for that very trip
And slip the skinny finger from the ring

This historical moment requires all men and boys to know these 18 things about rape

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Eighteen Formulae for Rape

     “There is no folly of the beasts of the earth which
       is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.”
                                    -Herman Melville, Moby Dick

A bench. A breakroom. A parking lot
This form of rape is where it’s been
On the couch, a canyon, a moaning wide backseat

Then the fear, a dedicated space
A new rule network of the brain

Rape has evolved
It comes from the bone
Taught in the sinews
How the blood flows
As action potential
From our forefathers

On the stand
In the courtroom
In depositions with ash trays

Rape is onlookers circled, thrusting
Cell phones, uploading
Rape is in a chant

Rape is a sexual position
One’s inability to enjoy again

Rape is everywhere on the minds of men

Rapists and War
Rape is in war

The act finds solace in muscle
Inequity, in power

It is in the call to police
In the come-down-to-the-station
In questions and badges
In the kit

Rape is a memory
Positive feedback cycles
Groups, books, therapy

Rape is in the animal world
And is not called rape

Rape is teaching your little girl stranger danger at age 4

Rape is a crying shame

It’s on the mind on a lovely walk
In the woods/along the shoreline
An ocean liner after ten, vibrating engines at the prow

The expected jail cell
An unexpected monastery
A marriage bed
After a nursery rhyme

It’s the number of times stored in his head

Rape is carved into Grandma’s face
But not on her gravestone
In the long grasses of memory