There
is
no
shortage
of
outrage
to
be
had
in
this
world
Monthly Archives: July 2015
Me Piku
Look at me;
I
need attention
7.31.15
Tues. Blues
I feel good
as I should
don’t want to be
down
on your paper tears
your clumsy crown
your folded fortune
teller
telling me
what I do not
want to hear
as my convictions
flutter in the wind
like the pages
of your journal
dog-eared
& X’ed out
unrecognizable
I feel on the edge
as if I may disappear
on any given Tuesday
I feel impossible
light as a feather
from a stolen angel’s wing
I feel invisible
a speck of dust
in the corner
of your tear duct
I feel disregard
recklessly
careening
down life’s road
don’t want to be
down
on your powdered clown
your upside down
soapbox depravity
your folded paper crown
& flimsy stars
I feel good
far too good for a Tuesday
Broken Song
I conjured
up a broken song of her
pondered
just where it was that we went wrong
I lingered
a bit too long on her
fond of her
I was & now I wander
she severed
each & every tie with me
never
again, she said
she’s better
off without me
letters
I still send, and she burns
and I still burn
as I think of
her
out there without me
I long for her
yet go on forgotten
it’s wrong of me
to carry on any longer
Shopping For One
I thought I saw her
reflection
in the frozen food aisle,
In the glass door imagery,
but it was just me
attaching meaning
To processed food & freezer meat
It was just me
The same as it was when
I pretended to argue with
myself instead of listening
to the unusual voice of reason
pouring forth from her
Much like the reason she left
in the first place
The reason I argue with myself
In the frozen food aisle.
It would be much easier to yell
at someone to “please move
your fucking cart”
or to ask “where is the Goddamn
baking soda?”
But, instead, the store clerk
laughs, and calls me
Tyler Durden behind my back
Yet I still see her face in the woman
picking produce
I still see her face when I unpack
my lonely groceries,
walk alone up my somber driveway,
and pour my cup of coffee
every morning –
the one I always let get cold
As cold as my
blue-lipped soul…
By Christopher Rupley and Steve Shultz 2015
(This is a collaborative poetic work between myself and the talented (and prolific!) writer/poet Christopher Rupley. Please check out some of his other work by visiting the link above).
7.30.15
Picked Bones
Sometimes
the sky falls in;
others, the ground crumbles.
We have one chance to get it right
before
we are buried alive, before
we are carried away
on a raft of
picked bones.
Reminders of Consumption
Up and down each city block
I walk
looking for a boredom cure
instead I find
reminders of consumption:
A 7-Eleven, a Starbucks
and a beggar
on every street corner
I am not buying into it, this American Dream
7.29.15
FM Ghost 