this poetry

this poetry defies the moment,
causes cause for alarm, a lark,
a fable, a tale too sorry to
tell. is anyone on IRC anymore?
i lost my place. my bookmarks are
corrupt and woodward is woeful and
after them - word wards to ward off
wounds wonderful enough to keep,
hidden, in the basement of your
soul.

this poetry bends the rules like
aluminum mispronounced to infinity.
the poem (as you can see) is lacking
in question, but does that make it less
honest? what never was, what never will be
will always be the thing that gets to me, the
thing that keeps me awake at night and asleep
during the day dreaming of scenes that may
or may not have happened. and i can't
talk to anyone nearby about it be-
cause of the self-imposed isolation
in some small hick town where the town
poets are drunks and whores and not who
i need to be with at the moment - strange
weird obnoxiously brazen THOUGHTS that drip
into poetry and i wonder why and i wonder if
it seems my lines go on too long and surely
no one reads this and surely it needs some
editing and lapel isn't really that dangerous
and fort wayne isn't that far away and these
irish lasses really weren't sent to destroy me
one thought at a time, one moment to the next,
the best thing i can remember is the moment
that didn't happen. and i know why. and you
ran and i didn't follow and airplanes are
fixed and stories are filed and the paper
gets out every fucking day i sometimes
don't think of those times anymore,
but for some reason i'll never
fathom i opened the window
last night and peered in
the bedroom of those
memories and it was
asleep and i woke
it and now i
can't shake
the feeling,
the melancholy,
the melon of another
moment not remembered
quite correctly i am
feeling much better,
but as the lyrics say -
i asked for some music
and you gave me some-
thing to think about
and regret some more
and i miss, i miss,
i missed the chance
and now, across the
continent, i wonder
how the weekend will
be as you work across
from where the person
who i've been following
so intently grew up and
garden state was wonderful
and i can't fuckink think of
anything now, without it somehow
going back to those magic days of
journalism while we were just friends
and i was ok with it and was ok with it
and was ok with it and now and now and
now i'm repeating myself and i know
who i am again, escaped the spell
of deception i was trapped in
and i can't believe i let
it pass without waking
up completely and it
isn't even the physical
that never happened it was
the friendship, the camraderie
and this poem should be burned and
maybe it will at a later date and
i miss having a close friend - any
of them throughout my life. the lone-
wolf nutcase writer/poet is finally
longing for that one muse to keep
the words going.

(i pause to have a drink and reflect.)

the thoughts (and tune) are still here.
it's going to be a long night. maybe i
should tell you a story. no, that never
comes out right. let me think for another
minute the knight might take minute pieces
(as in small) of thoughts not heard of before
(as in her) a friend of friends, a comrade (not
in a communist way) and a colleague (spelling error
intentional or not) and now it's many moons later and
the holidays and kwanzaa around the corner and conan
o'brian wishing us all a 'top 'o the mornin'' with too
many terms of endearment though punctuation. stop me.
please.
me?

(another pause for a smoke and reflections of shadows...)

i now realize that i've completely
forgotten
what the
first part
of this poem
(?) was a-
bout but
now i must
continue any-
way. so, any-
way, what do
you say? what
games do you
play? what tv
rots your brain?

and if it wasn't for
those little fucking peculiarities
that popped up so often betwixt us,
i'd be able to write it off like a
bad debt owed to someone now in an
abnormal coma. line breaks take an
enormous amount of trepidation. im
trembling so IM me. or call me. im
in need of a talking to or a liste
-ning from ming from flash gordon
zings of monumental stature (king-
kong) references out the yahoo or
google if you prefer the petite
poetry to stop then stop reading
be-
cause
i can't
stop writing
for the moment.
sue me at least.

(pause for reflection. again. rinse/repeat)

pausing, i stop.
stopping, i pause.

there is a difference
and i have the phone
in eye distance at
all times, okay?

(sorry for all
the poet questions -
i'm still learning while
remembering your mom running
down factories full of emotions
on the cold porch, freezing but not
wanting it to end. the music seeps in.
roadtrip soon in my view? i need to
stop sleeping in and go after some
sense of happiness in this my
current state of being.)

wishing indie bands were easier to bootleg,
and signing my poetry 'cause i'm weird,
kpaul via (forever and more) chicago
(stupid fireworks stands. ;)