Author Archives: mbasil93

33

We all pass

The homeless men that cops chide

That the Union Guys learn to hate too

And the Subterranean Queen who gives cheap favors

For some sad lonely dudes

 

But a slow 180 to freedom

From dark moon tar

 

Will bring meadows soaked in sun

Nimbus sprinkled skies

And the easy repose of an hour bus ride


put in/Show Out

It’s a dirge,

 

for shot down kids in the street

 

A fragile ego on a Friday

Who says: “If you don’t

punch him,

you’re weak.”

 

It’s Rosy cheeks

Cross hatch sweaters

 

Irish dinosaurs slowly sighing

and saying “hmph”

 

It’s the life blood surging through your cancer ravaged broken down death blood body

And a whole body naïve kiss

at a repass

 

It’s pretension in the color of red

It’s vom in the shade of black

It’s acceptance in dark scarlet rooms

It’s success with an olive

 

Sexy

Hollywood star

C list

D list

Extra

Halfway House

Obituary

 

Then

the birth of a teenage star

with trusting parents.

 

parents that don’t care

 

It’s dollars in carbonation

And pension down the drain

hard work rewarded by temporary soft silk against sad puppy-eyed pores

 

It’s a warm chest

While cheating on your wife

after swallowing the worm

and feeling like a man

 

It’s Adult hands being kid hands

So they forget boundaries

Or build thoroughfares

with no lights

Traversing comfort

Through the labyrinth

Of a one night person

And

the frames blur

While the cinematographer

employs dutch angles

and goes wild

 

Digesting the self

Alcohol is an invisible person

 

Liberated from

the chains of reality

Imprisoned in

translucent shots


Somewhere in Between

Draw

more drawings

 

and

Paint

more paintings

 

Of farts on

Fire

 

And massive babies

giving birth to tiny adults

 

Spindly Blue Men licking their own asses

 

Women Skydiving

with babies attached to umbilical cords

That are also skydiving

in spread eagle form

Wearing helmets

and parachutes

donning faces that fight the wind

 

Because

 

When we look at them on canvas

We can’t help but laugh

 

Being 8th grade fuck boys

Which we still are

hiding in bags of Cheetos

that lie below beards

and Cheetos stained wine glasses


Partnernless and Stir Crazy

You should have said, yes

to the guy who asked you out at work

he could listen to your paranoia

so we wouldn’t have to

a lover would have better ears


Post Hoc Death Blues?

Traffic seemed to sludge by us and the sun hit our collective black shroud. While my sisters  son hid in front of me from pretty middle school girls yelling behind us, “Hey! Tyler!”, my sister, with red hair flowing and freckles gleaming in the light, said that Verona air smells like peaches and gasoline. Tyler’s friends were probably drinking cokes, eating disco fries and fun-dip, and talking about hot girls. Babies were being born somewhere, babies were dying somewhere, and I couldn’t deal with the intensity, so I put on my glasses to hide while we smiled to the girls because: What else do you do?!

It was a forgiving father that I saw at the post office smiling, but grimacing, because his daughter filled out a form wrong so they had to do it all over again.

And it was a smile because death is awkward and peaches and gasoline create beautifully fucked up tension.

So what else do you do besides calmly submit to the horrors of the endlessly intricate world, and smile in a confused transparent bubble.


%d bloggers like this: