Tag Archives: dark
When it’s raw and unrefined,
a gateway to the man.
When it’s raw and unrefined,
personality remains.
When it’s raw and unrefined,
the artist on display.
But watch it develop,
take form,
distancing,
dramatized.
But watch it develop,
a faint heartbeat,
infant stages,
splitting.
Then arms and legs
and features
unlike mine
but somehow
tied to me,
a tuft of hair
I crafted,
that grows
through me
but changes me,
changes on its own.
Sometimes peerless,
beautiful, divine.
Sometimes horrid,
hairless, savage.
Sometimes it
wobbles on its legs
and plummets through
the window.
Sometimes it
marches out the door.
Comments Off | tags: artist, brian, cerebral, creation, dark, development, insight, inspiration, looney, poetry, process, product, work, writing | posted in Poems
Every now and then
I eat pistachios.
I pry them open with my thumb and index,
with my ill-kept nails.
They sell them in bags
at the grocery store.
Every now and then my hand
goes in and latches down,
withdraws from the
bag another.
Every now and then
I find one singled out,
I find one shed of shell
already.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, food, individuality, looney, pistachios, poetry, repetition, routine, writing | posted in Poems
My neighbor knocked on my door, being neighborly. My neighbor knocked twice, insistent. I threw on some pants and opened the door. She stood there smiling and nice. She held two gold-brown biscuits in a zip-seal bag.
I stood there squinting in the noonday light, glaring to myself, processing her Sunday voice. I stood there baffled and irritated. I stood there eyes glazed, interrupted.
It finished. I said, “Thank you!” with contrived gratitude, and slowly accepted the gift. But really I just wanted to be left alone. Because now that means I must converse with her whenever I see her. To stand and converse with her, and compliment the biscuits, and I just want to go as I please.
I actively discourage idle chatter. I get through the formalities, and then I’m on my way. I don’t even stop. I even told her once some weeks ago, in response to an intrusive query: “Yeah, I tend to keep to myself.” And I waited until she finished.
But she is open and warm, sickly sweet, and I am generally cold and detached. She is late to middle-aged, and single. She wants to be a mother-figure. But I don’t need another mother. The one I have does well enough. I don’t even want a neighbor-figure. I don’t want any figure. I am a writer-figure.
I guess I could neglect the door, and usually I do. But she knocked, waited, and then knocked again. So I bestirred myself, thinking, “Who dares knock twice on Brian Looney’s door?? Maybe it’s a publisher with a contract that will save me from the service industry.” I had to know. So I put on some pants and opened the door and was horribly disappointed.
I threw the biscuits away, and then I fished them out of the trash. Because, biscuits. As I ate them, I pondered her reasons for bringing them by. This is not an isolated incident, nor is it limited to her. Older women seem think I need some looking after. But what I really need is a Walden cabin, or a ready response for future situations, and I think I came up with a good one:
Open door.
“Yeahh you know I actually can’t have biscuits. My body spits them out. ::moving in close:: Look, uhh, can you keep a secret? I am, in truth, a Nosferatu, a vampire. I feast on the blood of the innocent. So unless they’re crafted from the blood of a newborn babe I can’t partake. Baby blood’s the biscuit of the vampire world….But thank you for the sweet gesture!”
Close door.
Screech inhumanly.
Proceed.
Comments Off | tags: antisocial, brian, community, dark, fiction, flash, humor, looney, poetry, prose, recluse, short, short short, story, writing | posted in Poems
Daily now, I challenge
my notions of order
and morality.
The question is
always present,
the answer is
ever elusive.
I don’t know,
but it seems to me
that those who have
the strictest sense of
right and wrong
are often bound
by doctrine,
dictated and defined
for them by
long-dead
intellectuals,
unquestioningly
carried
for generations.
And somewhere
along the way,
they took it in
completely,
hopes and fears
and promises,
and they pour
their spirits out
for it,
but still they
have no real
way of knowing
why it is they
feel.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, belief, brian, dark, doctrine, existentialism, ideology, knowledge, looney, nihilism, poetry | posted in Poems
Was it a siren
or a baby’s screech,
or was it some
construction vehicle,
that high-pitched,
squealing quaver?
It could have come
from the neighboring apartment,
or even beyond the window,
for sound is an elusive
emission,
and I don’t know
if it is voice
or horn.
It lasted but a moment.
I felt my lips
uptwitch.
It lapsed
back into silence.
And in my head I
played it back.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, deduction, looney, pitch, poetry, screech, society, sound, writing | posted in Poems
He loved it so much he ate the whole apple: the core, the stem, the pit, the seeds. I watched him savor every succulent bite, all his attentions absorbed. All his senses a-tingle.
He loved it so much he enjoyed the distraction; teased and relished his escape. Rather than devour it fast, he chewed it slow, mashed the pulp: tooth-mashed apple sauce.
Swallow, taste and fade. Now he raises the orb, extends the lips, and bites it crisply hollow.
Comments Off | tags: apple, bite, brian, cerebral, dark, escapism, fiction, humor, looney, poetry, realism, short, writing | posted in Poems
The wall of fun
is now adorned,
now not white
nor bare.
Now the space
is occupied
by action,
scene,
and text.
Catches your eye
when you
cast it about–
you linger
on the
threshold.
The wall of fun
is now adorned,
insanely unrelated,
but related
in the artwork
posters, plaques
are all
insane,
are products
of a period.
Vintage,
you might say,
but I think the
things which we
call vintage have
only survived
for their peculiarity.
They were odd when
they were published,
posted, painted.
They entered the oddball
hall of fame,
became “vintage,”
and now we use them
as a pipeline into
history misguided.
Comments Off | tags: art, brian, cerebral, classic, dark, history, looney, media, perception, poetry, society, vintage, writing | posted in Poems
“Hellooo! There’s my niiiiice neighhborrrr.”
::crazy happy eyes::
And I’m like…lady, how do you know I’m nice?
You must be taking happy pills.
But outwardly I just said “hi there.” But really I chirped it.
“Hi there!” in enthusiastic high-tones,
musically and weakly,
and nasally
sarcastic.
But you wouldn’t know it
was sarcasm
if you heard it,
because I hardly
knew it myself,
and then it was out,
pierced through
the persona as if
light through glass.
It was simply
a habit of speaking,
the usual self-defense,
trying not to offend,
but at the same time
dripping with avoidance,
and the will to break away,
which underlines my speech
and sours after the fact.
Comments Off | tags: antisocial, brian, dark, humor, looney, neighbor, poetry, prose, sarcastic, snarky, writing | posted in Poems
The slice on my thumb smiled up at me, not at all well-meaning. Angry, cynical, maroon. A testament to fallibility. Wounded epidermis, peel the bandage off. They’ve been kissing for a day. Lipstick from the lips.
The slice on my thumb is occasion for comment, and the comment is nonverbal. A rigid breath in drawn. Rapid, tensing, locking eyes. Some folks even shiver.
The slice on my thumb is on the mend. I’ve marked its progress daily. The slow seal, the skin encroaches. Like opposite cliffs approaching each other. Like skin tectonics. The river valley closes.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, cut, dark, gritty, healing, looney, poetry, prose, slice, wound, writing | posted in Poems
If you like to drive yourself,
push and strain and reach,
you may find that the end
to which you strive is but
a shade, and you may pass
right through to the other side,
journey at an end,
and the way ahead
resembles the path
behind, now that your
target has been reached.
And what you thought
was an end turned
out to be a mere
continuation, a mere
crest, nowhere near
the finish, if there is
indeed a finish, a cessation
of effort, like death,
but still you breathe,
and though you’ve made
some progress, you have
hardly reached a stopping point.
But at least you made it
pretty far, made it to the markers,
and the way before you’s undiscovered,
and you take a timid step,
and you hope to gain direction,
but you don’t know where to go.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, destination, existentialism, futility, goal, literature, looney, poetry, travel, writing | posted in Poems
I know the wind
blew something in.
For days I’ve heard
it howl,
heard it sing
through the bark
of the cottonwood,
just beyond
my bedroom window.
When I peek
through the blinds,
through the slit
between the sections,
its greenleaf flutter
in full health,
I feel a sneeze-attack
approach.
I know the the wind
blew something in.
A lively drain
and runny drip,
bubbled beneath
the warming,
cheery skies,
careless and azure,
and I wish to smile
broadly, a daredevil,
swashbuckling smile,
but I feel a sneeze-attack
approach.
Comments Off | tags: allergies, brian, cerebral, dark, humor, looney, poetry, spring, wind, writing | posted in Poems
Shall we awaken then,
and face the day
as it comes,
even though it
fails, as yet,
to impress us
with its promise?
Comments Off | tags: awake, brian, contemplation, dark, looney, morning, poetry, rise, short, sleep, writing | posted in Poems
She sits for the bus,
bag in hand,
incommunicado,
a very closed,
waiting face.
Her eyes are fixed
on the traffic oncoming,
scanning its approach,
distant and detached.
And then she sights it,
down a ways,
forehead bulging
above the compact
vehicles, and her
fellow passengers
glimpse it too,
and begin to stand
and shuffle, and ready
their coin.
But she remains
on the bench
until it lurches
to a stop,
until the airbrake
spits,
and the door
collapses wide.
Comments Off | tags: brian, bus, cerebral, comfort, dark, looney, poetry, poise, routine, waiting, writing | posted in Poems
Isn’t it remarkable
how far our voices carry,
out on the dormant sea
in dead of night,
with nothing to impede
their progress,
no competing
gutturals or
interrupting
shrieks?
As quiet as a tomb,
a void the voice
disturbs,
for the silence
was complete,
before it mortared
through the center
and maintained a
grim bombardment.
One recovers status,
ears attuned to listen
to the slurring
intonations
of a disembodied,
brandy-hardened,
smoke-concluded
voice,
whose origins are
localized, at first,
before it shifts position,
and rushes from all sides.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, literature, looney, perspective, poetry, quiet, sound, surreal, wave, writing | posted in Poems
Slowly growing crazier.
And I do not mean with age,
although I’m newly on
the age-train out.
I mean the rot
has tip-toed to my brain,
lighting up the center.
Slowly growing crazier.
With tottering fatigue.
Though jolting wide-awake,
I don’t recall the doze,
the point at which
I drifted
off.
Slowly growing crazier.
I said it with a breath of certainty.
I said it with a grizzled grin.
I said it with an ounce of courage.
I said it with a shot of malice.
I said it with a sense of ill.
Slowly growing crazier.
Wading waves of wakefulness,
ripples of dementia,
granulated windows,
a witness to a scene,
of mingling derangement.
Slowly growing crazier.
One degree a day,
my laughter
warps
concern,
one insane
guffaw,
my cackle of
concern.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, looney, poetry, surreal, writing | posted in Poems
The girl bats her lashes and smiles coquettishly. I can’t help but smile back. I turn to the dude and he’s glaring at me. So I glare back at him. And then I glare at the girl–because it’s her fault, really. And then I take their order, while he drapes his arm across her leg, protectively. Then I bring their food, without expression. Then I drop their check. Then he leaves me ten percent, and maybe they’ll be back next week.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cynical, dark, frustration, humor, looney, poetry, prose, serving, tables, tip, waiting, writing | posted in Poems
Moaning wind
beyond my window,
wind-swept pane
absorbs the howl.
Moaning wind
within the tree,
I think the bark
is one to blame.
Moaning wind
behind the wall,
mouthing O’s
this morning.
Moaning wind
is hounding close,
I think I felt its
shock-breath beat.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, howl, looney, moan, poetry, short, spring, weather, wind, writing | posted in Poems
Silent trauma,
written plainly,
even comically,
for the situation
isn’t one for
silent trauma.
Silent trauma’s
presence in this
atmosphere is
rather ludicrous,
since no one’s life
is at stake,
since the discomfort
is only temporary.
Silent trauma’s
eyes are creased,
her cheeks are haggard,
her brows are knit,
her lips are pursed,
and she just wants
to make it through the night.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, deep, heavy, literature, looney, poetry, prose, short, writing | posted in Poems
The pink skirt twirls,
the lace-fluff symmetry,
southwestern design.
And her thighs peek out,
just a couple inches,
just above the knees,
but it’s provocative
enough.
The pink skirt twirls,
flies on course,
flicking round
the stationary
hips,
which
move to
absorb the
motion.
And her thighs peek out,
beneath the curtain,
between the knees and shapely,
just a little further’s
all I need.
Comments Off | tags: arousal, brian, dark, humor, literature, looney, lust, poetry, romance, sexy, skirt, writing | posted in Poems
Up kicks the mud,
outspread like
shotgun pellets,
for the hooves
dive dig and
fling.
Up kicks the mud,
commonplace
it seems,
beneath these
dank conditions,
although it calls
to me out from
the bog.
Up kicks the mud,
lodges to my surface,
speckles cheeks
with kisses,
claims my
every garment,
clotting to my
lids and lips.
Up kicks the mud,
pasted slop up-kicked,
dung dirt freckled glue,
latching to the skin.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, fling, gallop, hooves, horses, looney, mud, poetry, writing | posted in Poems
Is it possible
to push the tangle out?
To hound it
through the cord,
the electric cable,
applying forward
pressure all the while,
until at last the
end is met,
and all the hunted
tension flees
into the room?
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, line, looney, poetry, short, tangle, tension, writing | posted in Poems
While the dream thins,
the haze recedes,
the glimmer fades,
my eyes begin to focus.
The first thing I note
is the passage of time,
and the morning’s
soft notes lure me into
consciousness.
While the dream thins,
I piece together
the obligations
of the day,
the tasks
I must
perform.
And I know
that I could
do them
in my sleep.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, dream, humor, job, looney, obligation, poetry, sleep, wakefulness, work, writing | posted in Poems
Ragged angled construct.
Ragged edgy buzz.
Ragged table saw.
Ragged tooth-blade whir.
Ragged bite and spit.
Ragged part and slide.
Ragged thumb and finger.
Comments Off | tags: brian, dark, humor, literature, looney, piece, poetry, ragged, saw, short, writing | posted in Poems
- I read the piece from March 11, ”Civilization.” Just about everywhere in the city, one is assaulted by the constant noise of traffic, until it becomes second nature. Not that I’m advocating some back to the wilds mentality. Just making an observation, that’s all. I drive my car too. Just to work and back, and sometimes to the grocery store.
- Click to listen —-> Civilization
Comments Off | tags: audio, brian, dark, looney, mic, piece, poetry, reading, spoken, voice, word, writing | posted in Looney Speaks Weekly
Deal with the disruption,
or cringe and pray it passes.
Issue into confrontation,
meet it head on,
so that you’ll know
the reality of the thing,
and free yourself of
abstraction.
Or you may block it out completely,
bury your head in blankets,
curve the pillow about your ears,
clamp your eyes and breathe,
while your imagination whirls,
while you assess the threat,
which may not even be a threat,
but takes that form for lack of any substance.
Comments Off | tags: action, brash, brian, cerebral, dark, looney, outlook, poetry, timid, viewpoint, writing | posted in Poems
The sound of the night
is traffic,
in place of…say,
reeds and trees and crickets,
the bending of the pines,
the steady, free-flow currents.
The sound of the night
is undercut with the voices
of flirtatious couples,
of eager children,
of water through pipes,
in place of…say,
the coyote’s yelp.
The sound of the night
is traffic,
humans on the move,
and to get there quickly,
with much speed,
the engines outroar all.
Comments Off | tags: brian, city, civilization, dark, looney, nature, poetry, sounds, synthetic, traffic, writing | posted in Poems
Because I gave them twenty percent service, and I expect to be paid twenty percent. And even if I don’t give them twenty percent service, I still expect to be paid twenty percent. Because like the customer, I am unreasonable.
In any case I am making an effort, sir, I truly am. There’s a sweat upon my brow, a fine sheen of frustration. Tolerating your intrusive stare, for instance, the eyes I do not want to meet. The conversation’s finished, and you maintain your gaze. Problem is, if you look at me too closely you will uncover my contempt.
Comments Off | tags: brian, contempt, customers, dark, humor, looney, rant, restaurant, serving, tables, tips, waiting, writing | posted in Poems
On board,
the landscape whirs,
a motley blotch of sand and leaf,
and up ahead I can see track wind
and weave on through the mountainside.
On board,
the cars rumble,
jostle from side to side,
because the way, though smooth,
is still a little trainride rough.
On board,
my fellow passengers lament,
my itinerant bedfellows,
my wandering malcontents.
On board,
the silence and the tracks,
the regular kah-chunk across
the railroad ties, laid some time ago
by migrant,
underpaid
wage-slaves.
Comments Off | tags: brian, class, dark, deep, itinerant, literature, looney, marxist, poetry, state, wandering, writing | posted in Poems
- This week I read the piece from March 7, Returned. I like its abstracted, almost cryptic, air. I like the sense of dark return, the lack of lateral directions. And the sense of uncertainty.
- Click to listen —-> Returned
Comments Off | tags: abstract, audio, brian, cerebral, dark, looney, mic, poetry, reading, spoken, word, writing | posted in Looney Speaks Weekly, Poems
Back it goes,
and I don’t know
from which end it sprang,
from which pole,
or even what you call it.
I just feel one must
return a borrowed item
in a timely manner,
and in respectful silence.
Back it goes,
and I should have
paid attention,
because it’s either
north or south,
nevermind the east
and west.
But set it on the shelf,
and it looks like it belongs,
blends into the scene,
occupies a space,
successfully returned.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, bizarre, borrowing, brian, cerebral, dark, literature, looney, poetry, returned, writing | posted in Poems
Add a little more,
because I like it to the brim,
maybe even sloshing over,
and draping down my fist and wrist,
and pattering down below.
Add a little more,
because it doesn’t feel correct,
because I need the weight to pull,
to quiver in my knees,
or tugging at my limbs.
Add a little more,
because otherwise I’d float,
several feet above the earth,
with just the air to kiss my cheek,
with just the clouds to hug me close.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, baggage, brian, cerebral, dark, life, looney, poetry, position, responsibility, weight, writing | posted in Poems
The lady upstairs asked me if I smoked
because she can smell it sometimes.
My face became guarded, and I told her
“yeah.”
For I didn’t know what type of smoke she smelled.
Often there are two. And unfortunately I
had to chat her up.
To chat her up and talk and swap,
uncomfortably of course,
but I mostly told her
“yeah.”
Comments Off | tags: antisocial, brian, cynical, dark, fiction, flash, humor, looney, poetry, prose, smoke, writing | posted in Poems
I wash the sand
off my face
in the morning,
but it always
reforms
overnight.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, age, brian, cerebral, dark, dreams, looney, morning, poetry, sand, sleep, waking, writing | posted in Poems
Just beyond the listening window,
a voice in gushy overtones:
Where’s your ma-ma?
Where’s your mama?
Where’s your ma-ma?
She says it with her jaw clenched,
so that her mouth can make that
low purr which dogs love so much.
And it continues on,
repeats and varies,
but always with that
grating tone,
for several,
several,
minutes.
Comments Off | tags: antisocial, apartment, brian, cerebral, dark, humor, irritation, looney, noise, people, poetry, sound, writing | posted in Poems
- This week I read the piece from February 23, Unhinged. I love the way it flows, the sense of derangement, the hypnotic rhythm. Not to toot my own horn, but that’s what strikes me most about it. Unhinged.
- Click to listen ——> Unhinged
Comments Off | tags: art, audio, brian, dark, literature, looney, performance, poetry, reading, spoken, word, writing | posted in Looney Speaks Weekly, Poems
Uplifted,
because it warms my insides and enlivens my mind. The way a smile appears when contentment is restored, the once-grave engine churning. Cold at first, with squeaking belts, and the rat-a-tat puttering that is a struggle.
Uplifted,
because the internal combustion reaches its ideal state. That is, it chomps and munches the fuel in an efficient manner, the manner in which it was designed. A controlling self-sufficiency, so long as there is fuel aplenty.
Uplifted,
because I turned the key and caught the spark, made use of the dancing blue speck, from which all life is born. For of course it all started with the proto-flame, which chains into reactions, whose end-result is complexity, advancement and complexity. And then, warmed through, fulfillment.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, dark, engine, literature, looney, mood, poetry, running, spark, temperament, writing | posted in Poems
I can smell the wick.
Long beyond its life.
Ghastly tendrils hover.
Soon they must disperse.
I can smell the wick.
The information traveled.
It told my sight and then my nose,
time delay observed,
for I am all observation.
And the room is like
a galaxy.
I can smell the wick.
Which told me it had snuffed,
though I hope it didn’t snuff itself,
though any snuff is bad.
In which case,
murder.
I can smell the wick,
post-mortem.
For no one smells it pre-mortem–not the wick.
At the brink it belches out its soul,
withers and wilts and curdles.
At the brink.
Which means that, logically deduced,
the smell of wick is death.
Comments Off | tags: brian, candle, dark, death, extinguished, light, looney, poetry, sense, smell, wick, writing | posted in Poems
I’m always sad to see you leave. And I know when you arrive, the timer starts. You look so fresh and promising, and I don’t know why you need to leave when your energies are sapped, when you’re burnt around the edges; I don’t know why you must recharge without me. Using me must drain you so, that I char you through and through.
But quit me for a minute, and you return again refreshed. I know that look you have has all to do with me. I know that it’s addiction. The ups and downs, addiction. The highs and lows, addiction. So you just go until you need your fix again.
Comments Off | tags: addiction, artist, brian, cerebral, dark, exhaustion, gender, humor, looney, poetry, relations, romance, writing | posted in Poems
The sun-fried egg on the skypan emits light in concentric rings. Outward they spread, dancing and bubbling, slowly moving with the yolk as it slides in a wide-sweep circle. But the sun-fried egg on the skypan is not cooked by us. In fact it cooks us in turn, browns our bits to match its progress. And who is to say when it will be done? Perhaps, to the cook, one million years is as one second. And to him(or her), the egg is nearly done, and the spatula is poised.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, existentialist, looney, perspective, poetry, scale, sun, time, writing | posted in Poems
Well they really take it out of me. Although I’m not quite sure how. How one day it’s present and the next it’s sapped. I don’t think there’s any formula or code, or methodology. In fact it seems quite random.
Some days they take it out of me. Some days it bounces off. And I seek to acquire that which causes bouncing. Certainly an outlook. But I think it’s some hidden arithmetic which, if properly played and calculated, will yield the bouncing technique.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, creativity, dark, drive, energy, fatigue, humor, literature, looney, poetry, temperament, writing | posted in Poems
Woozy with it,
gently swaying
on my feet,
like a reed
in the wind,
firmly rooted,
but bending,
and then
correcting.
Woozy with it,
off-kilter
and in laughter,
the kind that’s
part concern,
part substance,
but mainly
without reason.
Woozy with it,
knocking
on the walls,
or mumbling
to myself,
roaming
half-asleep,
something comes
unhinged.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, brian, cerebral, dark, derangement, fatigue, humorous, looney, poetry, woozy, writing | posted in Poems
- This week I read the piece from February 19, Dislike. Anybody who has been a waiter or a waitress will know what I’m talking about. Sometimes I just can’t stand the song and dance, particularly if my work week has been balls to the wall busy. It’s not like I have another job or anything. So I’ll write dark, bitter, humorous work instead of punching them all in the face. Ten years in the service industry have turned me into a curmudgeon. Your nicest table can turn into your meanest. Your meanest table can turn into your nicest. I’ll get your food out, and I’ll keep your drinks filled, but I’ll be damned before I talk to hungry animals.
- Click to listen —–> Dislike
Comments Off | tags: art, brian, dark, industry, literature, looney, poetry, reading, service, spoken, word, work, writing | posted in Looney Speaks Weekly
When I meet her eyes,
I see understanding,
an intelligent listening,
for her soft-spoken manner
rouses my attention.
I hate it when
they’re loud, outspoken,
shooting off about themselves,
trumpeting their knowledge,
when all it takes is simple
cogitation to prove
the value of the mind.
I knew she was deep
as soon as I met her,
that throaty, deliberate voice,
assured, pronounced, husky,
which gets me listening,
and needing
to take her
in my embrace.
Comments Off | tags: affection, brian, cerebral, dark, literature, looney, poetry, romance, short, surreal, writing | posted in Poems
In the information age I can view the entire world through a monitor screen. I can see things in such resolution that they seem to be there before me, in the physical. Sounds I can pick up in the clearest, most accurate detail. Pictures capture color and design in the most unprecedented ways….And you want to see more imagery, more imagery in my work. There’s too much imagery, in my opinion. Get on the internet, and you are hammered by it. Far better to pursue a theme, a symbol, a concept, than an image.
Comments Off | tags: brian, contemporary, critical, current, cynical, dark, literature, looney, publication, publishers, writer's, writing | posted in Poems
His expectations are severe,
and if I don’t meet them,
what a frown,
a pursing of the lips,
for of course
he is all-knowing.
A nonverbal
discontentment,
because he wants
the hello my name is xyz,
and a welcome to the restaurant,
the smile howdy do,
and humorous banter,
maybe even a trick or two,
like juggling,
when I all I said is
what would you like to drink.
Because I’m tired
and I don’t want
to look at you,
because you really
aren’t that interesting,
and I can tell you’re tight,
and I don’t like your game,
and I don’t wanna talk to you,
though I’m sure you are amazing.
I’ll run my ass off though,
because I want to do my best,
sir.
Comments Off | tags: brian, customers, dark, disdain, dislike, humor, looney, poetry, restaurant, serving, waiting, writing | posted in Poems
A frail, birdlike woman tripped over the concrete abutment as she stepped out of her vehicle. I heard her collapse as I walked. A silent clap as her body hit the asphalt. Her purse splayed out, she lay on her side like a wounded swallow. Not a sound emitted from her lips, no gasp of surprise or incredulous laugh–I guess she never even knew what hit her.
She lay there unmoving, and I almost ignored her predicament, in the interests of dignity. But something got the better of me, and I went and helped her up.
Comments Off | tags: awkward, brian, cerebral, compassion, dark, fall, human, looney, poetry, predicament, short, social, writing | posted in Poems
My writing is everything to me–it’s my heart and soul, the most important thing. It is fulfilling in so many incredible, indescribable ways. I wouldn’t be sane or sober without it, although it is a kind of insanity. And all the pleasures you get out of a good relationship. I’ve taken myself places few can ever even dream about. I’ve ridden in clouds, been on the moon, been stranded on islands. It’s godlike. I either stand or fall with it. That is my wheel of fortune. It’s my alpha and my omega. It is meticulous, nerve-wracking, time-consuming. I work on my writing just as much as I work at the restaurant. And it’s worth every, every minute I put into it. And I’m not gonna sacrifice my work just for some distracting woman. In short, I’m an artist, so get off your high horse.
Comments Off | tags: art, brian, dark, disrespect, humor, looney, passion, poetry, presumption, pride, women, writing | posted in Poems
Well, it’s simply a matter of regular breaths. A soft, even intake, a prolonged exhalation, on repeat. An emptying of the mind. One must, of course, be positioned comfortably: no lumps or cricks or tangled sheets. One must, of course, be confident of the result. Confident the drift, the soporific currents, will deposit the body in the sleepful spring.
Well, it’s simply a matter of winking out and recharging. To lock concern away, exiled to the careworn, worry-torn regions of my multifaceted, multiplanar, multiangular mind. To summon a song of peace, to silence gaunt persistence.
But in the unfelt night, some sound pushes me toward wakefulness, like the hollow chime of a fresh rung bell–whose vibrant echo thickly hums with something, dully blares out from the corners.
I rang the bell in the morning; I ring the bell on waking. And I think some spell has kept its chime from dying, no matter how many regular breaths I take, no matter what the meditation. Because sleep is a well that I’m half-way down, that I fell in by mistake. And my body became wedged, just above the waters, and I can hear the bucket scrape.
Comments Off | tags: abstract, bell, brian, cerebral, dark, despair, humor, insomnia, looney, poetry, sleep, wakeful, writing | posted in Poems
To enjoy the smoke one must possess a myriad of frustrations and anxieties, and perhaps
regrets. One must summon them, ball them, inhale them—wait for the burn, the brackish
overload, and then kah-chunk the species out.
And watch them wisp and eddy, warping up-upward, destination sky.
And watch them thin, weaken, disperse,
imagined purged combusted,
for that explains their
disappearance.
Comments Off | tags: anxiety, brian, cerebral, dark, literature, looney, poetry, release, smoke, strain, tobacco, writing | posted in Poems
The vertical, hanging blinds shield the morning sun. One of them swings from side to side like an off-white pendulum; steady, swaying motions which allow a slip of rust-gold sunlight through. As it moves, the line elongates, then backtracks on itself. Like it dots on in then rolls back out. In and out, charge and flee, hypnotically. Painted on the carpet as if it belongs there, and then vanishing, erasing, dissipating. I wish it would make up its mind.
Comments Off | tags: brian, cerebral, dark, humor, literature, looney, morning, poetry, short, surreal, writing | posted in Poems
