Absurd Chaos

shoemaker in the middle of the street looking for shoes without finding any. bluemaker in the middle of the sky looking for blues without finding any. babymaker in the middle of the road looking for babies and finding many. gravemaker and babymaker are now successful tyrants shoes and blues don’t matter anymore. June, 2014

Until it stops feeling natural. Turn of the century, old magician, a pale mistress. A show being held at the great Apostles theatre  Gathering crowds and clapping hands All waitin for the great magician; Jon the Man  Now his mother never called him Jon the Man  Neither did the dead father.  If birth certificate were to exist, He would be Jonathan McKellan Of irish descent. Blinding lights guided The lost dogs to center stage Blinded eyes were The fillers of the front row seats. Ladies, madams and gentlmen, Make a round For Jon Not any Jon was he  Not any Jon was he  Our ol’ man  For us Jonathan Became Jon the Man, But even fires could consume The Man and his pugs For once upon a time  There was a ring of fire At a show being held at the great Apostlestheatre   Gathering frowns and screaming throats All watching the dead magician; Jon the Man. Now his mother never called him Jon the Man Neither had the chance to once again call him Jonathan. ...

a ray of sunshine stuck on a broken glass a hand reaches towards the glass to pick it up. the glass comes up empty the hand always preferred the moon to the sun. she heard the moon uttering what a fat cloud could not think about uttering. the stars heard it, too. the glass turned red the hand fell away unattached un- attended. why pick up the broken glass dangerous broken glass with it’s ray of sunshine on a Winter’s cold night with the full moon out?

A poet walks into a bar No this is not a how a poem should start I heard this joke before but A poet did walk into a bar He ordered an empty pint of tasteless beer The yellow nothing stuff dripped from between his fingers I heard this joke before but A skeletal poet did walk in the bar Ordered a blank page and a vacuum Words fell on the floor Our poor Skeletal poet from the stool Couldn’t move Beautiful women and men  with long vacuum fingers from the floor sucked the words I heard this joke before but I could never hear it till the punchline One by one, bones fell from a wet Beer-stenched stool On the floor: A blank page A broken pint An old fountain pen And a used poet Whose bones could never be burnt For the beautiful women and men Have taken every last Word Out of him