I was sitting in sub-zero temperatures in the Northern Arctic
As one does when you're a Swedish spy
Caught between conflicting ethical codes...
Stuck in my tent I stumbled upon a poem
Pondering the experience of Hot British Tea.
The poem was long and decorous with adjectives.
My lips were stuck and frosted together in parts
As I murmured along with teeth chattering
With the rhythm of an African cheetah.
Though the words buttered into my soul.
"Steep," "simmering," "piping," and "warming"
Warmed my innards and radiated outward,
The imagination muscling forth the reality.
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Crikey. Long-ranged silencers. I've been found.
(Hungarians.)
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Whispers of wild winds increase their fury.
I stare steadily towards the edge of the horizon.
My heart is indifferent, no mercy, no ease.
I breathe only the surrounding loneliness.
Up on the hill, the cemetery tolls its dirge.
I care not, as I feel neither sorrow nor joy.
It seems like waves crushing on the salty rocks.
I care not about the amplitude of force
That should fill my heart with grief or happiness.
I feel unmoved. Let the hills echo their tolls.
My heart is tepid, with neither chill nor heat,
No ice or fire can affect the innards of my soul.
I live as if only the moment counts and that’s enough.
FICTION
What is there about you
that I cannot resist?
This awful yearning
that eats away my innards.
It kills
It pains.
Times come when I daydream:
Is it like a chrysalis,
that will one day
change into a beautiful thing?
I delude myself.
It will come to nothing.
No, not nothing,
but a pain of loneliness.
I am like a barnacle
so tightly bound to your crust.
Why can't I rid myself
of so many delusions?
Why not admit
you'll never be mine?
Still I shall remain yearning
for the twinkling of your eyes,
for the warmth of your cheek,
for the sweetness of your kiss.
Alas all delusions.
The orchardist held the apple tight,
Staring deep into its being,
As if it had something more to show him than its rotten skin.
Unwilling to admit it to its predestined fate,
He first peeled the apple to view its innards.
Unsatisfied by the inedible flesh,
He continued:
Deeper and deeper,
Until his hands were coarse and knife dull.
Finally upon reaching the core,
His anger released itself in a swift action,
As he hurled the apple core towards the wall.
Quickly though, he ran towards the remaining mush.
Grasping at anything, hoping to get his apple back.
However, it would not be,
Nor was it ever so,
its rancidness was sown in its creation
I want to give thanks to skin
For keeping all my innards in
For being a home for my hair
Without it I’d leak everywhere.
I never thought about it much
But skin gives me the sense of touch
Yet it can make me a bit b*tchy
Especially when it gets itchy.
Oh and before I forget
I need my skin so I can sweat
And without that I’d overheat
Leaving a result that’s far from neat.
It’s stuck with me all my life
Through the good times and the strife
So I give thanks to my skin
For keeping all my innards in.
F raught and caught
B i'partisan creep-up-scular
I gnominously dystopian
America is not coping; and some.' How dark are days.? So; so black become' its all down
As in the scales of melody.? As in those
Of judgement fallen. ( For we truly see' ) its down the
Scale of depravity, amidst a wallowing with
The most detrious acts despicably, oh how much filth there
Be.' Enough to make a scum-sicle hard and
so cold.!
That needs shoving up the innards.'
Through the ether.? And into the nether
Location of the countrys whole.' Complacent
populace..Complicit if not now agahst.? At the sight of America.' Shown on the world stage'
with its pants down at half-mast.! Oh no!
I must say, to the very great; and INDEED!!
Most massuve overpowering...? Farse.)
Fragments of my memory
dissolve like mist
in the summer sun.
Parts of me
live in patches like
the moon on fragile nights.
I let chaos reign
in my head
and ropes of thoughts
strangle my being.
I let doubts of my existence
deplete my innards
as I watch the sky roar with confidence.
I have walked this path
innumerable times.
It has pricked my feet and hollowed
my soul.
And yet when empathy blooms
like fragrant wild flowers
I forget who I am
I forget how love has hurt me all the time.
The ocean beckons me today
the cliffs and ridges call out my name
for I am lost in a void
embedded in regret and loathe.
Yet a faint light of hope
flicker in the pain.
A flame of love
From my heart to my soul.
There are those who Save Coins for a better tomorrow
yet, to live for tomorrow is to live in Sorrow
for today truly is all we ever have
when one wields the Sword and Staff,
Just Let It Shine, it's truly as simple as that
and this is the Great Celestial Epitaph,
hoarding in goods that inevitably turn to dust
but a token in the spirit, In This I Trust
what we do and don't do is all that counts
Right Here, Right Now is Paramount
Ashes to Ashes, Illusions to Night
Fire to Fire unto Wisdoms of Light,
Be Forever in this moment, heed to these Innards of Life
for Yesterday is Gone, Tomorrow a Farce, by Wisdom we Rule the Nights
some never see, some know this road
some find Treasures, some Reap Thorns
All Is Wise, externally nothing ever lasts
Investments in Knowledge Conquers the Hour Glass
Be Present, what you seek lies within
some chase and some claim these riches,
so never wait for the proper time
See It, Believe It, and Live To Shine
tapeworm boogie shakes a bouncing bloated belly
intestine dance wiggling like blueberry jelly
squeezing innards in his weird enjoyment game
being the favorite parasite of all his intended aim
he stays quiet and comfortably camouflaged
dislodging rancid beef that once was colon lodged
tape worm boogie with a fancy happy sashay
shaking and quaking in a joyful bloated belly way
A boy…one boy digs through rubble.
He must find the pieces of his heart.
Tears, heartbreak - he must find him.
Someone films him - What are you doing?
Looking for my grandpa. He keeps moving.
He keeps moving rubble, turning it over -
he cannot fathom what his brain cannot
comprehend. Desperation in his eyes.
We clench our innards, because we too
cannot take this. Suffering we’d erase.
Each and every, any kid - we hurt for him
and her. Out of time and reach; tears.
And elsewhere a counterpart hurts too.
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011) (used by permission from zumpoems.com)
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
In our maniacal world madness cosplay nativity.
When sanctuary is cynical take cyanide outside in
a synchronized social suicide.
Life at your disposal realize life is disposable.
Lacking eye warble, below-zero countertop marble.
Stumble over the five o'clock Hobble.
Humble, Crumpled up macro-cookie crumble.
Spade shovel buried down transient mumble.
Blood musk parfume; false whale entrails.
Innards inward into inferior interior design.
Set fire to the nativity scene, in our maniacal world
It'll still continue in laughing, surround sound loud.
It'll still narcissistically orbit around me.
Outstanding flavour; some forever ever-lasting long.
Ever-after ended up ending fantastic. God dammit.
Gob-smacker, toe tapper, boot-smacker.
Folded laundry lay on the nighttime pavement.
It'll still go.
In the Age of Spin.
It just happen.
No way, It just happen?
It just happen.
It go like it just happen.
It go how it just happen.
What happen?
It just happen.
Yesterday filled my cup
Tonight I go solo
Today I refill my soul
Just me and myself
Self-care is today’s business
Recharging my spent innards
Tomorrow back into the wild
Next week back to the pile
Never alone with faith
Just me and my God
I need today to face tomorrow
Future requires loving the present
Tim Roth gets shot, and what emerges? Blood.
His innards act like wrecked intestines should.
Those fifties-movies injuns really suck,
with tactics redolent of Donald Duck!
“The whiteys circle wagons, as we feared:
so let’s just ride around them – get mown down!”
You’d see more bloodshed watching Charlie Brown.
And why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
Tim Robbins plans a prison break. Oh well,
they’ll catch him quickly when they search his cell.
It’s never searched, or posters changed, in fact.
And why was Thomas Hagan never whacked?
And Cage’s “Wicker Man” was just plain weird,
and not remotely scary. I’m at ease
with oddball cops with masks on: “Not the bees!”
But why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
“Commando” – Arnie’s shooting-up a storm:
a hundred dead a minute is the norm.
The baddies take ten thousand shots at him,
to no avail. They’re not from Arnie’s gym!
You want to know why Rin Tin Tin’s revered?
The dog’s so smart, he counts: he knows when you’ve
exhausted all six slugs – then makes his move.
Yet why does Tarzan never grow a beard?
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