Innards Poems

Your anonymous blog

Your anonymous blog

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)

An Abandoned Rural Station

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.

Smirk

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.

Solo

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

What's the Deal with Tarzan?

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?

Those Nightmares After Midnight

Have to keep the door closed
(after that midnight treat)
The coyote or wolf far off
(too close)
Can’t remember the plot
(salsa has tightened its grip)
upon awakening
(not at all sure of that)
the widening of the dark
I open the door slowly
to the shadows
(a strange light and likeness)

The wild animal is scarier
enclosed, inhibited
(it tears at my throat, claws
my innards - from a distance)

The pillow next to me
has no face or hair
(hope he’s living
downstairs!)
I need his warmth, his touch
(I’m shivering cold)

ALL THE LIGHTS GO ON
the bathroom
the sink
the bedroom
the hallway
the living room
the stairs

He’s there, in his chair
I tell him I need him
He says he will be along
shortly, so
I remain, reading
in my recliner
shortly waiting

then the warming begins
side to side
his hand over mine
a warmer blanket

after midnight the wolf
will wait to attack
and with waiting
he satisfies his appetite

I’m still cold at midday
but my fears sleep

Rivers Jumps Our Banks

Households unhitch, clapperboard hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging, as washing lines
and telephone wires twist
netting loosening foundations.

Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
planks bob in the swell, chests and their drawers
billow and fill.

Bed-springs gape, cupboards
turn inside out, what surfaces
is the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.

Even as mailboxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives so a far afield,

or that this world was really in fact,
just this shipwreck on a shore
that is always moving.

What we once thought of
as an address,
has turned out to be only a buoy
on an ever-moving wave.

The Beast

   The Beast is in the yard.
   Says he's a vegetarian,
   But I wonder at the blood.

   He has a verbiage that means naught!
   As a Beast,
   He eats a lot.

   My neighbors, friends, and workers disappear!
   Their wives and children,
   Say the Beast was near!

   He says he's a vegetarian.
   But someone's meat,
   Is in his teeth!

   No social services for him.
   No healthcare,
   No food stamps in the end.

   As a vegetarian,
   The Beast doesn't care.
   About anyone from over there!

   His brow is clear.
   Claws stained with ink.
   I think its blood and innards that stink.

skating upon saturn’s rings

         skating upon saturn’s rings 

             endless ice cold arcs
     innards of past moons shattered
            blades reopen wounds
        in my wake scars and chaos
       proof ~ that I was never here

Waxing Lyrical

I love her easy smile
Am mesermerized by her beauty
She has the gentleness of a Gazzel
The grace of a Girraffe browsing 
Upon the majestic accacias of the Savana
Her voice makes Fairies jelous in the nether world
Her's is a love the Angels and Jinn alike crave for
She has that tantalizing quality her Kind are famed for
When am with her all mine good moods ignite in love
I stare at the laptopscreen thinking only of her beauty
Her love leaves my innards all mellow and wanting more
When with her it's as though time grows wings and flees
It's with her I chose to make mine life revolve around
Till eternity as we hold hands and walk meadows of Genna

In the Invisibility

whereas I, by chance, talking to myself, finding myself
alone, enclosed by four walls and a door, knock
to see, in the invisibility, with x-ray ability, not held,
if you dear reader, sitting by your nightlight, might
switch it on and find a word to speak silently
or out loud; your choice. the ones you borrow

from a native tongue, feeling
their incomprehensible weight,

stopping mid-sentence, to ponder if you are moved
in the slightest bit; I’m biting my lip in anticipation,
though I’ve no inkling that you're mulling over
my thoughts, my doubts, my innards, my all.

now, I, think of you, sitting by a scintilla of light,
moonlight marvels at the roundness of your lips
as you nearly sing your “o’s;” sonnets seem
sensual alongside the bed, though always grieving.
love is a dog, a walk in the woods, a lark.

leave me be. let me remember you as I long to.
don’t say goodbye, but leave my sighs on the table,
where you first met me, and I almost met you,
and you, dear reader, take back up with me,

though now there’s a familiarity between us,
lost in the shadows, amidst the stars
and you can nearly hear me breathing.

Halloween Hangover

Unsettling it was
came from where
I did not know,
the jagged claw upon 
my chamber floor

so near the cot
where I nightly lay,
have dreamed so snug
feeling quite secure,

sharpest at the edges

capable of tearing flesh
and bone, my innards
deep

how could this hideous
thing unbeknownst stealthily 
creep -- 

perhaps always near
I shuddered to think

somewhere attached to
my spirit long ago -- a
thought too repugnant 
I did not want to hear it

from my troubled mind
hastened I to clear it

hungrily latched-on to my
soul, I prayed desperately
to be free of it

confronting my 
original abomination --

Born To Walk On Waves

I was not born to the moors; my roots are planted
by wild running seas,
even so, a rolling heath is a green tide heaped
into wind-sculptured waves,
low breakers that may tug you deeper,
or crash upon any too certain a mind.

March is a good time
to be a thin branch in a treeless landscape.
You can catch hold of a wind-serpent
in your upheld hands,
a sea-creature born to be the innards of the sky.
When a high rain surfs mountainous air,
you can be pitched pell-mell onto thrashing shores
shorn of any footholds.

I was not begot to be native to these moors
yet they deliver me into that wild ocean
counterpoised between land and sky,
and there, you may also wave-walk
or be born again.

Prairie Winds

March is a good time
to be a thin branch
in a treeless landscape.
You can catch hold of a wind-serpent
in your upheld hands,
a sea-creature born to be
the innards of the sky.
When high rains surf
a flat-faced landscape
mountains of air,
can pitch you pell-mell
onto darkly crashing shores,
margins you once mistook
for yourself.

The Empty Pea Pod: Rimbaud et Verlaine

pact fusion hath brewed
welds cauldron spewed spit fiery
sparse talents biformed renowned
oddity affair
ardent youth pose statuesque
fragile innards touch grotesque
bursts end aggression
severs espousal rapport
guilt aspires realist soars

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