F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S

F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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some of the best poetry is about those deep & penetrating
emotions, just primal enough to allow poets & philosphers
to wax intellectual about them. love, rage, hate, fear,
sadness... all of these things are what make us human,
all of these things are what make us poets. sometimes
there is nothing better than a few moments alone with
a line or two, written just for you, 200 years ago.

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The Writers Poem

Clean white paper,
staring into the void

Neatly ruled lines,
judging every written word

Deadline rushing nearer,
threatening to overtake

Pen touching down on paper,
bleeding my soul as the ink

All to you the reader,
keeper of the dream

voyager

antithesis

between us
a taut unsharing exists
smoked air hazes our
understanding
vague words stretch
our love not strong
enough
to survive
the mutual unseeing
of wide spectrum
philosophies
containing
too many shades of grey
and not a single
solid
line
over which our hands
might
touch
the chasm is too wide
for crossing

demonika

mp5

single repeat can't touch
overwhelming adrenaline
prepare, and it still pulls
one second down

thought trails to meme
only on tv, hands of control
high risk raid, self defense
two seconds down

magazine empty
pause to admire killing technique
fresh circle of pinpoints
silence returns

dis

rage

Rage deep within me,
rising up from years ago.
Memories of fleeing,
and having fun.
I wish to reach for that time again,
Picking up the source, I look around,
dropping it to the ground.

What once was, and is no longer ...
Hatred for all of those ones,
from years ago,
pureness in expression,
and clear of intent.
Now reaching over, I picture them,
as I pull the trigger.

Smashing them to pieces,
shattering the pictures of the ghosts,
that I wish never were ...
I fall to the ground,
to only find that there is no end.

Rage deep inside of me,
burrowing deeper and deeper,
until one of these years,
I will just all out explode,
and will never be pieced back together, again.

For, only one can deal so much,
as rage builds up in all of me.
Violent scenes, past glimpses,
I shudder to have to even thought of them,
Closing my eyes, one more time,
I take a deep breath,
to never arise.

Me, Myself, and I. October 21st, 1997.

half-mast

(or; ripping off bukowski again)

i am writing this poem with a black pen at work
it is an expensive pen and the ink comes out smoothly
this is being written on college-ruled loose-leaf paper
it is friday, august 1st, 1997
it is 5:32p.m.
there are three cars in the station
now there are two

across the street is the municipal complex
there is a library, a police station, and a firehouse
there is a U.S. flag waving in front of it
it is at half-mast
that is where i got the title for this poem

the flag is at half-mast because a fireman died in his sleep last friday
he was 47 years old and his name was ronald hartranft
i never met him but i think his wife was a monster
i never met her either

he did not burn to death saving lives like he should have
instead, last friday, his wife looked at him and he looked at her
and he turned around, climbed the stairs, and went to bed
i don't blame him

nor do i blame us
laying in bed instead of saving ourselves
glancing at the clock between cigarettes
laughing at it
with our hands at our throats
hoping the other would finish it off
and then..
release

you get up to go
gather your things
pause by the stairs
turn around and
you look at me and i look at you
and i wave my hand at half-mast
you smile
wave back
turn again
climb down the stairs
and leave

and i roll over
give my salute
and go to
sleep
fighting the fire that took hartranft last friday

he was 47 and his wife
was a monster

styx - [email protected]

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E D I T O R S: [email protected] & [email protected]
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997