Hammering the Bored

“I have problems,” he says
“Oh yeah?” I say, “Tell me.”
“My wife is driving me crazy,” he says
“You should fuck her more,” I say
“She doesn’t like to fuck,” he says
“You should tell her to get a hobby,” I say
“I also hate my job,” he says
“You should quit and be a farmer,” I say
“My boss is such an asshole,” he says
“You should quit, then kill your boss,” I say
“My house needs repairs,” he says
“You should burn down your house,” I say
“I’m not insured,” he says
“So get insurance, then light a match,” I say
“I don’t like your attitude,” he says
“Then you should stop talking to me,” I say
“You shouldn’t give advice,” he says
“Then stop asking it from me,” I say
… no one speaks
for a long moment …


“What’s that hammer for?” he asks
“To bash my hand in when I get too bored,” I say
“I would never do that,” he says
“I know you wouldn’t,” I say
“That’s grotesque,” he says
“You’re just like the rest of them,” I say
“going on and on about your problems,
not one of you willing to
bash in your own hand
with a hammer.
That’s why you’re all
so god-damned boring.”




O tangled mess of hopes and fears abound
Inside these cardboard walls we all are trapped
And here, with blinded sight and deaf from sound
Within pathetic pantomimes en-wrapped
We wile away the tepid, sordid hours
Oases of ideal we try to find
But here, anon, we’re sucked of sacred powers
And left to drift, an empty, useless rind
Yet we stand for much greater means than these
Our fate is not to float away on air
O tangled mess – my people! – hear my pleasStand tall and show the world you’re worth their care
And maybe in the end we all may prove
Even us hopeless humans can improve

mind of an idle body in a landscape alive with motion

Alien and somewhat wrong it seems that such an activity,
that is the creative expression from mind to hand and
hand to pen and pen to ink and ink to paper and
ink on paper to eye and back again to mind in endless cycle,
should feel out of place in a setting such as this.

The setting itself, with its extraneously panoramic and inspiring beauty,
you would at first believe perfectly ideal for such an endeavour as poetry
– or, indeed, any art form which takes that which is perceived through
the senses of eye, mouth, ear, nose, tongue and skin and
transposes into communicated bliss, or revelry, or simple contentment
for others to take in and enjoy themselves –
but sadly, one is compelled to think it is not so.

The mountains, ocean, grass, sand and trees
The people, faces, branches, leaves, limbs and voices
The clouds, boats and houses
The sun, sky, land and horizon
Are too adventurous to allow for sedentary observation.

The mountains cry out to be conquered,
teasing glory and excitement to any
with resolute bravery mastered
in which to set out upon their
treacherous slopes.

The ocean holds within its fathomless depths
a universe of untouched wonders
in which to revel, to explore.

The grass offers motherly comfort
to any with the inclination to lay
upon its bountiful bosom.

The sand is the embodiment of time’s enduring
onward march toward infinite rejuvenation
and renewal which may be witnessed
by any with the patience.

The trees stand as pillars of life’s recurring gift,
reminding any with hearts receptive
that they as well hold the power to
become more than what the form
they took at creation bore.

The people, infinitely varied and coloured,
examples of possibilities abound in the
day to day choices that we, as fellow travelers,
are capable of making.

The faces, leaves, limbs and voices
give us tools to use as we taste
all of creation’s wonders.

The clouds bear witness to our plight
and beckon us on to goals
above and beyond the reach
of said earthly tendrils.

The boats tempt us with passage
unto unknown places,
while the houses assure us that
others have embarked on ventures past
and lived long and prosperous enough
to lay down and rest.

The sun, sky, land and horizon are there and always have been,
and they tell us that we are as well, and we always will be.

Abound in this rich setting are other members of my species
who enthusiastically employ their senses, muscles and wills
to climb, swim, plunder, conquer, explore, swing, dive, build and enjoy
to their utmost capacity every tangible inch of the world
in which I plant myself in silent station to observe.

It is not beyond the scope of reason
why one feels the pull of obligation
to do something more
than simply sit,
and watch,
and write in a leather-bound book.

excuse me, could you please not in the least?

The mind that for,
I can only fathom a guess,
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull
behind eyes
atop a body
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussive beats
upon the hard and hollow table top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard or courtesy.

This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.

I curse you, oh chatterbox.
I curse you and hope
that both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous bean-stalks
which yields nary a bean,

the hats I once wore

see the people, watch them
wearing the hats and suits and jewelry that you wore once
and wish you could don again even if only for a night

see all the different faces you could make and varied words
you could picture uttering from your mouth

long for a myriad of realities that are not yours
but could have been

see, look, watch, long, envy
and accept your world as your own
yours is the world of many faces
worn in secret, in moments of experiment

see them all as failed trials
of paths sought after then abandoned
as false fulfillment

envy no more
you are yourself
beautiful and radiant and true
embrace that empty vessel