Beware the Potato

There is a potato.
It is round, it is small, it is
brown.
I'm sure it's warm,
though I've never ventured to stick a fork in it.

See the potato, how it rolls comically
on the ground
It rolls, foreign sounds squelching from it
Wheezing from it
Like a language pouring from drunken, unfamiliar lips
Clipped like spores, like poisonous horns.

Oh, how the potato tumbles
It tumbles, and it quakes.
It shakes, this potato, and it is comfortable
where it sits
on the ground
brown.

A fine fuzz lines its skin
There may be imperfections, there may be spuds.
The potato may be chilly once in a while.
But the potato rolls, and it rolls, and it rolls

This potato, in its translucent glass box
Dim with the condensation of heavy breath
This latent, friendly murderer.

Beware the potato,
for behind its carved smile
Who knows?

The road higher.

If you know you're going to die
You might as well be dead.
If you know the end of the road is hurtling towards
you, might as well
pull over now, or so you say
I say different.
But inevitability comes like a furious train
steaming, eyes slits, unfeeling
What am I but soft flesh, wet insides
claiming a hard exterior?
What am I to stand in front of a train?
And who gives a damn, that there were
or would have been
another season, perhaps a lifetime within it
Of the same lifetimes past
Of the joys, embraces, the happy chaos
Getting hopelessly lost in ourselves
The mountain roads we took, not knowing where
they ended, but trusting
Travelling higher, and higher, well knowing
There would come a peak, and afterwards the descent
What bitter fools we are
To not have pulled over then.
But I say different

Chicken Little

Breaks, lights. Everything's falling down.
The sky is fucking falling, the sky is fucking falling.
It could be rain, or maybe my face is just leaking.
My nose is. Right?
What the fuck was that back there?
Where the fuck were you all when I needed you?
Bitches. Right?
Everyone hates me, and everyone hates me.
Fakes, lights. Smoke is billowing out the window.
Your mom is fucking calling. Her child is fucking bawling.
It isn't pain. If it is it doesn't hurt anyway.
Everyone fucking hates me.

Power Overwhelming

Mind spacious, mouth audacious, but inside I really don't feel bold
Linoleum tiles under my feet, I didn't realize Hell would be so cold
The devil's got a gavel that unravels what he sees as justice
muster all my hatred and resentment, anger forms their butress, fuck this
I peeeeel off the sticker on my left breast pocket
The sound of rockets flying in my ears, I heard the pops but missed the shots that brought it
The eyes are hollow, the hair is scarce, the mouth is gaping but not for air
Spittle at the edge of every seige, every lambast
You arrive at my house
Wallow. A mire, Anger. Acceptance,Rejection.
You are an ever-loving piece of shit
I bestow golden showers of piss and hatred
Served warm in every cup while unyielding eyes
watch my every fucking move
Watching
There's no founding for this,
Never once was there ever founding
for this
And a wishful hole
In which you fall
Wallow
Wallow in the mire
Forgive me, I didn't realize you actually don't give a shit.

The Remix

This is not a poem.

Ok so, I was looking over a lot of my poetry (if you've been to this site... unlikely... you'll notice most of the poems are not on here anymore) and found them really lame and unoriginal. Prof. Inguito was right, everyone writes about the same thing. So I've deleted that little blurb that started this whole thing out that outlined my project, and I've decided to create this new remix of my project.

Here are the rules...

Every poem I write in here is going to be inspired by a person in my life. They could be someone really significant to me, or even just people in passing, classmates, teachers etc. I might not always specify who. In this fashion, I hope to create a crowd of people through poetry. Hopefully, the feeling that will ensue will be one of meeting people through my eyes, walking around in my world. After all, I consider myself a people person. After each poem I'll write a very brief reflection on who it is the poem came from and how it came, because if this all goes according to plan, you won't always be able to decipher who it's about, considering it could be intimate relatives to me or total strangers.

Enjoy

...

I had an idea. Since Blogger likes to put new posts on top (for good reason), I'd rather not spoil the entire poem just because you saw the reflection first. So what I'm going to do is leave the reflection in the comments section, and you can read it if you want some insider information on who the poem is about, the process, whatever I felt like writing about it.

If not, well then you just get a nifty collection of poems, plus these two lame interjections titled "the remix".

Actually I'm going to paste this in the first post. I'm workin out the kinks, slowly but surely. Maybe we'll get some pictures up in this piece as well