“Me , Myself and Wine”

It is late
too late, truly for any self-respecting employee to be up
filling glasses and bellies and notebooks yet
here we are, flush-faced and warm
anxious with alertness, seeking a familiar numbness
today-well, yesterday now
doesn’t really matter
not the boss, nor the underlings
nor the smiles nor disputes of home
nor does it matter that I have a home, or a job
these identifiers put me in a majority
if it helps you better classify and catalogue my identity
may as well kill the bottle, only half a glass left
stare into the garnet red and become
become what we will
irresponsible
tired, come morning
and for what?
a ponderance on how Ginsberg became so compassionate
on how Bukowski loved his ugly world
on how impossibly small our reflections are
tonight we drink with Dylan Thomas
and we’ll talk about our mothers
yes, we will drink deeply
and think deep thoughts
knowing that all the while
no one will listen
knowing that we have done nothing
even if we have accomplished something
if it helps us sleep tonight

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Among Liars and Thieves”

Sometimes I ask myself what it’s all for
the struggle, expenditure and toil
existence is a lonely game
filled with misunderstood souls, each seeking
some glimpse of familiarity, of approval
we blind ourselves to obscure the truth
tamper with our own experiments
to feed our desire for results
when being right is more important than being accurate
but alas
that same humanity which gives us the ability to create
to discern beauty
to feel the very depths of emotion
also makes us fallible
oh artists, poets, visionaries
we are all but liars and thieves

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Skeletal”

the pen is not sacred
until it has written a work of art
as then is the vessel
the hands, the heart which feels
even the mind within
that creates
these are ideas of self
my hands, my paper, my mind
but without the body of work
they are only ideas of
pieces of a poet

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Inspiration”

to glance about humble space
seeking glory, hidden in the rafters
seems an exercise in futility

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.

“Well Received Advice”

sometimes there’s just nothing there
that’s not true, reply
there’s always something
even the barest traces of
and you have to scrape them all together
shape them into more
because that is what we do
that is how we write
even on this day
when it seems there’s nothing there

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.

“The Most Beautiful Man”

there he sat, my poet
filled to brim with fervor
pale fingers flinging his thoughts
with an almost careless grace
and untempered wit
as bits of himself were given
never to be returned
with anything resembling understanding
and he, unconcerned
I could not help but remember
those words which first caught me
unsuspecting, how unforgettable he
would come to be
I admired him there
for his conviction, his beauty
his wretchedness
and it was then that I knew
he was bound for greatness
even if only I saw it

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.

“Breaking Through”

We live our sorrows
and write our tragedies
every moment
as painful as the last
to justify a continued existence
in a world too weary
for the trite complacency
of satisfaction

Perhaps those we would name
victims are but those who choose
to live, to experience, to try
failure wounds, but is felt
far beyond the death spiral
of existential stasis
failure burns the blood
and bruises skin
reminds the fragile flesh
of that which is
held most dear

That intangible spark
through which, we
create, become,
or try, over and again
until we die
wealthy paupers of old men
or until
we find eternal shelter
within the arms of madness

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.

“Ka-Pow”

“It’s good for what it is.”
never meant to be insulting
doesn’t matter much now
when the balloon deflates
childlike wonder turned
to the bitter reality of
human inability to create
capable only of revisions to
previously established monologue
modern adaptations to old tales
my critical eye, cynical ear,
always leaves me as the asshole

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.

“Among Friends”

we sat in dark apartment
government housing, occupied by
anti-establishment poet
not my home, despite what we pretend
for a few weeks each year
he asked about my favored poets
we spoke of inspiration,
the desire to write, and
from where or when inspiration comes
I excused myself to my thoughts, to a shit
and found familiar friend
in a stack of books beneath the sink
Bukowski, on again about the races
and a smile came as I
reached for pencil and toilet tissue

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.

“Poetry Evolved”

he writes
she writes
they write
I write

and no one says a thing

I understand
why no one likes a poet
just look at us
at our useless fleshy bodies
which we bitterly cling to
our small dreams
of being famous, being fucked
of being seen as, being fucked
look at our complaints,
our anguished cries
Plato need not fear the poets
for we are not what once we were
Patriots, rebels, free-thinkers
refusing to be bound
to the too-straight lines of society
but now, we mold ourselves, contorted
to be a part of, not apart
and
receiving as much regard
as we deserve

© M. Black, 2016 All rights reserved.