Friday, September 23, 2011

Breathe

I'm thinking that I should do more than simply post poetry on here. My irreverent skewering of current events and liquor or something like that. What say you?

This poem is about breathing and my various failings at doing so. Get some.

Breathe


I can’t breathe
fire
but I can speak smoke

I can’t breathe
sometimes when I hold her
like a conversation that begs to be had
while running at the suicide pace of the prodigal son
afraid he’s arrived too late
I can’t breathe
feeling into being without the perfect string of words
at the dazzling heights necessary for a fall
worthy of bible tragedies

I can’t breathe
for fear of blowing the world off its axis

I can’t breathe
with the staggering weight of brand new gods
crushing my chest

I can’t breathe
on Jupiter’s moons
though there is some debate to suggest otherwise

I can’t breathe
underwater

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Astro-Man

This is the first of a series of poems dealing with the character of Astro-Man.

Have fun.

Astro-Man #1


Astro-Man wears an ice blue cape,
a fireside chat smile, and the cosmos on his chest

yeah, we were all a little safer with him around.

he had a thousand arms made of polished bronze
for hugging the whole city.

when our city cried broken glass he made it look like diamonds
yeah, we were all a little better off with him in the sky

ain’t no villains no more
so theren’t no one t fight
don’t need a fist-swinging, wife-stealing, white-toothed
badass like Astro-Man
with no one t fight
reckon that’s why he took t killing
crime of passion they callt it


the renowned philanderer and philanthropist,
self-proclaimed savior,
thorny crowned king of image and PR
Astro-Man was found guilty
of homicidal negligence and dereliction
of duty.

He is currently beyond our reach.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Thin Black Line

Soooo, I know I said that I would update this blog once a week and apparently, I missed a week. No one said a word about my missed week so that makes me think that no one reads this. Mayhap that's the truth...

Anyways, a word before the poem: in police circles, there are two kinds of people- law abiding citizens and criminals and the thing that separates them is the police force ie. the thin blue line...

Thin Black Line

I learned to kill monsters
before I learned to tie my shoes-

I considered the great responsibility
of bringing criminals to justice
and bringing justice to criminals
as my shield to bear-

I felt the staggering weight
of what we call ‘good and evil’
and the unstoppable force that drives it
and the immovable object in its path-
or the other way around-

I looked into the abyss
before my first day of big kid school
and found evildoers looking back at me;
monsters in every closet and under
every bed-

I became a concerned citizen
of
gotham/metropolis/keystone/central
city-
but those places have no hotlines to congressmen
so I asked my caped crusader,
“what is to be done?”

He helps those who help themselves
the Good comic Book once said-
I bought hockey pads
and a mask that velcro’d
over my face-

I became the thin black line.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Bigger

It's been almost a month. Does it feel that long to you? Maybe you don't wait for these poems the way I imagine you do. I like to think that you do though because that matters to me.

If it's any sort of consolation, every day I don't write a poem feels like a week. So a month in blogyears is like a lifetime in poettime.

But now, I've got lots saved up and I've got some trojan horses to pull from the stables. So what say you to a poem a week for a month???? Yay or nay?

Bigger


I am Bigger than black-

I have a mirror the size of africa
and I ask it questions in rhyming couplets-

I am more than slavery and slaves
and slavebreakers,
african princes who came to the colonies with nothing
but their lives and left with less.

I am more than house niggers eating scraps
from the master’s table.

I am not the so-called negro in America;
I am not an african in America-

I am greater than the sum of my parts
scattered and reassembled at appomatox.

I am a bigger word than miscegenation-

I am larger than horse-faced gods and lion-breasted goddesses

I am beyond the pale
Roman-Dutch-British occupation.

I am older than my face.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Good Man

It's been like two weeks since the last time that I posted on here. I don't have new stuff- there I said it. Everything I have is at least three weeks old (which for me is old). And not like, I wrote it three weeks ago- I mean that the last time I looked at it was three weeks ago so I probably wrote it over a month ago.

The last post- Sometimes, It's Less Than Always, was the most recent thing that I've written. That was one of those moments where I've got to put some things in words so that I can make sense of them. Which brings me to my next point and why I don't have new shit.

Atypical Depression is a subtype of Major Depression notable for intense mood reactivity and personal rejection sensitivity causing impaired social functions blah blah blah, I'm not a shrink. (and heightened cravings for carbohydrates-that's not relevant but does explain my gaudy love of the gummi bear).

So I said that to say this: My mood, as of late, has been pretty decent which is good for getting out, going running, drinking responsibly, and being almost entertaining to be around. All of those things are terrible conditions for writing poetry. Thusly, old poems. I hope you still like it, precious reader, because I still like you.


Good man

When we were little, we use to stand as high as we could
on a hill and wave at prisoners in the yard.
She would hold my hand and whisper,
“What if they get free” and I’d say, “Don’t worry
lil lady, I’ll protect you,” and call her a damsel
even though we didn’t know what it meant.

She’d punch me in the arm and tell me she was a girl
who didn’t need a boy.

Well, now she’s a woman-
burning like the highway sun and she still doesn’t need a boy.
I hold her hand and I joke
that we would be great together
and she says,
“A good man is hard to find”
and
“I need a guy just like you.”
and I joke
that there’s only one of me and she kisses me
on the cheek and asks if spaghetti’s okay, because it’s all
she knows how to cook
and I tell her it’s exactly what I wanted
and I only care that she’s the one who made it
for me.

So we eat and we laugh and we dance
and I can’t help but wonder where I am
that I’m so hard to find.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Sometimes it's less than always

Two things today. Firstly (is that a word? My vote is no but I've committed and like our last president, I will not change my decision even when I am wrong) is the issue of my new film work. I put together a reel of just about everything I did during my last year as a college student. I'd appreciate it if you would watch it.

Just looked it up- it is a word. Don't know why it looked weird.

Watch this.


Nextly, is the issue of poetry. Look at this.

Sometimes it's less than always

Sometimes, there’s nothing I can do to keep from crying
Sometimes, I drink beer in the shower
Sometimes, I think about you
Sometimes, I just think about your ass or your hair or whatever
Sometimes, I drink until I can’t see
Sometimes, people call me Mr. Coleman until they realize how small
I truly am
Sometimes, the sun hides behind a cloud and I find it hard
to believe it still exists
Sometimes, I know how to conjugate verbs in arabic
Sometimes, you smile at me
Sometimes, I pretend you’re smiling just for me
Sometimes, I can run for hours and never get tired
Sometimes, you frighten me
Sometimes, I get tired
Sometimes, two plus two equals five
Sometimes, I wonder if you could be won with a stroke of my pen
Sometimes, I am the fox
Sometimes, I smoke cigarettes like ceremonial incense
Sometimes, I am the hound
Sometimes, I am beautiful
Sometimes, I can’t be seen until I drink
Sometimes, I think I’m good enough for you.
Sometimes, I’m wrong

Monday, June 20, 2011

Coffee Grinder

I'm not entirely sure but I'm fairly convinced that I may have invented the poetry sequel. Don't look too deeply into that, just take my word for it.

On a side-note: I have a confession to make. Most of the poems you read on The Diary of the Merchant Boy is B-sides. This is not my favorite stuff and I'm sorry.

You're incredibly important to me but so is eating and lots of publications consider any poem on a blog as 'previously published'. They don't like 'previously published'. I hope that you'll be able to read some of my favorite stuff in magazines at some point but until then, there is only this blog.

I hope you like this stuff even though it's not my best. Here is the poetry sequel. Somebody oughta say 'amen'.

Coffee Grinder
the coffee grinder woke me-
she was already awake
in her robe in her kitchen.
The whole kitchen smelled like arabica.

she drinks good coffee

she wouldn’t look over the top of that coffee mug-
she just kind of bit the corner
of her bottom lip in that way she does.

her first words: “I’m old enough
to be your mother”

“No, you’re not”
“You don’t know how old I am”
“That’s fine, because I don’t care”

Her hands gravitated to that slightest, cutest,
softness of her belly.

“She’s prettier than me. And younger. I looked her up
on my daughter’s Facebook.”

She re-filled her coffee mug- she drinks her coffee black
‘like the soles of my come-fuck-me heels’, she likes to joke.

“Lots of women wear beauty like clothing- but you-
you walk in it; gather it around you and let it chase after you”

“You’re too young for me.”
“You’re too old to know I don’t deserve you.”

She snatched up all her hair- that she insists feels like straw-
and rubberbanded it without a thought
and floated over to fill up that mug.

“we should go out for coffee”
“What’s wrong with my coffee?”
“There’s a whole lot more out there than
drinking your coffee black.”

She looked up at me over the top of that coffee mug.