M.I.N.E.

We never walk at sundown.

We could live better on this planet.

You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.

If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call this planet “Earth”.

You have a forehead made of stone.
I remember the scent of stone.

A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,

but we could live better on this planet

so I guess
you’ll have your possessions
and I’ll have mine.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Taking Apart A Pot Of Coffee

while i was taking apart the pot of coffee
the hipsters looked in
then came the yuppies and suburbanites later.

dude
what are you doing they said
that thing ain’t a model of the universe
it’s not on tv
you’ll never survive like this.

looking up at the beige walls
i continued to take apart the pot of coffee
many many many winters passed
until i had a beautiful beach at my feet
many many many winters i must stress.

you can collect your paycheck for 30 years
watch tv
have a career
get clothes, money, houses, gadgets, cars
or you can take apart a pot of coffee for infinitum.

be forewarned
if you take apart a pot of coffee
people will heckle and belittle you
they’ll grow old in front of your eyes
if you’re good you’ll be sent to a state home
for doing so
if you do things right though
you’ll be happy regardless of your income or location
while taking apart this pot of coffee
in fact i don’t believe income or location will matter
in the long run while doing things as such.

you can take apart a pot of coffee
in a bathroom
on a spaceship
on a mountain top or while waiting on a table
for an mri.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Riddle Kippler

There was one long ago

a human who lived as one

but now the one of the collectively
none
had done the undone
that returns the silence of the era.

The ones and twos stand with shoulders and skin
and worry which is which, who will see

who will see me
do the things I do
standing as such in a way that others may be

looking at me.

I posture and fix my hair, set out,

go to the shopping center, greet, handshake

look out for life as American Idol on TV.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Spooky Season

When I was impoverished
in the multiple different ways
did you mean
what it is to eat
in the restaurant chains

the role playing tourists

the people who have aunts and uncles

the specialized drinks
the unnaturalized offspring

the séances walked backwards
to be holding the dead

in the waiting area spilled fajita meat
was picked up

by
a person
with
back
problems

now, the séances walk forward
the superchurches are peopled

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Perfectly Controlled Sectors

A world without elasticity
builds long memories in my dreams.

The world of having a job,
riding a train,
dreaming of retirement.

As I come in and see the
tall buildings.

Every second in time, I see,
this gets more and more
attuned.

The manner in which this is
all
broken into
perfectly controlled sectors
I cannot count.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

The 100 Trillion Distances

The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,

to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?

The light of my room
is a day
under which
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.

Their skin and my skin,

it is more different here than the planet the women live on,

the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!

it is more different here than the planet the women live on.

There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,

languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,

tears that no other civilization will know.

We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.

The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.

Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing

. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?

It is appearance.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

At The Axis Of Night

When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

A Heart Of Elasticity

I’m building a heart,
building a heart,
building a heart of elasticity.

With olive oil, heartbreak,
stress and disease,
smoking and running,
failure and fiendism,
I’m building a heart of
elasticity.

A net of the universe,
a fabric of breath,
a bender of molecules,

I build a new heart
and the old heart
inside of me,
the same singing heart
and the super-heart ringing
in the net
of the beat.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin