Lines Thin

Tireless, but I’m wired, stress.. Dive
Into the fire’s press; caress my
Notebook, as I have to capture it
All.. Hope I can laugh when trapped in
A fall. No time allowance to stall.. People
Finally reading my releases.. Criticized if
My other Self sneezes. No idea what meek
Is. Followed by cameras, lights.. I stand
To fight.. Tell Big Brother switch rudders. On my dish,
Numbers. Challenge mathematical laws–
Trapped in habits of flaws– look at
Skeptics, flashed and racked in a draw.
My pen grip, a shark’s jaw.. Hemingway.
Anyway, when we lay, tighten my scope.
Steal to my ideals, see how it feels.
Then my presence repealed, but they’ll never
see me squeal.

1/14/13

mikemadiganLeave a comment

ox decathects

Crashed. Neighboring through
There. Unknown landing. Vehicular
Meditation, written. Off course …

Crowded drama. Had enough.
So I start another pieces set. 2
a night. Or day. Need another

Pour for peaces’ sake. Next solitude
stretch, I coffin all stress, all scatteredness.
All misdirected mess.

Madness. No hat. Pen, a
Battered bat. Obligated, but I
oscillated. Reciting rivetingly in

idealized ideation. Momentary
persuasion. No more evasion.

12/22/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Blanketed

Monterey quality in her speech.
She tells me to take break from
Writing. Live, instead. Just for a
Couple hours. The project’s not
Going anywhere.

Need beach. More wave, floral spray–
Nothing happening. Guess I should
Walk away. Bothy ears, taped
To scene. It has to stay, though.
Or I’ll be in block. Too many thorn types.

A little shaken. But I’m stirring in another
Approach. Clear throat, recite write.
So I can run right. But I’m stationed,
By small pool, two mallards, hostile goose. I
Thought they were meant to be stage ingredient,
Not defense appendage.
I’m just a sandy castle kid …

12/18/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Shambolic

Only

54 minutes left in poetry prison.

Deciding if I want to leave or not.  In glass,

’07 Reserve Cabernet.  This blog, my Bay.

Want to stay.  With poems, not so much the blog.  I

feel haunted by words, language, pages, potential

manuscript.  See Self reading, expressive swells bleeding–

Switching my mode, just for a second.

If this were a true prison, I’d be in the waiting room

before exit.. departure, or separation.  Whatever it’s coined,

called.  Either way, I’m letting Self out at 11.  Maybe.

Now that I think, I didn’t write as many versed pieces

today as I did the last couple.  That deserves penalty, doesn’t it?

How much longer should I be forbidden from sentence’s

form, the paragraphs–  Wait, why am I doing this?

To have more independent efforts.

Poem, a project.  On its own.  I’m tired.

I won’t lie.

I don’t want to lie.

Me, the exhausted, full, lazy lion.  Looking at her book,

on couch by me, left.  She smiles, holding flower.

I bend brow, intently in moments I think are mine.

Langston, do you see what I’m hoping for?  If not, then push me.

To something.  Anything.  I’m too old for attempts.

Need product.  Something to pedal.

Do poems get pimped?

Hate that word, but really…

Ready to jump at another page.  In this cell?

No.  Outside, with this inside scope.  Self-macarizing.

What else can I do.  Especially in this seat, right before I’m released.

40 minutes.

Hoping I get daedal, so I’ll step decalescently.

Hot, cold– angular, forward.  How cares.

She tells me to leave, be free.  Hmm, I say.

Free.

What does that mean?  Suppress my questions.

Branch fall, just to side.  No gust.

Just my fuss.

Gate separate.  Walking.

Offend repeatedly.  Intentionally.

So can have my bed back.

It’s made.

I want to lay.

 

12/12/12, Wednesday

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Items invade. Not theory. Clouds
With folded grumble. Clean slate,
at dreams’ gate. Finally, free
Skate. Investigate bindings in life’s
Tape. Legends, tribal, lighting. Before
wet specks.

12/11/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Self2Note – hum

6:40a. Up, but not sure
Why. Keeping Self in this
Poetry prison. Surprised. Thought,
Surely, I would have scribble sentence
Stacks by now.. Failed with targeted.

Little Kerouac, curiously dormant
Upstairs.. Must have needed more
Serene sleep. Now me. Tired
suddenly.

Do I need another hour? Good
Luck getting that, writer. Only
1 item menu 2day. Good. Need off.

Wonder when the rain wants another
Show. When do I? Need 2edit first–

12/11/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Hear

The words, bottled, poured. Need to
Be at keys, typing. A glass or
3 would help. Lunch break, time
assigned. Do I approve? Not really.
But a fight would breed more pages.
On move, type faster.
Tired, just want to sit facing screen.
It’s almost done, that book–
Interim stoutness. Next click,
Descending. Not in any mood for this
Session. Just being honest. So can
This ever reach a shelf? Good question
Here, I’m self-hired. So I’m on break. Now–
Listening to my son’s songs, that tenor’d
Optimism, I’m again re-schooled. He’s
Ordering more verse from me, 2 attire
in Poetry.

11/29/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

Structure, Finish

Too much constitutes 2 much,
I’ve decided. I can stop when I
Want, I realize. Finally, Room2Self–
Collection. No class tonight, I should
Be grading. Is that responsible?
[Answer: yes] then I’m electing other
Time expenditure. Like what? Wasting
Away, with these rhymes, songs. I’m
Gone. This lack, this beautifully plated
Void.. Perfect for poetry. It is poetry.
No device. Just pen. And so I watch
Sun claws carve their own entrance
Through fence– urgency of day, mine.
Need another latte.. Gallons, musically
Timed.

11/12/12

mikemadiganLeave a comment

More Notion

Strings, all gone. What I sing, a bomb
Wrong. But I’m Human. Mistakes made. Skate with brazen blades.
My wake, stay laid in wades. In my
Same writing, deciding knots I need
To attack. Capped in the map’s lap.
The new James Joyce. I’m hardly
The tame choice. At the end of the
Day– my writing’s from pen in a
Play. Shakespeare, looking into lakes
Clear. You can’t shake fear when the
Talons slide under the skin, wrong decisions in weeks, blunder and sin.
Recapitulate odd visitors to my primary. Trees in sizzle bake, pleas
Do tickle-take. No sense, I’m too
Tense. Pull back inertia, and vice
Versa. Imagine conversations with Poe, his raven, ’cause I’ve been brazen. Self maven. No guru, but what I’ve been through left me scarred. Far under par, but hardly. Further invigorated by what seemingly marred me.

mikemadiganLeave a comment