SoMars (South of Ditmars):A Literary Blog of Hysterics and Mayhem

A Rough Draft....(Ok little Monets out there Aren't we all Though)

2012-01-09T07:20:00.000-08:00

A Rough Draft…

I live in the gap between boarding and exiting
and the vexation of never being able to walk
through steel like a ghost.

I told you I don’t drink anymore. I’ve made
adjustments to my consciousness and although
there are many holes in my plot and it’s useless
to stop time and fix what is shattered or broken
I keep urgently forcing my words, my intentions,
my projections upon you…

I’m not an act or even if the camera shining in
my eyes tells me so, I’m just being myself .
No one holds cigarettes like I do with thumb
and forefinger out of some dime store novel
alleyway. No one downs a beer as if beaten
back by heat and gulping as if a glass of chilled
water in desert glare.

I don’t drink anymore but to stare off a massacre
I must go to Otto’s Shrunken Head and blow up
the lonely person’s head I know until it is healthy
and lucid.

Yet, I see blood in her sight and wonder how it does
not make her blind. She smiles at me and tells me
to join her at the bar for drinks. She orders one of
those drinks that makes you believe you are some
kind of tropical island vacation when you are actually
in a retro bar on the cusp of spring in Manhattan
to watch some amateur stand-up comedy all the while
managing to keep your food down.

I am not miracle on 34th street but I pay my rent to the
Bronx. I hopscotch over the dog shit down my streets
and avenues. Each and every morning my brain is like
a scrambled egg oozing out of an overly buttered roll
and down my chins staining my shirt. I am sardonic in
a can of half peeled opened eyes fluttering as I push my
way through the automatic doors, and hope I wake up
in a semi-conscious state somewhere new…

I will follow you and sit down and feign giggling just to
stave off a massacre. You ask how am I? What am I up to?
I say, which one? I feel obligated to save her and everyone else
excluding myself from repetitive destruction, from history. I am
not an impasse in a relationship. I must be selfish, not annoyed
and put these grating apprehensions out of my mind. I can save
myself from insanity….

by Micah Zevin 2011-2012

Keep plugging away even while attempting not to trip into the cesspool....

Modern Manifesto (Walled off Streets but Occupied by who?)

2011-12-22T20:36:00.001-08:00

I will fight for my button pushing
resume typing book searching digits
until the rusted metal gates shut and
the Wi-Fi fades into the cracked concrete
by the bus stop that takes me to the subway
on my way home.

I will fight against the narrow-minded power
hungry pretend subway riding CEO slurping
billionaire mayors and governors who want
to give a free pass to the rich while extracting
the stitches out of the state: civil service workers,
firemen, policemen, teachers, librarians, nurses,
who hold our bodies together, our homes, our
minds with masking tape, construction paper,
staples, presence and a hose on a ladder.

I will fight, I will sit-in, stand-in, sleep-in on the
Capital stairways, petition until slime and grime
and crimes are rectified? And the crust is removed
from your eyes and the rich have one less summer
home to return to, one less yacht, one less crystal
chandelier or Camaro so the state can pay its bills
and I can continue to live my lower middle class
economic dreams and not be so scared that I will
let my parts up/off breaking at the seams…

I will fight because the termites are multiplying
and the dragons are spewing fire onto our rapidly
disintegrating paychecks and wrecking our non-
existent saving abilities further. I ask your mr.
volition, mr. politician what about my crashing
ceiling?, my debt ceiling, the parasites collecting
my sanity in a locked box of broken legal tender
and throwing away the key?

And I will fight because I am more than just vexed
by hexes I don’t believe at moment like these,
but I do believe in a potluck of bad luck, of tyrants
and schmucks mangling my entirely shriveled futures
forcing me into a darkness, a creature afraid of light,
and moving onward….

by Micah Zevin 2011

Complexes (The Modern Condition#+++always occupied with itself....)

2011-11-17T07:20:00.001-08:00

I pop lozenges like they were Xanax. I am not a phallic symbol (cymbal?). At work, when I point fingers I amstatuesque and somnambulant andintuitive. I clean myself in the staffbathroom as if I’d been exposed orinflicted with germ warfare. I am azombie so in order to think properlyhis/her/your brain (unseen forces)must be consumed, even if inadequateor tainted or mangled in some way,because I will never be satiated, satisfiedso it will never conclude until you chop off my head as if I was some kind of manypronged modern digitized Medusa. I only drink tea on the slim chance that the crumbled leaves will offer me some wisdom about paradoxes, dilemma’s that have become inscrutable to me in the faceof advertisements, chemical dependence, economicanxiety. Maybe, as a result of being resistant to suggestion and easily distracted (ADD)by shinysexy things it is difficult to form a sentence or some sporadic revisionist poetic histories and click send click send, impatience praying like/tosome kind of literary/illiterate living gods….by Micah Zevin 2011

Projections or Projectiles....Occupied...my blog reborn one year later...

2011-11-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

Projections or projectiles…? (Occupied)

Am I free? I’m not free. What’s free mean anyway?
Putting your snout in the trough with the other
assembled pigs at feeding time until the whistle
blows and it is time to go. Sitting on the couch
in a trance, watch DVR programs and cablevision
while the debt mounts and the bills go unpaid.
Nothing is free in this world excerpt or not even
your anguish at foreclosing, being homeless,
forget about not even accomplishing your goals,
living up to the standards of your parents, your wife,
your children yet to be born. Do I have time to be
forlorn when I can’t get what I need and feed the
blood of my fortune beholden to your expectations,
your disappointments, your apparitions?

by Micah Zevin November 2011....folks

My blog Reborn ha ha ha ha lol! read on if you dare....

Poem#24:The Massage Parlor: My back has potholes...PoetryMonthApril..

2010-04-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

The Massage Parlor

my back has potholes
squeeze with feet and fists rub oils
exit work blues clues
is a fart a beautiful sound
await my release...

Micah Zevin 2010

The Sardine Can: Poem #22 and Poem #23: At The Hotel

2010-04-27T20:26:00.000-07:00

The Sardine Can or Subterranean

peel the can back slow
take out crack pipes hide in smoke
everything dies swarmed
open sesame no exit
fool I was here first

At The Hotel

the black dress confess
do pests wear old lady vests
mess with the mess less
blame psycho in the mirror
check out prophecies

by Micah Zevin 2010

Incentives: Poem#21 April is Poetry Month...hi ho!

2010-04-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

"Incentives"

Underlings like things
money carries shiny snacks
nap sacks to eat
we long for praise and patience
we crack toes and wait

by Micah Zevin 2010

Poem#20: From The Top...AprilisPoetryMonth

2010-04-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

From The Top

rhapsody in spew
at the consolation of thieves
where reprieve means shit
lecture moles and sheep with heat
they will gasp and hurl

by Micah Zevin 2010

Giant Tanka: Poem#19: 'The Looking Glass' AprilisPoetryMonthproject

2010-04-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

'The Looking Glass'

i walk the ocean floor
in venom black underwear
ready to spread ink
onto vultures beaks at dawn
i have tossed my turn

why remember dreams?
to make fetish past peep-holes?
in still waters we drown
just as we live with the fishes
all is alarming

i peel back sardine cans
and watch my father cry hunger
at palates assault
he's not mystified by loss
just disappointed

The blame blindfolds me
and places me in freezers
at the butcher shop
I opened her diary
It bore through me fast

when shiny new pans
attack will knives follow too?
wear baseball helmets
as darts shoot from her eyes
see my reflections

by Micah Zevin 2010

"Dead Again" ( butthistimeforreal: A tribute to Pete Steele of TypeONegative

2010-04-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

"Dead Again": A Tribute to Pete Steele, lead singer of Type O Negative...

With sharp teeth of steel
you sang to night your demons,
romance's, many sweeth deaths.
Kisses were not just bloody in
the mind or dominated by October
Rust. They left an impression,
the mark of keys opening hill tops
reserved for some Nordic gods on
their way to the heavens.
If your heart failed it was not
because your heart was a failure.
Your fingers knew the right strings
to pick...

by Micah Zevin 2010

RIP Pete Steele of Type O Negative

Poem #17: Through the Storm: AprilisPoetryMonth...

2010-04-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

Through the storm

Umbrellas shatter
I am wet and done
Spellbound by surrounding pools
I watch birds scatter
I smell the sewage...

by Micah Zevin 2010

Transformation(s): Oil in the Ocean: Poem #16-April is Poetry Month

2010-04-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Transformations

her plumage lost sheen
when she fell in the black vat
there was two more eyes
and a longer neck rose above
branches to view what was never...

by Micah Zevin 2010

Hallucinations: Poem #15 April is Poetry Month-See it and Believe!

2010-04-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

Hallucinations

i miss the boat house
by inches in my sailboat
I live in the breeze
and breathe with gills like a fish
Now, I am not here...

by Micah Zevin 2010

With Time: Poem # 14 April is Poetry Month

2010-04-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

With Time

we are not round
dip us in dirt and sunshine
we will not wither
unless you forget we grow
or shrivel into dust...

by Micah Zevin 2010

AmericanTanka#13: In the Air: Inspired by the Polish Gov't plan crash.

2010-04-19T07:56:00.000-07:00

In The Air...

in the plane a fly
gets into the pilot's ear
as he skims the trees
He thinks about the government
They are together...

by Micah Zevin 2010

The Food Court: Another Tanka Poem #12

2010-04-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

The Food Court

in the maze of food
she searches for hamburgers
when she feels thick as a brick
it clears her minds fried debris
There's no room to fill...

by Micah Zevin 2010

The Mood Swing:Yet Another Tanka...Poem #11 April is Poetry Month:

2010-04-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

The Mood Swing

while lying on couch
tears of anger shoot inside
as reality show
exclamations pelt with stones
I let my wounds bleed

Micah Zevin 2010

Poem #10 Creation: A Tanka

2010-04-14T07:30:00.000-07:00

Creation

at secret harbors
nets catch newly born children
fisherman blubber
and smoke cigarettes deeply
as each leave the womb

by Micah Zevin 2010

American Tanka#9-"In Springtime" AprilisPoetryMonth-Onthespotpoems

2010-04-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

In Spring Time

missing the winter
like yearning to be roasted
sun makes us vampires
and allergies sweats out eyes
she speaks to butterflies

by Micah Zevin 2010

In Virginia 2010 Poem #9 Political Tanka Outrage...ApriPoetryMonthPoems...

2010-04-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

In Virginia, 2010

your flag not a flag
just guns lynching history
not a confederacy
dunces and bigots drink tea?

Micah Zevin 2010

Another American Tanka: First Weekend: Poem#8 AprilisPoetryMonth poem a day

2010-04-09T20:34:00.001-07:00

First Weekend

on the dry town beach
suitcases of wine and cheese
no honeymoon sleep
in flames at bed and breakfast
acting like no one else

by Micah Zevin 2010

A Kind of American Tanka: April is Poetry Month #7

2010-04-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

Honking Horns at Midnight

wearing big snow boots
new years in new york city
i kissed your lips hard
under tents next to old men
you asked my desire...

by Micah Zevin 2010

Brought into Question (or Negative Balance) Poem #6 April is Poetry Month Project

2010-04-08T06:22:00.001-07:00

Brought Into Question

When you crawl out of my pockets
And shrivel up, green autumn leaves
In my sweaty palms, I remember the
Spring just began its ascent into our
Consciousness.

You have become blunted, dulled after
Too much use in the field, shredded to
Tiny bits as I suffer from days grinding
Beat box where explanations are heard
And often misunderstood

As if they were guitar feedback noise
Thrashed into already overstuffed eardrums
Popped as you sink into amplifiers
Transform into treble, bass and gain
And think about what separates the minus sign

From the plus sign, and what it means
To go over and under and back again,
Your own personal Dow Jones crash landing,
Barely a penny held between forefinger and thumb
Used to strum

For once shiny copper, silver luminescence thrown
Into your hat as you hum a melody and
Gather them into your coffers, whether damaged
By stain of dirt, gum and grime or mailed to a
Collector who cares little for sentiment,

How you’d be lost in my wallet if I didn’t
Pull you out of your white paper trap
Of receipts, business cards and stamps
And into the light where you will soon
Vanish again…

by Micah Zevin 2010

Kill or be Killed: A theoretical exercise...Poem #5 April is Poetry Month on the Spot Project.

2010-04-07T19:46:00.000-07:00

Murder for Dummies...

If I pelt you with stones
do you not lye unconscious
and helpless on the pavement
in the mall parking lot. If
I tie you to cash registers
and blindfold you so you
cannot identify me or see
where I traveled can you not
still nudge red alarm buttons
with knee caps? If I shoot
you between the eyes, in the
head, in the gut, and display
of toy robots knocks me to
the ground and buries me
until the cops arrive to
take me away, aren't you
still dead? If I order you to take
off your clothes so I can wear
them and appear to be an employee
will anyone notice you are missing
and save you from further trauma
or humiliation at my villainous
hands. If the answer to any or all
is yes, you could be my next victim.

by Micah Zevin 2010

TMI: (Too Much Information) April is Poetry month on the spot poetry #4

2010-04-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

TMI (Too Much Information)

No, I don't want to see your tattoo
south of your brassiers border which
is a picture of George Bush with the
tongue of a snake where if you move
your junk the 'right way' the tongue
moves. No, I don't want to know about
how you use welfare checks to by lessons
on how to be Japanese, where you wear
kimonos and drink vats of saki you ordered
off the internet. No, I don't want know
about it every time a celebrity has multiple
affairs or how you have every sensational
headline taped to your ceiling so they will
be in your dreams. And definitely I don't
want to know about your crush on the local
homeless man who spends all day on his laptop
writing you love letters and smells like
rotten bannana peels. Lastly, I don't need
to hear about or visualize your sexual exploits
from your motorcycle days of yore or that all
of your six husbands wore your underwear on
their heads while playing the fiddle. Please,
please, please I am not being uptight! You are
not my wife, friend, lover. Tell your stories
to someone else who will care to listen, as
entertaining as they are, they are much more
than I will ever care to learn
about anyone...

by Micah Zevin 2010

April is Poetry month on the spot poetry project #3

2010-04-05T15:17:00.001-07:00

On Vacation: Poem #3

I gasped as I ran
down neverending stairs
because I was going to miss
my flight and be stranded
at one of those fast food
restaurants that charged
you so much because they
knew you had no choice
and would have to pick
one of them.
But I was stubborn and
waiting for the woman
with the tussled hair
to call my name. I would
no more empty my pockets
and be broke due to such
travesties of consumption.
I would rather starve,
wake up later bloated
set to open my dam into
the sea. Why is life so
petty and incomprehensible
it would slight me and try
to erase dreams or bury them
under a succession of ten pound
sand bag eyes until I could not
breathe, or reach out to punch
off the alarm clock in an early
morning frenzy of irritability.
I did not want to live out of
my suitcase indefinitely or even
for a moment, yet I was tired
of pointing the insane masses
to the right terminal.
As they rambled on, I would offer
barely a phrase, except for
a sheepish smile and a grunt into
the sullied air. I was infected by the
presence of strangers and would be
for some time after...
by Micah Zevin 2010

Poem #2 April is Poetry Month Poetry on the spot project....

2010-04-04T20:07:00.001-07:00
Poem # 2: In The Backyard

As I slither into your garden under sleeping
Lawnmowers, rubber balls, swimming pools,
I look for a hole to call home, a place of warmth
Away from neighborhood lights where worms
Squirms and toss and turn in the moist earth.
And I listen to their snores, come hither sounds
Meant to disrupt the flow of time at grounds end.
Before bed I crawl out and watch squirrels climb
The trees branches above to hoard their nuts, the
Crickets pounce on other insects for sustenance,
The lightning bugs turn themselves off and on
Again and again fluttering above the many fences,
And for once I don’t recoil in hopelessness and
Dismay as darkness sets in and all that is left is
Stars, humans and I up watching late night
Movies until we pass out in the beds of our
Own making….

by Micah Zevin 2010

April is Poetry Month Poetry Project Poem # 1....

2010-04-03T20:00:00.000-07:00
Poem #1

On the days precipice candles are lit
As we yawn and recite our prayers
Into blankets at the foot of our beds.
What is warmth if not an invitation to
Seclusion and reverie?
In our dreams we trample over our wishes
And lament at what we can no longer possess
Or have never gotten in the first place.
Here we are simply projecting onto others images
Our grandest wishes, our worst fears,
As we wait for them to speak or whisper into
Our ears what we want to hear
And if we don’t wake in a pool of our
Own sweat and jump up as if a robber
Were breaking in or climbing through our
Window, an incomprehensible emptiness
Replaces the tears running down our cheeks
Because we cannot remember where we’ve been
Only where we wanted to go before the sun rises…

by Micah Zevin 2010

Bass Sol Take V: Hey What happened to the first 4 takes man? Well...

2010-03-12T11:45:00.000-08:00
Bass Solo Take V

Extinguish flames from exhaust pipes
Smash horizontal mannequins right
Between the eyes when they refuse
To come home with you and submit
To your wildest fantastical whims.
Take the blowtorch out of the garage
And some clay and multicolored paint;
You are tired of others telling you
How people should be and want to
Construct your own Pinocchio, Cyborg,
Human being out of its silent wooden pieces,
Until there is a glimmer in its eye
You’ve never seen before.
And then, just when it seems ready to
Speak, move its arms, ask you for your name,
You plug in your saw and start to saw as it
Screams, cries and bleeds chips, as if it just
Learned how to, until it is a silent
Pile of dust, and you are in its way again
While its remains blow in the wind,
Your Frankenstein monster…

by Micah Zevin 2010

Meditations on Past Situations....a crazy hellyeah yeehaw to everyone!

2010-03-09T17:40:00.000-08:00
On the mountain

The crows gnaw on my knuckles because they smell
Like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and I’m wearing boxers
As I rock in my imaginary chair while I mull over my metropolis
The boy smoking pot over trashcan fires is staring at me
As if to test my mettle…

Bloated as a wild boar I snort at him until he offers me some,
Addressing me as ‘old dude’ as I sit on newly painted park benches
Where I went to escape oozy’s blasts of water, boomerang Frisbees
That hit me in the noggin, or the onslaught of acorns when I was in
Elementary school and it was recess.

I ask this boy as he smokes a “doobie’ why he isn’t in school,
I see the school principal and quickly tell him to hide under
The park bench so that he doesn’t get caught. “Is that you Jerome.?”
She asks, as I rise…”No,” I say, “It’s me George…
Do you remember me?”

Even basketballs would give me concussions until I developed speed
After being on the track team for a while. Now, sometimes, I am slow,
Even doddering sentimental ‘numb nut,’ as the crows point at me, laugh and eat what’s left of a dead squirrel,
Even its bushy tale.

I remind myself there is no such thing as an “Age of Innocence,”
Only moments in time where wicked sites and sounds
Attach themselves to throats like honey
And bare fruit…

by Micah Zevin 2009

Off The Cuff? Guns at Star*******

2010-03-05T10:51:00.000-08:00
Unfiltered

I took out my gun in starbucks. It's time
To hunt some latte drinking smucks or should i with holster by my side join in for a muffin and a conversation about literature, diversity, controversy oh no not me! I am just practicing my right to bear arms then no one will question
My charms. Oh my precious why is the world so viscious forever testing my mettle. I dream of bloody rose petals and your silver gods killing my dinner
Maybe a yuppie or two,just kidding, how can I get you to do my bidding? I can look right down yr barrel without fear encountering those different from myself. I am poltically correct to a fault. Instead of commenting on your race or religion I call u a communist a socialist liberal devil and leave other judgements to the heavens...

Micah Zevin 2010

Dying for Accpetance .....

2010-02-20T14:01:00.000-08:00
Dying for Acceptance

Don’t you poke poke poke me in the face
Or I will go gaga wah wah all over you
Until you are surrounded by my insurmountable tears
Ducts releasing there cloistered moisture

Onto your jumbo black cat umbrella riding
Rivers sewage down Broadway’s brassier
Another bad romance lit by a sea of blights
And nothing is ruled by time (simultaneously)

Clock the clock over the head and put your ambitions
To bed at the pillowcase factory on the back alley
Side streets where cats fight in front of apartment
Complexes over a sleeping bums half eaten slice of
Pepperoni pizza

It is easy to be dismissive about another’s failure
And not your own during such moments there
Down denial is cluttered with syringes and the
Bodies they have touched so unceremoniously

When you are stuck, you are like a piece of gum
Some junior high school boy has angrily squished
Under his desk or on the empty seat next to him
Waiting for whom he certainly knows will sit in it

For cheap laughter or some unexplained vengeance…
by Micah Zevin 2010

In Transit...(in the underground?)

2010-01-03T07:37:00.000-08:00
In Transit

The spasms are cold as they crawl up
The ridges of our spines…
In the tunnels the behemoth
Waits like a scourge in the timeless world
The sardines, punch lines in an old joke,
Peel back their metal tops and breathe
Before they go bad if they have not already
Elbows, knees, assorted arms splay on top
Of one another as fatigue overpowers the senses
Decaying flesh talks like robotic Peanuts characters
On the loud speaker and we don’t listen
Until the news is tragic because lamentations
Are so natural; murder hard attack, bomb squad
And these loose moving parts quit there
Unauthorized or hapless touching as we are moving
The slowest building guitar solos
Anticipating crescendos of shake and rattle
Snapping of our most precious strings
Until we are home and turning on our lighters
Reserved for the soothing ballad that
Helps us all justify our stint with snipers in the mountains
Of the desert, our beds made of fire…

By Micah Zevin 2010....Happy New Year fellow poets and writers....

The Neighbors....

2009-12-17T20:43:00.000-08:00
The Neighbors

Who’s bowling up there?
I’m not a radically conservative square
Who doesn’t like a party but I do believe
At three a.m. my sanctuary should be silent
Not the pounding fist of belligerence
With mop handle brooms poking holes
In my ceiling
Every night my neighbors chew my glass
Skull with their teeth on a microphone,
Recite Lou Reed’s metal machine music
In the voice of a shrieking cat,
Weld shut their children’s braced teeth
While they mumble and scream
Warriors chipping at my walls above for
Revenge— nothing seems to curtail
Their all night orgies of fascist trampling
Over my beleaguered eyelids that would
Like to remain shut until 6 a.m. at least,
So I can do my yoga without rupturing
Tiny holes in my stomach or passing
Out until my bicycle while parking
And because they don’t stop
I must get old-school-acme-cartoon
Explosion on their asses-maybe they’ll
Think its drug induced and they will turn
Into a basket of stars scattered in the cosmos
Ready to explode, as you will stand outside smiling
As the building cookie crumbles to the ground
In a swath of dust and blindness, and realize you
Have taken it too far and now have no home to
Return to…

by Micah Zevin 2009

Comittment ?

2009-12-11T08:13:00.000-08:00
Commitment

Sanities kernels are

Popped out of popcorn-makers

Mouth until they transform

Tiny brown bastard seeds

Burnt, pre-buttered in small

Piles of the scattered and failed,

As you fail each day to complete

Grading your examinations,

Writing poems, paying bills

Simply vegetating on sinking

Leather couches, perusing

Newspapers bold headlines

To extract some words

And operate on your brain

Requires some deliberation

The Humpty Dumpty Dilemma

2009-12-11T08:12:00.000-08:00
The Humpty Dumpty Dilemma

When he is patient and keeps his mouth shut

a canary falls out and sings a song

When the hustling game of cards begins creative juices

Pelt his mind with purple bruises and beer bellies

When he sinks below the horizon he is in debt

To no one (in particular)

When he hears that the orgasms are silent

At the Tiffany parade and that people wade in mud puddles

Like ducks trying to cross the street or a tiny pond

He is so flabbergasted that he decides to terrorize himself,

Blow him-self up into tiny little bits just to see

If he could put himself back together again

The Question being would he even want to?

Would it be worth the trouble?

by Micah Zevin December 2009

Manhattan

2009-11-27T14:33:00.000-08:00
Manhattan

Blackened hands tear apart packets
Of sugar before heavy fists knock
It from your hands and onto the ground
Like a sprinkling of cocaine dust that
The addict will follow, a drug crazed
Hansel and Gretel on the trail of the
Next dealer. The tongue is incinerated
At the factory where everyone’s dreams
Turn into ashes. Under the highways
Rusting arches a bum lights the cars
On fire for warmth and has a dialogue
With the engine parts, the leaking
Burning gasoline, seagulls overheard
Preparing to scavenge what is left
Of you when injuries bludgeon and
You can no longer hail passing cars.
Giant monarch butterflies are listening
To your ghost stories hanging off the edge
Of rusted garbage cans as your various
Homeless brethren congregate and are
Reminded that there was something before
This, perhaps, entirely different: librarians,
Street vendors, hustlers who tire of the chase,
Warning the night of its inertias, no more retaliation
Or parts in disrepair placed on the disabled list
Where before there were suits and briefcases,
Secretaries, who knew where and when you
Were traveling, not necessarily when you’d be
Returning, or if you were dead or alive until
There was no sign of you or no calls from the
Other side of the concrete island

by Micah Zevin 2009

one of the poems read at my recent Kiva Cafe Reading
see a post below for the video link.

Micah Zevin reading at the Kiva Cafe November 5

2009-11-21T12:49:00.000-08:00
This link below is footage of me and a Mr. Mills reading at the Kiva Cafe, along with other poets, on November 5th, 2009 at 8p.m...Poems associated with the reading will soon be posted on this site. So enjoy everyone....

hi ho!
MZ

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=176622788098&saved#/video/video.php?v=176622788098&ref=mf

At The Laundromat

2009-08-13T10:29:00.000-07:00
At the Laundromat

As you swirl around
Pacing the hours on
Calloused feet
The temple serves hot
Fudged ice-cream sundaes
Savor, become a glutton to
Its gut wrenching punishments
This life burgeons your vocabulary
Like yeast rising
Into baked bread
You must go forward
Do not leak bullshit
Onto the suede carpet
Put it in a glass jar, extra grease
Skimmed from soup pot tops
To be used later
And stew

by Micah Zevin 2009

The Video Version of this poem can be viewed at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1F_KdHkUG4

The Drywall Situation

2009-08-10T11:29:00.000-07:00

The Drywall Situation

Poisonous vespers intrude on camouflaged
Skin layers cracking backwards as if ready to peel
Not constructed for an onslaught of callousness
Or decay at humans doing a job on each other,
Contracted out, conjuring illusions of separation,
They carry crickets on their shoulders
For the remainder of the night as mists deterioration
Seals your fate; and it’s so easy to step all over your centipede self
As you are pummeling, stifling and choking me
I smoke you early every morning as you drone some
Slick pasty advice, not actually advice but a negotiation for a raise
Spreading diseased clouds out of new windows onto your horizon

By Micah Zevin 2009

See the VIDEO version of This Poem at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xB3w6IAYYiY

Modern Times

2009-08-09T10:42:00.000-07:00
Modern Times

Our foods bombastic displays
Are being processed indiscreetly
Again, against our palates
Sticky silly putty potions
Gelatinous lumps coalescing
Into our split personalities
Supposed identities
Poisonous arrays of reaction
At the counter-reaction terminus
We shop at trampled-upon
Media frenzies, laid-to-rest sunny-
Side-down over HDTV’s, bulk
Toilet paper cereal sales
The false cover of saving ourselves
From the dollar’s demagoguery
Drowned terrorists, consumers,
Will pack together like queued
Up jackrabbits to purchase
What they think is required
Of them to live outside tainted
Fingers, obsessed by touch
Screen music boxes searching,
Listening only to what shuffles
Its random rambling odes into
Our waxen ears
Everything in front of us has been
Manipulated

by Micah Zevin 2009

Check out the Video version of this poem at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTAHt8BOodA
Thx MZ

The Altar (A Times Square Poetic Affair)

2009-07-20T11:48:00.000-07:00
The Altar

And the sky will grow dark but not go out
The omnipresent neon signs
That never switches off, extinguishes
Or exits in this carnival of skyscraper mirrors, fried foods
Fast ecstasies, jumbo TVs, they advertise the world
Endless crowds and their information
Tight wire act texting spellbound myths into
The electronic divide
At celebrations ball, multicolored, multidimensional
Instruments no longer line up for the latest Broadway hits
YouTube, Facebook video hi-jinks
Forever leaving a trail on the web
Of not so silent tongues ready to scream
At Times Square, where once a year
Everyone’s voice is heard…

By Micah Zevin 2009

(Christmas) Nightmare of the odd variety...

2009-03-25T08:48:00.000-07:00
(Christmas) Nightmare
The Teddy Bear ornament with three heads
is staring at me with its contented plaster smile
like I am a bowl of oatmeal and it is going
to steal me away to its cave, no!, not for a cup of
egg nog, but to gnaw on my chewy bones by an
open fire, and share me with the bear cubs
who will silence my screams and bury
my bones with my memories,
under a large pine tree
somewhere off the highway...

by Micah Zevin (2009)

If only it could take us higher...?!!!

2009-02-19T18:04:00.000-08:00
Anxiety

The dollars in your pocket have been

Transformed into Chinese Paper Mache

Stars of origami shaped into airplanes

And thrown into the silent sea to perish

In these low times, it would be nice

To get high—

by Micah Zevin 2009

The past brings back memories in the present...

2009-02-13T18:12:00.000-08:00
Abandonment

In sunglasses and baseball cap
She enters, her cane ahead of her
Purple and white sun dress. She sits
In front of the computer and enters her
Number.

“When I was young I wanted to be a
Veterinarian. I use to work with animals
I’d like to take that pit-bull home. He’s been
Outside for hours and seems so melancholy”

When we open the doors the next day
She is the first in line. She points toward
The empty food dish with wrinkled finger
She looks as sad as the pit-bull before
Animal control came take him away.

by Micah Zevin 2009

Does Purity Exist?

2009-02-07T13:32:00.000-08:00
At the Market

The women looked stern
All had bunions and were going to sue
They wrinkled up their faces and shook
Their collective heads not willing to speak
She did not ask them anything else
She was always working on her virginity
At the church house where he lived
Although she did not want to marry
The devils would come out at night
Criticizing and admiring their carved chests
The dye in their hair was greasy
The women removed all their rich clothes
Then arranging their hair in various knots
And fringes—
by Micah Zevin 2009

Are you awake William Blake?

2008-12-09T00:44:00.000-08:00
Heaven in Reverse

The passive aggressive angel cursed me in my sleep
And vowed to hit me over the head with a “real” mallet
Not the Acme cartoon variety. They did not want to
Waste their time on someone who would not reveal
Themselves. It was none of their business.
I had a cloak of invisibility.

by Micah Zevin 2008

Reading is not always so fundamental a right...

2008-12-09T00:41:00.000-08:00
Functionally Illiterate

The man in the corner over there, on the
Right hand side is eating a bagel while
Glancing at the bill. He raises an eyebrow.
He thinks he has been charged for something he
Did not order. He will read your mind although
He will never see or analyze your words on the page.
He will not ask permission to go through your dirty laundry.
He will only look for the addresses chalk line scribbled
On the front of your garbage can. He knows you are not
Too far away. He will wait until you come.

Micah Zevin 2008

A Homage to Jose Saramago's The Cave...?

2008-10-02T09:54:00.000-07:00
The Cave

There is no place to live anymore
Here only do we bristle at the thought
Of the day’s repetition
Canned air fresh, only the vague hint
Of sunlight in crevices near rooftops
There is something that can be said
About total order, the animal’s duty is
To resist the removal of the primal urge
Each day, someone tells us how to inhabit
Our space, good, bad, indifferently blood
Will continue to follow its path and become
What the tide not the fake computer generated
Tide signals and carries us away to where
Our sorrow will be excavated
Do we die in the blackness on a stone stool?
0ur clay fingers soaked by rain
And returning to the earth…
The incapacitated will view monstrosities
As if they were a historical carnival exhibit
(We’d rather escape the temporary)
We can no longer live at the center
Without the balance required being human
A place where the curious are punished
At least discouraged from their thoughts
Because one day they too will be put
On display for all to bear witness…

by Micah Zevin 2008

A Cry for help in the stacks from an eccentric patron at large!

2008-09-14T13:58:00.000-07:00
Abandonment(Yelp!)

In sunglasses and baseball cap
She enters, her cane ahead of her
Purple and white sun dress. She sits
In front of the computer and enters her
Number.

“When I was young I wanted to be a
Veterinarian. I use to work with animals
I’d like to take that pit-bull home. He’s been
Outside for hours and seems so melancholy”

When we open the doors the next day
She is the first in line. She points toward
The empty food dish with wrinkled finger
She looks as sad as the pit-bull before
Animal control came take him away.

by Micah Zevin 2008

Will The Truth Be Told?

2008-09-05T09:08:00.000-07:00
Aphorisms

Feed your storage space
Hungry puppies
The fascist-capitalist
Frontal lobe must too
Be stimulated by
Multi-colored rainbows
How does the eye taste
Once removed and rolling
Helplessly on one’s tongue?
The discontented too have a
Right to their emergencies
Why, why is there no union here?
When the parade has died down
And the mock rallying cries
Sigh at their apathy
The platform disappears
The hit is so dissatisfying

by Micah Zevin 2008
also check out new book reviews and online lit mag reviews as www.newpages.com

Commentary from the surreal perspective Yes/No?

2008-09-03T08:09:00.000-07:00
Advice from the surreal

It’s not a lamppost, blue
The best through the decorative!
A regular place in your environment
Install it, blue! That light.
Two weeks, what’s next?
An emotional haze, a symbolic feature
Navigate with the proper illumination
Be deluded
Slowed down
Touch a bit.

by Micah Zevin (2008)

Pop goes the weasel as a metaphorical subtext!

2008-07-21T07:17:00.000-07:00
What’s Inside (Pandora)

We do not just like our boxes
We love and nourish them
Like the mimicry of newborns;

When these boxes say follow
More often then not, we
Follow as if hypnotized by
What or who we are supposed
To be representing.

Human beasts, my imbalanced
Credit card debt generation,
Are fragile and ornery like
Constructed mathematical
Limitations;

The economy, drinking
Our own blood and spitting
It back into the wound
Now damaged as if it could
Reform and re-form and

And become a better box
Full of fancy multi-colored
Ribbons, and when it opened
No jester or weasel popping
Out to our surprise

Merely a swath of mouths
Void of salvia and comfort
Screaming in our ears
As if to ask the question
If we are boxed and remain
In our boxes,
How can we see what is
Beyond our borders,
Our electrified fences?

by Micah Zevin 2008

Stop Humping...Oh! I mean jumping on our bed!

2008-07-15T06:26:00.001-07:00
House Party

All these bastards are lounging
On my leather couch in the
Living room.

Yes, it’s a party, but if they go
Into the off-limits bedroom
To sit on the fire-escape,

And come back to lie on the bed
For a tongue session,
My fiancée and I will be furious,

Because we are the only ones that
Claim a stake to this territory
Where no one fears reprisal

Or embarrassment.

by Micah Zevin 2008.

No Fork in the Road to Gentrification

2008-07-13T07:50:00.000-07:00
Crossroads

We work on top of the remains of the industrial complex.
14th street and Astoria boulevard trucks of petroleum
And tars deliver nausea through library windows
While across the street men do not lumber,
They build your kitchen tables, desks and bureaus,
Carefully sawing the shape you will call home
And place your things on.

By the bodega downstairs, glass is carved for windows,
Storefronts, indoor gardens; and one can only hope
You see yourself in their not so tinted reflections,
The future. I will call this forward movement
The condominium, the co-op, the high priced rental
By Astoria park so that the gentrified too can sample
The delectable taste of the East River,

The twittering of birds that once the mall is built
And the poor have left will be trendsetter territory,
The new Williamsburg where the arts will not flourish
Because the rent will become a surreal rendering
Soon, there will be no more homes to care for
The children coming home from school to projects
Will have moved, vanished or become hallucinations

Yet, traffic’s death trap on 21st will still be there,
Magnified by the loss of small factory jobs present, long ago,
The forced migration of a population to a netherworld
At the edge of the darkest bodies of water only to be replaced
by upper class city dwellers rummaging through the
Neighborhoods stark and crumbling past for gemstones
to open and attract this crowd to its magnetic temptations .

by Micah Zevin
also check micahs new online literary reviews on Newpages.com
at these follow links
http://www.newpages.com/bookreviews/default.htm#spilling

http://www.newpages.com/magazinestand/litmags/default.htm

What's a Hero and, No not that Show on NBC!

2008-05-14T06:06:00.000-07:00
Hero

When I came out of the hole
There was no belt buckle,
Arguments or rest stops
That could save me
Nothing but soggy fries
Fallen from the carton
Wedged into the seat cushion
No signs of the dreams that
Made me feel dizzy

It seemed that the wasps
Prodding my belly had
Escaped along with my
Father, mother, sister
Who had left me alone
To stare at the tinted mirror
To see what remained of
My face

I remembered something about
The precipice.
A plateau had to be climbed first
To snatch the sun away from the
Toasty smoldering desert
I felt sweaty and stuck to the seat
Like lifesavers candies melted
To the packaging,
They could barely save themselves

I pushed the coat off my back
Covering me as I was passed out
On our way to somewhere in New Mexico
Now we were stopped at a Tex-Mex joint
By the road
And I had three yellow jackets
Hugging the side of my blood stained stomach
They were squished dead
I must have been perplexed by my victory

Death and The Enemy at the Ice Cream Truck??!!

2008-05-09T23:37:00.000-07:00
Death and the Enemy

When the ice cream man rang his not so ominous bell
We came scurrying like little ravenous thieves. We
Did not worry about the finality of endings, just that
Our ice cream would melt before we finished it,
Or that the local bully would knock it from our hands
And onto the floor by our feet. He would laugh and
Point as we sobbed as if we’d lost our best friend or
A member of our family in a war to some crimson enemy,

We would not forget how he shoved us and we skinned our
Our skinny knees, yet we would recover. In adulthood, there
Are no bells to keep track of who will be left behind, no machine-
Gun, ticking time bomb or three wishes will speed their return
Little pebble flashes of memory will remind us that their chimes
Once faint and indiscernible are firecrackers going off inside of us.
And it is best that we continue to run when we hear sounds that are
Familiar to us, once again, and leave the musical change rattling in
Our pants pockets to chance,

Pity a Ghost...

2008-05-09T23:31:00.000-07:00
The After Life

The ghost carried me to the television
It was time for the morning news
Some sick bastard killed a young boy
And his pet bunny rabbits
I cried, being a ghost must be such a
Lonely mess.

Drama Under The Circus Tent...Excerpt #2

2007-06-27T07:50:00.000-07:00
Dosage

Origins Part II: Mutations…
Was Abby-normal becoming a young freak?
Worried she would turn into a hairy beast
Perhaps, she'd one day grow an orange beak.

Would her paranoia cause her to leak?
Become that person she loved the least.
Was Abby-normal becoming a young freak?

She scavenged for a cure, a little sneak.
As young fur spread, a surprising feast.
Perhaps, one day she'd grow an orange beak.

And fly away to a sunny Martinique.
To forget her dad's slow lecture on yeast
Was Abby-normal becoming a young freak?

Or ascending barefoot the highest peaks,
The air so thin it seemed as if she'd cease.
Perhaps one day she'd grow an orange beak.

She sensed she was much more than merely geek
In her future dreams, there wasn't any peace.
Was Abby-normal becoming a young freak?
Perhaps, one day she'd grow an orange beak.

Coping

When the pharmacist lost his only wife
He thought of eating salads of colored drugs
Because his daughter knew where he hid his knife
Why had his mind become tiny like a bug?
Not a physicist or mathematician, wizard
Maybe his affair was with a magic rug.
And wished he stuck out tongues like a lizard
Or was fried pulling out his sockets plug

Abby-normal spread out her massive arms
To hug her weary father's chemical disgrace
Only the great cement mixer spoon calmed
A face stomped upon by apoplexy
Would there be another love that felt like lace?
He cut toes with scissors and healed with balm.

As if it never happened…

The next day she would be forced to return to school
And avoid the prying eyes of her judging peers
She'd have to quickly learn how to play the fool.

She was too old to hide behind the monkey bars
Could she leap inside her favorite ancient stories
Like the melancholy clown stuck in tiny cars

Her life seemed like one a long word problem
Was she chosen to peel away their veneer?
Solving if she could only tear apart the stem.

In history, she took out her composition book
America's story would say what she could not
Her father was not an adulterous crook.

He'd love her even if she was a wild thing
Without the aid of camouflage's secret shroud
Would nets catch her if she flew off
The swing?

The Correct Dosage?

It seemed her dad was heretical
When it came to swallowing chemicals.
When his eyes began to glaze over
It was best to just roll him over
And make sure he drank some water
Before his mind went to slaughter.

She tried to be a helpful daughter
Before adolescence had caught her
Yet here she was forced to be both
Mother and child as if they both
Had been blown from their mild life
Not realizing what caused their strife.

She squeezed black rags over his head
And pulled him from now soaked beds
Waking him with smelling salts power
And she then dragged him to showers.
What could she conjure to provide his cure?
She'd use a fishing rod and a lure,

To catch what they needed to find with hoe
Maybe, sell snake oil, put on a show
To make them forget their troubles
Until they stopped seeing doubles
What was on her little chin, some stubble?
She did not even want to know…

Micah Zevin 2007...

Drama Under The Circus Tent!!??( novel in verse in progress)

2007-06-22T12:25:00.000-07:00
Dosage

Before the Lights Part I:
Once she was normal
Then she was Abby-normal
She used to do cart wheels
And flips in the park by
Her father the pharmacist
He'd hand men a pill which
Would remove their cyst.
Before the hair invaded
She didn't suffer melancholia
Just traded it in for paranoia
She didn't raise her loving fist
Until she passed the sixth grade
Daddy said it was the fault of
Chemicals molding her clay
For the rest of her life he forbade
Violence's shrinking head near
His home unless no night or day
Persisted anymore to sway.
We are humans, not swinging
From ropes like circus performers
We should all have hearts of mourners
She knew if this hair made her insane
God knows what would be her refrain
So she shaved off her hair each day
Sneaking home from school a different
Way.

On a Tight Rope…
Momma was cheating on Daddy with the
Refrigerator repairman
She shouted for the whole town to hear,
You're not a real man.
The child she smirked is not even mine
Do you think dear husband I crossed a line?
You must have had some tawdry affair
Your little freakish brat I did not bare.
She stared at her father with muted eyes
He responded with sadness deep
It appeared he might take a leap.
Instead, He snarled a quip.
Look honey bunch, she has your lip.
If you try to scar her with your nomadic fever
I will take to with a clever
Just because you are losing your marbles
Do not dare scar your child
Whatever I have done she has done no harm.
There, there, husband her lies your charms
You are a martyr's disgrace
Hidden behind a younger face
At least I try to repair what has not been fixed,
He said; I don't get up and quit.
At this she laughed hiding a sniffles guilty sound
The repairman's car door was open
Is was time to cross the bridge Daddy made her turn around
He did not want her to stare at the lostWhat he had never found.

Origins Part I: A Betrayal?
Abby-normal ran home fast
She hoped her tears would last
Her mother had become another
Monster freak show demon housewife?

She hoped her tears would last
Memories might erode like the beach
Monster freak demon housewife?
Would dad burn her photographs?

Memories might erode like the beach
He'd say, this was never your mother
Just an elitist boutique store clerk
In search of quick aphrodisiac fixes

He locked the pictures in his diary,
His love was touched by addiction
In search of quick aphrodisiac fixes
To hallucinate a reality of choice

His love was touched by addiction
Or branded by a fetishistic affliction?
He'd always been curious of alternatives
Changing colors like dye in a quilt

He'd always been curious of alternatives
Her mother had become another's lust
Changing colors like dye in a quilt
So Abby-normal ran home fast.

Part 1 with more to come of my novel in verse in progress. Look out for what comes next in the Drama Under the Circus Tent. Has anyone taken the correct dosage here?

Micah Zevin 2007

Between a Nightmare and a Dream

2007-06-19T18:59:00.000-07:00
Pillows and Knives

Are the feathers from pillows bringing him down?
He treaded over hot coals with the softest frown

With the crickets insistent dialogue he’d begin to sneeze
His tears were emasculated by the tentative breeze

He liked to climb to tops of tents and reflect on Northern Stars
Wouldn’t be better off if he really came from Mars?

Why does he assume his anger is wrong?
Brewing beneath surface fumes among the angry throngs

When he sharpened his favorite knives
He’d wondered how he should live out one of his nine lives

Would majesty spring forth as the bees were creating honey in the hives
Droning on and on to a queen who dominated their lives

He said he would disregard the noise and watch out for spies
Until you have no use for my watchful eyes

Late at night he could not sleep so he chopped some vegetables
And wondered why routine business trips could be so illegible

Sometimes it felt as if life was an inconsequential comedy sketch
He heard comedy was hard but could it make you wretch

If he could magically write a masterpiece
He’d revise spring and make it his new disgrace

He met a guy at a workshop who called him a writing schizoid
He told him it’s just a character so don’t be so paranoid

No, he said, I mean cut through the crap
Get to the prime meat, sharpen our senses with a fitful slap

Micah Zevin 2007

A Bearded Lady Dreams?...

2007-06-12T07:27:00.000-07:00
Selected Memories, or Storytelling...

I am trying to stink up something to right
Was the lion tamer kidnapped in the night?

You have been wronged by many a dirty sponge
If there is treasure before you, why don't you lunge?

In a dream, you have a drink with your writer friends
You tire of their babble, their triteness offends

Yet they were transparent or never really present
They did not have the beauty of a mumbling pheasant,

The circus strong man's most favored companion
What inspired him to become a vegetarian

Only the circus librarian had no one to love
Cloistered in his bibliotheque frowning from above

Where were the "Bearded Lady's" famed talking doves
She'd open her hands and they'd fly off her gloves

Each time one could see tears in her eyes
Her faces carried the weariness of many surviving lies

At the end of her act, she lost her repose
Heaving at the audience a bag of clown noses

Now everyone looked like the clown she hated
She used to love him when he'd been caught and baited

She dreamt that she had died on top of big red feet
or had been visited by a troop of ghostly sheets

The "Bearded Lady" thought of her blind father
She wanted to erase all that had faltered...

Micah Zevin 2007
...Stories from the circus tent

A Secretary's Song...

2007-06-02T09:00:00.000-07:00
"The Lullaby"

Does this foundation rest on jewels
or, the malevolence of mules?
She believes everything will crumble
until she follows all the rules

Her moods disorder her hanging clothes
She's too tired to re-organize
Are there cobwebs in her large eyes?
Does she know if she can even speak in prose?

When will here prince disarming
come to bring deserved spoils?
She needs stabilities cement
to erase these burning boils

Each morning she wakes for work
to be screamed at by another jerk
Each day ending, she hopes could begin again
Then she'd laser away those callous smirks

She will not wait for foreboding days
to bring out of hiding her melancholy lear
at the planning she could of done to
stop those many headlighted deers

She should go swiftly to the church
where trusted gospel of childhood lurks?
She prays to escape the minds rack
and find her own graceful perch

Where there will be no reason on tap
to twitter at paper pile dismay
only incubate drama's malleable farce
and filter the blackbird hovering by her lap

She'd rise dripping as if from a nightmare
wondering why she'd become so scared
Could she propel curtains to open and close
and heave the rickety cradle down those neverending stairs...

Micah Zevin 20o7
Don't forget Secretary's day my ceo friends...or it might be your end!
Send me your secretary songs?

The Battle of the Hysterical Brain...letters from the war torn

2007-05-30T06:47:00.000-07:00
Post War

When morning's palpitations lament
He exits a drowsily constructed tent
a clown tired of the juggling maze
rather be inhabiting a Hendrixian haze
erase conciousness from his temple's altar
inevitably, the brains soft shell cracks and falters.

Words parachute like skydivers delcared heaven spent
He's asked by his "friends the media" what's his bent?
Do child prodigy conformist rebels go through phases?
get taken in by the latest fads or fashion crazes
or every five seconds dream of women wearing halters
Will you smile like the fish who reeled in his potential captors?...

Micah Zevin 2007

Through The Cracked Looking Glass...

2007-05-18T08:16:00.001-07:00
Department Store Mannequin Returns From the Front

I jumped from behind the display glass
With my automatic rifle and my righteous words
Yet behind the vortex,act crass, smoke lawns grass
Presently, I'm rolling in foreign dirts turds
Ravished at the images of your sacramental curds

What if electrical currents ignited deadened fingers
Would the moment justify burning law to the ground?
Somehow, I can't let more fascists infidels linger
Without a bodies young comforts, you're lost not found
Open these security gates danger, release the fiery hounds

I say burn all the pornography with bomb blasts
Save me the audio, I like to study the perverse sounds
I am at the ship's wheels directing my animal spawn
How to live in harmony with the savage man
Who must improve others, no plan, not so fast, will it ever last?

They sent my mannequin to the desert unequipped
He wrote me letters about he'd been so gippped
His helmet was made of plastic, his shield of play-doh
He said he was issued the same gun as cartoon G.I. Joes
I wailed when he said he'd lost his big toe

I wrote lucky you're a mannequin, you don't feel a thing
The next morning, in my ears, there was a constant ring
I smashed all the alarms with my bare fist, my girlfriend said
I told her, last night I dreamed her head exploded,
and while I tried in vain to stop it, my cracking bones imploded

When my mannequin returned from the front
He was alive barely likea fake plastic man flesh beaten yo-yo
Shocked! He could feel his fingers, even his phantom toes
What was it they said, he had felt like a sitting duck on frozen pond
Except for flashes of schrapnel that made breathing like a stunt

He remembered being a child mannequin window runt
People exploded bombs ignited by oh so pious tongues
And his troop labelled all of them inhumane evil ones
Stepping over the quite dead and their living ghosts, loves
on invisible rungs
You'd be captivated by the hoax, sheltered from the blunt

Why was he trapped in this fragile mass?
It was better in a mannequins silent morass
Then to burn in the nightmares of your high school class
He was so smart, so brave, he was the leader in the musical cast

Maybe, it was time to go inside glass and beyond
Become a new tadpole morphing into his new pond
Until flesh no longer bleeds he's a man missing appendages
Now, I'll take off these invisible man bandages
Until they pack my parts away in boxes, like careful sausages

Micah Zevin 2007

All department store mannequins write me a letter about your life battles?
When will you return from your war front?

When Exiting a Dream State

2007-05-16T09:00:00.000-07:00
Tell Nightmares

In this nether,
In the blanket high
Of brown declarations
Fake sugar sized holes
Hide behind the flash of
Many flashing monitors
Flashing the daily schedule
Of drama in your tennisCourt
of collapse.

These morning seditions drill
Oil rigs into waking states
Transport rain showers
Court ordered murder
Terror delirious and understated,
Calmed by maple syrup laced
Oatmeal.

Turbulence decompresses
Blankets silencing alarms
Needle stuck music on repeat,
Spinning backwards into
the Supposed deliverance
of Subliminal letters.

All that they cherish is burning
Coal fuels warts eroding what
Is left by the Sand-weaver
Whirling restlessness,

Conducting surgery on R.E.M. delirium
Drooping until mixed cereal consumed.
You are no longer upright bat, until juices
Ignite irises distorted, cracked pupils,
Followed footsteps creaking through iridescent serenity.

Not the kind of reverie for which you
Were stitched together—the purpose of
Soul repair,
Or tampering

Micah Zevin 2007.

Tell me your Nightmares, morning or otherwise...
send them before you fall asleep heh! heh! heh!

Stupid is as Stupid does....

2007-05-14T17:23:00.000-07:00
Just Idiots Not Savants

Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber sure know how to punch
Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dumber are really out to lunch
Tweedle-dumb thinks he's everyones boss man
Tweedle dumber will curse him when he can

Tweedle-dumb was born on the day of the beast
Tweedle-dumber's parents let the crows have a brain feast
Tweedle-dumb knew all about prying eyes
Tweedle-dumb thought football jerseys was a unique disguise

Tweedle-dumb always gave unnecessary advice
Tweedle-dumber's brain was the size of mice
Tweedle-dumb treated Tweedle-dumber like an angry child
Tweedle-dumb did not care if Tweedle dumber became reviled

Tweedle-dumb liked to spend lots of money he did not have
Tweedle-dumber's wife turned him into her personal money slave
treated like a wild animal forced to live in a cave...
Tweedle-dumb came to work as sick as a foaming mouth dog
Tweedle-dumber played video games all day and ate lunch like a hog...

Micah Zevin 2007 (to be continued...Maybe?!!)
this poem is in no way shape or form based on anyone in reality(copout!)
it is just a creative riff on an antiquated nursery rhyme for the postmodern era
Tell me your wild and zany accounts and I will surely publish them...Not!(Just Kidding!)

Crazy Neighbors....

2007-05-14T17:05:00.000-07:00
The Lady in the Apartment Next Door Lives in Perpetual Fire Hazard

The Landlord hears complaints of smoke rising and infiltrating
this is untenable. The lady says she is a woman of worship,
that this is a an attack on spirituality, her right to light candles
and incense to the Virgin, and have messages travel
in signals of Saintly fire rings and burning flesh erasing humanities
sinful habits. This is the point argue tenants, you can have your
heaven or hell, just purchase some common sense—“We don’t
all desire to voyage the way of the ashen, We do not all
make fetish God’s breath outside doorsteps. Here we pay rent,
returning from fatigue ridden days for body and mind’s renewal,
time together or alone with ourselves, not to perish at frail hands of
repentance, or a kingdom yet formulate its intentions…

Micah Zevin 2007

Write me about your crazy lady or men or transgendered person stinking up your building
in the apartment next door...in nutjobs and eccentrics we will unite! Hi ho!

2007-05-08T08:07:00.000-07:00
Abort Mission!

I took out my portable respirator
I said, I'll build my own incubator
I will bare my own little terminators
They will never know my true identity
They will obtain manufactured memories

Blasphemy , blasphemy, I'm waiting for your acrimony
I didn't date anyone, I owe no alimony
The moment ripens to replace old body parts
New blood is required to expand baboon hearts
Suddenly, I feel like climbing a pine tree

My box is inside out and ready to jack
Do not be intimidated by the looming stacks
After another of our contentious fights
I'd erase myself to break away from this years cage
Form wings of honey glazed cynicism, then take flight

I will draw myself into steel plated garbage pails
Inside, I can hide from infants persistent wails
I'll kill your god if you'll kill mine
Who cares if I found a cure for the disintegrating spine
I will pray to oblivion by candlelight without fail

I do not even claim to exist right now
Has your microchip brain shut down howling holy cow!
Give me a vanilla milkshake I will crow
Because I am an invisible man I won't take a bow
I'll just sneak out through your bedroom window...

When will I get to sew on my new digital skin
I've been lost for seconds in email's perpetual trash bin
Why haven't those fatso's on Roosevelt Avenue eaten me yet?
I pointed at one scurrying away with my business card
In the city, its not kosher to blink an eye, cry or fret

You simply curse your comically drastic luck
Also, pretend like you don't give a fuck
You'll go have a cappucino in an Astoria cafe
Waiting for your atoms to travel to your next day's fray
When you wake on Steinway street in a pool of drool
you feel like a schmuck...

One day my essence was absorbed by a paper towel
I lashed out, clawing like a despondent fowl...

Micah Zevin 2007

What missions would you have aborted?
Send me your poems, complaints and diatribes...

Shelf Life: A Poem

2007-05-02T04:43:00.000-07:00
Shelf Life: The Poem

Steve and Isaiah pretended to be robots
When they were young and willing to scrape their knees
Long ago, they had outgrown those mediocre Gobots
They’d been force into life and now carried their degrees
On their tight backs like paper produced by smokestacks disease
They wondered what it was like to be machines and push money down slots.

Steve’s curiosity searched for products of a manufactured past.
Isaiah dreamed of questions why do bells propel minds blast.
Both wanted to observe the assembly lines
So again scarring their ancestors weakened spines.
They sail down the East River with a ship and a mast
What would it be like be like to forever fast?

Not on the holiest day of the year, they said.
In a way, if you oiled our digital gears, we’d be fed.
What will we find in all these automated smells?
Not merely fortune cookies and green hair gels,
But electric currents and elasticity
Many lost their fingers…have you heard of reciprocity?

Steve tried to climb on top of Costco’s roof
Isaiah attempted to track down the netherworld’s great proof
Next to the sculpture of dog poop in the grass
Steve thought maybe we should film the release of my gas.
Seriously, they considered acting detached and aloof.
We are making an art film, a philosophical spoof?!!!

Do not attempt to imitate our monotonous routine lives
Our shadows of consumption and production
Are they merely manufacturers of jagged steak knives?
Eating instant meals with strawberry sauce reductions.
Isaiah and Steve wondered who would of sewed their torn sleeves…

Isaiah felt like one gigantic allergic Astoria, Queens sneeze
Until he committed himself to the role of the librarian
Steve said, do you mean another disgruntled Septuagenarian?
No stupid, I meant another anal-retentive librarian.
Let’s go to the sculpture park and hang from the sculptured leaves.

They rummaged through their cerebellum’s unmentionables.
Isaiah felt the words on twisted tongues squirm.
Steve fashioned his silence a comfortable noose
Always digging for controversy peering behind his caboose.
Nothing would ever be untouchable
This life of machines had become their new worm…

by Micah Zevin 2007

"A Confused Librarian Poem" (Is there any other kind? Not!)

i stamp
and collate,
i arrange
and disseminate
discuss and
advise
with my lower half
hidden.
at the top
i feel
dizzy as
a pinwheel
but not half
as bright;
half of me
steadfast
and the other
a whirl in
perpetual
spin.

Allison Escoto 2007

The Prescription

2007-04-30T08:42:00.000-07:00
The Prescription #555

Did she have the right dosage in these jars?
Elixir of life from lifelessness
Would it solve her loneliness?

She’d find a man scared of killer bunnies
He didn’t need to have any cash
To prove he’s real, his nose must be runny
He’d hand her his soul in a flash

Does he have to pretend to possess a beating heart?
She’d never heard him utter a fart
She must escape from her studio box
Her job of setting endless cuckoo clocks

It was never the right time to end her strife.
She’d flip out at the wrong toss of a dime
Think about committing a heinous crime
Why did her alarms chime, control life?

She set out to burn her cubicle a toasty ash
Slapping lighters from hand at sorely needed cash
Accidentally, she scalded her fingertips
And timidly placed them on her chapped lips

She had the thirst for a draught of something strong
While she filed some papers, she sang a mourning song
She had to deliver a report to her new boss
On the relative benefits of flavored floss

She always felt at a loss to explain
The holographic coffins running through her brain
A sleeping man was smiling, remembering her refrain
What was true but her disdain?

Now, she was trying to be her own woman and her parents no longer persisted.
She would run her own time-sharing company as if they never existed.
But, there was this one quiet man who glimpsed at her like he had a plan
She would build her own flames if there were not any to fan

She could walk outside and feel safe in the night of all returns
And go to bed as if she had never been shaken and spurned to self-immolation
She would no longer go by herself on vacation or regret her chosen vocation
She would draw herself a future, paint herself a sprite, be born again and burn

What she required was a court jester
Not a work of modern sculpture
He could be nothing like her Aunt Hester
Only ever appreciating the best mess of her

If by chance, he plummeted from the sky
She’d ask him the meaning of his endless cries
He’d have genuine innocence and grace
To end her sighs and retire her mace

She dreamed she was drowning in a bowl of whipped cream
While manhandling a department store mannequin
She’d driven her train through the office to blow off some steam
She’d told her therapist it was not another of his Freudian harlequins.

In the basement of her parents house, she’s discovered her sexual mouse
Then, how would you explain these shaking cars?
Clouded spells of chemical hypnosis,
Would it help her find a prognosis?

by Micah Zevin 2007

Do you need a Prescription...You probably do...tell me about it!

Weapon of Choice?!!...

2007-04-27T05:35:00.000-07:00
Weapon of Choice

I understand the need for naps
The mind can’t swim without sleep
Hibernate in caves with the bears
What is left of me in winter?

The mind can’t swim without sleep
It can only hold on like tadpoles
What is left of me in winter?
Plodding showers of congestion

It can only hold on like tadpoles
Plaster face to television sets
You will wake up all grown-up
There is no time for reflection

Plaster face to television sets
Everyone has their choice weapon
There is no time for reflection
All covet something unattainable

Everyone has their choice weapon
Use cake, tea, pills, peace or bullets
They might pay for a brief respite

Use cake, tea, pills, peace or bullets
Hibernate in caves with bears
All covet something unattainable
I understand the need for naps

By Micah Zevin 2007

Editors Note: If you want send me your own "Weapon of Choice" poems...What do you consider your own weapons of choice...?

Poe on Crack...?!!

2007-04-24T05:44:00.000-07:00
“Poe on Crack”

Why is there no safe haven?
For a Neanderthal spaceman like me?
I’d prefer not to smoke with defeatist ravens
Who act so stubborn and so phony moaning
Until they get to act like such cruel bores
They poke your shoulder until it bleeds more
Then, you grab them by their brittle wings
And throw them out the door
Or they are struck by pendulum swings
Never, never, Nevermore
I won’t kill you. I won’t eat your metaphors
I’ll just make you a part of my stark folklore.

The Neanderthal man tried to lumber far
From the raven perched on that jam jar
Yet all he could was grunt hungers wail
And try to capture it with a garbage pail
He was trapped in the raven’s basement
Painting his dreams on the caves wall
Even in his head the bird knew how to stall
The clock was ringing the rats were ready to brawl
The raven was chanting oh! Cave man soon you will bawl
The spirits will prance upon your brain’s pavement
Anointing him with the claw of his sacrament
His eyes were cracked. Paranoia would call.

Annabel Lee, Annabel Lee, where’s the apothecary?
I’ll conquer like a worm in my haunted palace
No! Don’t make jokes about my tiny phallus
Like yours is one powerful mercenary
You realize the spirits in my head
Have been shivering in kaleidoscopic dread?
At the prospect of falling in that black pit
Wait! I’m alone, I’m gullible, I’ll have a fit
Do you believe in abnormal psychology?
Because I just named my black cat Pathology
I saw my other half licking a bloody axe in the mirror
Why doesn’t anything seem to be coming clearer?

by Micah Zevin (2007 )