Acceptance

Skidding down the tracks
at fifty miles per hour,
bile crawling up my
throat vexing the interstate
hexing the interstitial highway.

The blue sky is a
far cry from the black cloud
hung above my head,
and me without my umbrella.

Maybe metaphors are useless.
I just want to break something.
Too bad my bookbag is weighed down
with tissue and used toilet paper.
There's a time where I want to say
I'm sorry, or
I forgive you, or
I wish this could have turned out differently.
There's a time where all the words
built up around our little brittle
brick walls could have poured in
from a cement truck,
but those fucking union workers were on break
drinking lattes from the trendy joint on the corner.

Besides, you just handed me the keys.
Said "Have a nice life."

That was weeks ago.

I careen down the 42nd Street river,
the downpour harder than my cock during a
spectacular blowjob, and I slide past the vendors
offering soup for the soul, past the tourists
gobbling the city for the last time, past the map givers,
past the guy selling bus rides, past the fliers
advertising commerce or shame (or both), past the comedy shows
where nothing is funny and everyone laughs.

My eyes scream in monochrome.
The devil has half its job done,
just waits for me to place
my other hand to the stove.

But I still forgive you.



Acceptance by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

An Imaginary Conversation With My Girlfriend

The urinals at work are awful.
They comprise some of the
worst design choices I have
ever witnessed or been privy to.
The thing is 'V'-shaped, which
would be OK in most situations, but
is made at such a severe angle that
the backsplash returns
a full stream right on your pants.

Every time I use it I can
see the droplets spring forth from the porcelain
with such force it's everything
I can do to dodge them while
still maintaining a respectable distance
from the stall. My
feet must part an extra foot
at an equally acute angle as the urinal.

The floor wets itself every
time, as a nod to its own design flaws.
God forbid I strike the
dome-shaped drain with my pee-stream --
it guffaws as it throws yellow
drops straight at my face.

The pink sterile smelling cakes
are just more obstacles to traverse.
Ultimately, I have two choices - constant
vigilance to protect my shoes,
or the toilet stool.

I tell you this
because you listen.
I wish I had a story about
some incredible sale I made,
or how my
coworker is having lunch
with Tommy Lee Jones tomorrow. But
my day isn't fraught
with interesting goings-on.

Nay, it's the urinals or silence.

In conclusion, my pants stayed dry today.


An Imaginary Conversation With My Girlfriend by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Name Calling

You fat, ugly cunt.

You waste of skin, you
harried and unrepentant bitch. You filthy
piece of humanity, you poor,
snobbed misguided
form, you sincerely large pile of saggy tits
and loose pussy, you callous-handed harbinger of pain
and suffering.

You immature half of a person,
you child, you
indescribably bad liar, you cavorting slut, you
sad excuse for a woman, you undesirable piece
of female genitalia, you reason men turn gay.

You paunch of disgust and reverb, you mannish hen, you
sorry grub of musical talent, you infinitesimally
intelligent sow, you beady-eyed con artist,
you slow-witted wonder of molecules, you attention-
seeking thrill rat, you drug-addled
veil of sycophantic maina.

You hypocritical mass of hysterics.



I used to love you.


Name Calling by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Endless

end-

-less

like God stuck a turkey baster in the middle of the color wheel and spun them just for me just like every time i get nauseated with this giddy charm like i'm 13 and the babysitter just winked at me like i was just in the way of that goddamned cherub's line of sight and i was going like 95 down the tunnel of love smoking a fag and swiggin' on the old beam like that punch drunk love kind of crazy like i might go insane from looking too long at them.

end-like-an-afternoon-of-held-breaths-and-long-sighs-and-quickened-pulse-less

(and they had to be brown)



Endless by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

- bademailname

Pipe Dream

envelop
me.

beckon, waste me away to your corner.
Coil,
spring.

cut,
lash.
Tongue whip me submissive;
breathe fire and seal fates.

crush fear.
I’ll love you forever.


Pipe Dream by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

This was rewritten from another piece I believe I've already posted. Much better this way.

- bademailname

Black Coffin

OK, Sherman, set the wayback machine for 2001, when I decided that my poetry didn't entirely suck.


This:
This is an aggregation.
An amalgamation.
A congregation,
A conglomeration, an estimation of the
trepidation.
You:
You are an imbecility.
A facility for the anti-
amiability. Amicability.
It becomes:
A Disastorability for
Brandability. To Intractability.
So let us have:
Insinuation. Insulation for our
Nation of Calculation, Recalcitration, Fornication.
We:
As a people.
As a person.
As a whole being.
Insipid Insipid Insipid.
Stupid uneducated no effect having promiscuous
silly little worms of a blood beating fuck-up as
a person.
Annihilation.
Infarcication.
Truncation.
We die:
We cough sputter weep for our forefathers cry
for our descendants and all of us I mean
Every
Fucking
One of us
lets go of this too real world to
Meet the not too calm and all
too cold world of a
Nailed
Down
Black
Lacquer
Coffin
DEAD.
Amen, brother.
A-fuckin-men.


Black Coffin by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Mother

Hold me, child.
Hold me sunny,
strange days ahead now.

Brack river underneath my bones,
child, you will be wont to drink it;
resist every temptation.

Hold the weak now,
hold steadfast a solder's mask
a deity's substance
hold fast now, child.

Coming miles up now and we forgave him naught.
Hold the line, child
Help me heal
wounds bandaged dirty
by the sun now

Hold the heals, child.
Hold me as you're breaking apart now
you're crazy if you want to make crazy
Hold the heals now.

Mend cracks in the skin
hold it together, child.
bleed the sun dry tomorrow

Hold tight now,
it's the sudden dancing macabre bodies underneath it all.
Secrets of secrets.
Hold me now, child,
if you want to see me.


Mother by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

This is the final revision for "Mother," a piece I channeled some weeks ago. It was performed for the first time April 22, at GaiaFest 2008.

miracle

you never noticed me until
today.

I thought
I’d have to
tear out my femurs
with a steak knife
and borrowed fish hooks
for a
casual
glance



three
cheers
for small
miracles.


miracle by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

These Dreams

These dreams

These vivid regurgitations of pandering emotions
Of elation in its ubiquitous frivolity
Of mourning, loss in shadows unknown
Of anxiety
Of yearning
Of aches and pains and

These static moments of reality
Claim more souls than there are stars in a clear night sky
The lifeless grasp their chests in their boxes
As if their hearts may at any moment leap from their
Ribs and do the meringue

The living wait in line at the slaughter house
Mooing and chewing their cud without
Remorse

These thoughts of recycled trash
Moribund and antediluvian
Smelling of fecal rot and horrifyingly pungent lavender

It seems as though this lifetime
Contained all the ingredients for abundant experiences
Wisdom
Ethereal knowledge

And the sieve that is the environment on which
I sink
Lets none of it keep longer than the
Very single moment of
Awakening.


These Dreams by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

rumor

In crisp silence there came starlight
wearing the bedsheets of my sin

we tumbled drunk into fashionable doilies

she clamored the throes of existentialism
put poxes on peas in mattresses
with just enough irony
to make my face crack at the corners

and we rolled spectacularly in harvest moonlight and
broken beer bottles

albeit the glass was sharp
and the moon burned our backs

we coddled the Devil into a deal
knowing one of us was going
to get one over on the other

or so I’m told …

rumor by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

The Bumblebee Yawns

the bumblebee yawns
dewdrops can't sparkle in mystical haze
tulips can't open without the giant yellow thing
wheat blades ripple from westerly breaths
the bumblebee yawns

the ant drives
through morning rushhour, pissed that he's so late
oak leaves heavy wet asymmetrical
forboding cargos
the ant drives

the earthworm gorges
i must get home, i must get home
prays for his family merely six inches below
gray nothing above looms a stressor
the earthworm gorges

robins do the traffic
flutter and siren their approach
if only so they don't hit one another
squabble wrens for the best parking spots
robins do the traffic

posies open for business
hunter gatherers dance the grand opening
scavengers have camped all night
now they can eat their tents
posies open for business

god sneezed awake, and it was good
eyes opened and a finger pointed to the east
there's the giant yellow thing
hopefully it brought a fan or two to clear this pea soup
god sneezed awake

The Bumblebee Yawns by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

click.

Television is the gateway to hell
and we are all of us hopeless
to quell its throngs while it blithely
holds membership drives hourly.
Makes empty promises via cathode rays
spreads candied viruses of apathy, greed, destruction

click.

And
I am diseased.
burgeoned polyps appear harmless until
they break and pus on yellowed skin.
Earth shatters over again like a Ronco infomercial
veins grow black, their pace slowed
as molasses death runs deeper
Thump. Thump.
Inside me.

click.

Clandestine armour bubbles, fizzes as
acid tongues spew vomitous words through ten inch woofers.
Vocal chords atrophy until
the mind pinches the fuse.

click.

it is merely a hiatus; rather should be

Claim the incessant thrall of civility
for the Queen of Spain
scream like an ice cream truck as it careens toward a murder of crows

click.

Maiden Mother, I plead for you
supplicate to your undead wisehood
inundated with megalomaniacs marching melodiously.
Mince meat Matriarchy mellows my
marauded methodology

click.

And
I
Pray
to high definition gods
from my TV tray altar
sacrifice the Hungryman(tm)
burn TV Guide incense

Bow to the remote control
Bow to the remote control



click.

click. by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

George's Steak House

i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
we would sit and roleplay terrorist movements
yeah
the looks were always scared
and welcomed.
it was either that, or simian behavior
throwing shit and sticks from our high thrones to their lojack booths

cowboys hate it when you laugh at them
because it's all true



i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
he called everyone nigger
rice-nigger sand-nigger niggermutts
this from the guy that
had a CB in his van
and would dileberately piss off truckers with moronic radio checks
and "what's your twenty, cuntrag?"

fuckin preachers' kids


there was one
who
would
robo for three days then streak down his road picking roses from the neighbors' yards
at least he never ran out of interesting things to say

even when he moaned the star spangled banner
that was fuckin profound




i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
he gave a waitress nine pennies
wrote a little note on the table
"because the service wasn't worth a dime"

yeah we got kicked out a lot.

they were the days
when someone asks, those were them.




you see how it works when you try and forget.

George's Steak House by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

barfly

yeah so
i'm sittin' in this bar and
i'm sittin' in this bar and i'm
jammin' out to Bob Dylan
like i'm
chillin' like Bob Dylan i'm
feelin' the thrillin'
wheelin' and dealin' of
things on the ceilin'
yeah
the paint on the ceilin'
is peelin'
it's a
hue
of rental property beige
just like everything else

so let's all just get stoned.

you know
the Beatles broke through after their
run-in with Dylan
yeah
it was the speed an' acid hiball
kicked it all into highgear
that and George pilgrimed in India.
if you doubt i have one thing to say
and that's Number 9?
Number 9?
Number 9?

Number 9?

numb-er than the bummer feel of sleeping on both hands
bummer than a D.C. hobo with a hummer
hummer like the blowjob
yeah

so i'm sittin' in this bar and
i'm sittin' in this bar and i'm
rockin' on the statler bros

'cause the nose knows that
to get the ho's you crow the
old skool shows
then close with prose that don't blow
yeah
gets em every time
and you won't count flowers on the wall
ever
again

you know
it's flowers that powers this coward
into giving up the word shower
you can glower for an hour
but my flower tower of power still shines
yeah
like finger candy

rest assured i am not alone

so i'm sittin in this bar and
i'm sittin in this bar and
i'm thinkin

Damn

this beer is flat

'spose i shoulda drank it

when i got here.

barfly by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

The Procrastinated Man

The Procrastinated Man
sits,
slathered in sonombulance,
slovenly soiled with sex

(ism)

only slightly strong slightly silly
sallow sanguine strutting cheap boots and a ten dollar haircut
He waits in the wings for no one.
He waits.

The uprising may
or may not pass
chaos math only works some
of the time

imagine. the perfect butterfly fart.

imagine the sun and the sea
ripples tear themselves across froth and kelp
white streaks roll in fastmotion
build us a temple in front
of the sun.

and as you float in great quiet on the perfect horizon
imagine life as The Procrastinated Man.
deepen it below the bottom of the sea.
heighten its awareness to the very edge of the skydome
and you may get an infinitesimal taste
only then if your taste buds are on their
tippy toes.

Mind you, the man isn’t lazy
Ask him, he’ll tell you.
The Procrastinated Man says:
" . . .
“…wait."

it’s the waiting makes any other sort of man crazy. They can’t seem to take
time and patience
He sees not all but most knows not most but some feels not some but none lies
well.
not none.

(And I do mean man. There is no such thing as The Procrastinated Woman.
That is an oxymoron.)

The Procrastinated Man ponders pot proliferation while he
reads clippings of pandering Norml members performing political hari-kari in
push -up bras and PB&J luncheons.
“At least,",” he thinks
“they could have served ramen."

The Procrastinated Man says
“Fuck the feather duster."
He slums in spit and mucous and eyesnot
fingers splayed, nails encrusted with mallow
lines already blackened with the day’s soot.
A ready fingerprint stares him in the face

He is envious of its
cold hard logic.

They come to listen for wisdom for insight for a pillow for a shoulder.
They come.
They come one by one seemingly endless singlefile down the throat
one by one they tell the truest stories the
real live ones
one by one they count the stars in minutes until they can no longer function
one by one they rest their souls on the table to breathe in
the smoke chamber
one by one the heartworn sleeve takes a salty bath or the
blade is twisted another degree or the
lemon juice drip is began again.

one

by

one

The
Procrastinated Man says

“time and patience.”

The Procrastinated Man
...
… waits.

The Procrastinated Man by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

br.o.ken

Mother flailed me with the Nine Tails this morning
right after my bowl of Special K.

we exchanged glances
like Medusa would Hercules
Cleo and Tony
Rik-Tik and the Asp

On your knees bitch, she seethed through
rootformed dirtpacked mouth.
(it passed for a mouth)
she broke through my right eardrum
with her Mack Truck soprano
knowing my left ear was already damaged
in a freak snowplough accident

it paralyzed me; and i pleaded
i am broken
i am lost
i am Matrix Fashion fallen by the wayside.

my wax paper cracked
under her fine attunement
of the weapon
i fell prostrated in front of
treesap and worms and fire ants
her oaken arms whisked thorn switches
as she called out my rap sheet

!
for your dimestore prickdom
!!
for your societal insubordination at town meetings
!!!
for intolerant postures at coffee tables
!!!!
for the insolent imperative you pass for ideology
!!!!!
for sloth
!!!!!!
for a forged certificate of impunity to the real world found in my sock drawer
!!!!!!!
FOR LIES SO HELLISHLY HUGE YOU COULDN'T FIT THEM ON THE MOON!
damn her beauty

my gashes seeped pus and retribution
and i am broken
she flogged harder
i am lost
she threatened the rack
i am Night Court fallen by the wayside

the Moon needs not my ink,
the waiting list itself a revered prominence
and the flowers are tired

she glowered brighter and clamped my jaw
yanking me towards her mass
a snake writhed free and bit my tongue
rivets to the mouth my capped molars melted
under vile consumption of fevered rage anguish
turmoilish despair despot dimming deepishly devoid of
harmony and reeking of desperation.

i think a groundhog took shelter in my stomach

i stared at the rats in her eyes
told her i am broken
i am lost
i am Dark Angel fallen by the wayside

i know, she said.
i'll be back tomorrow.

br.o.ken by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

cons id e r

dumber by the
day and I can feel it
creep down synapse eat
gray matter kill too many feed
the rest too much give the rest
of my mind a wonder a precarious
position a pretense of preposterous
ramifications



It’s killing me.



tendrils grasp; do not let go
barrel down my thoughts beat them
to plasma and I yet
turn another thought
into a grunt
and a nod of the lids
as an admittance of guilt
my breast yearns for such
filthy willpower to make itself
present to
…


…
and it comes to me like nike. Like my mother’s
cross-stitch
(just [do it) now]
my father’s voice inside the yellow hatred eyes he says
“Listen here, dumbass
you know you’re better than that”
and this is about the point
where the psychotic break
kicks down the door and grabs
me by the collar and threatens
to rip my fucking head off jesus
fuck
“so why aren’t you doing it?!”

and it sits there
in its bubble
mocks me with a raised eyebrow.
I shrug ala cerebus; walk in
brazen moonlight shone through quixotic
walls of nonimportance
while it follows me, above my head
a black thunderous light bulb of memo

So too, I walk in the garden of epochs while
the twinkled with dust faeries come
a glitterin’ across my nose
in blue angel fashion
take heed, tread with persistence, solidity
rock of the ages
resolve
to the myriad Technicolor
flashback
like communism, just misplaced in
practice; still just and
honorable in theory.

Re consider
Re confinement of sorts
a disjunction of Re configurement soul suckling naiveté

that is to say
shut the fuck up
and
listen

cons id e r by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

aroma

i thought of you today …

a concussion severely understated.

if i can escape
the soundproof cuffs

i might just be able to do

more than sniff your hair.

aroma by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Spoons

I made spoons with your pillow

ground my face into its back

... and in a deep inhale

(i can still smell your hair)

came a serene light of truth:

ironically, memory is a

not-quite solace

(and the fabric is cold)

Spoons by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Dizzy

I spun circles
in desperate search of North

... but all I got was dizzy

I scrubbed the same black-bloodcrusted spot on the floor for hours;
sought to blanch the tile white
with raw-white-knuckle-determination
and just a little lonesome

I've sung at stars
until vocal chords bent in half ...
some snapped in two

(open my mouth to prove it)

I railed and supplicated at false gods
rallied the long seventh inning stretch
with a glass of water and a slice of cold pizza

Ramified with a single planted seed in sallow Earth.

In the yonder of twilight and moonshine
a single nova caught
the silk net, lamented.

The incandescence shone brightest;
then immolated infinitely inward.

(Which struck my heart with a most disconcerting thud
As the dictionary lay open to page 1340.)


I spun circles
... until you.

Dizzy by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.