i'm sorry it's so frustrating
to communicate
it's hard to hear you
over the poetry
bleeding from my ears
the voices trapped inside
the jazz of the street beneath
i watch you like a sitcom
queue canned laugh in 3. 2.
i can't see the humor
but i chuckle
at the thought
it's not you it's me
my mind
needs to be free


hash collision

clouds colliding
universe inward riding
inside the wires
malformed desires
secrets and lies
poets and spies
from rooftops shouting
who's to hear
the rhythm of sin
skin on skin
to waste resistance
or welcome reckoning

suburban doldrums

artifacts of memories
clay pots that once held flowers
so little sun to grow
scars the only lasting souvenirs
it's more spacious here
but sirens are too prevalent
from the doors of perception
to the walls of persuasion
everybody giving up
until no one is happy
each day the black dogs bay
to their jowls hurled
fistfuls of pills,
bottles green and brown,
cartons of ash
like a terrible infant
on the wrong side of town
still pauses to stare the setting sun
over fence through neighboring trees
succumbing now numb enough
the backdoorstep of suburban death


the ocean muse

the muse dressed like justice
whispers softly
she stands in the sand
with painted toes
a wisp among the white wash
her gossamer gauze
dancing on the frothing surf
off the beach she beckons
luring with glances
out to see the sea
to the moonlit driven waves
and suffering stallions
he's frozen to the sand slowly
slipping down the hour glass
and with the waves like
dreams of night
she retreats
taking his heart for art
and leaving him there
to write

~dwmetz, 2013