My Friend Mourns on a Coach

the out of tune guitar
hums angrily
forced to sing
by an unloved hand   
assisting to proclaim
the glories of the earth abroad
the honors of a name
that hurts my lips
to say right now
sitting next to those
sitting next to me
with their heavy
and their out of tune
and their loud
and their noise
and some say that.s the sound
of the saints and you.re
avant-garde

My First Rebellion

i've started writing poetry again
because what else is there to do
when you hang out by yourself at night
which is a really stupid question
because there.s plenty of other
things to do

(let.s remain close to the ground my poet friend said
which is not really a possibility
when you.re writing poetry
but i say sure let.s )

it.s taken me a year and a half to get
used to humble origins and my core
which has never changed despite
the many layers i.ve gained through
friendship and environment changes

when you dig deep into the layered self
the blood runs thick
when you reach the other side
theoretically because it.s not really a possibility
without serious damage to the self
you find that there.s no center and
are able to say with confidence everything is a layer
without sounding heavy handed
except when you say it to other people or in a poem

layers are a good thing
some people pay for them
and many of us put them on when it.s cold
good art has many layers
and this is not good art
this is a lazy diary entry
this is a letter to a friend

poetry was my first rebellion
from grammar and rules
against institution and structure
love of the common people
was half of a band name
whole of people i love
and the words of a tattoo i will get one day

my last rebellion
will hopefully not be a poem