Showing posts with label Shawn Misener. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shawn Misener. Show all posts

Friday, May 27, 2011

Detroit's Forever Mayor

this is the ass of America
the little dark man says to me
sweeping his hand across the skyline
as if trying to dissipate the city like smoke

the gutter behind us quietly sucks down
last night's rain, almost loud enough
to drown out the whirring of industry
surrounding us on all sides
like millions of beetles marching across wax paper

this is my domain, my dream
the little dark man whispers

looking down at him I see
a shriveled and surreal Joe Louis
presiding over his city and unable to smile

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Loose Cage

you happy smiling pyramid
slimy rhyming crayon
you wordy chirpy bird
thick book across the face

animation mouse
dressed in barbeque sauce
jellybean droppings
watermelon shit

monkey imagination
drunk on spinal fluid

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

One More Place To Be

I'm watching the giants
weave through sycamores
like they did three thousand years ago

they stomp around and sing
until they sprout erections
the size of space shuttles

with these erections
they dispose of their enemies
and bellow for the women

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Mystical Food Poisoning

Mystical Food Poisoning


powdered lime-aid broke me to my knees
pink polo shirt fuchsia sunrise
neon green upchuck
splattered oblong around and through
my body supplicating
to mother plastic, to mother nature
to their eternal cancerous battle

here's to me
a spindle between nature
and injection molding
praying somewhat to oil refineries
and the pulsating mysteries within

oh god
oh captain crunch
how did you divvy up my flimsy soul?
what have I done to deserve
this silly putty brand of torture?

best to find a park bench
deep within cereal city
and meditate on it,
not without sugar

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Prayer in Xanax

Prayer in Xanax


If not for the terror we wouldn't have found you
curled up and plotting in the corner of the cosmos
conch light bulb swinging from a mammoth tusk
above your shimmering shaggy head

your clothes a timeline of ugly history
and even uglier historians
beards lined with gray in your wake
blood slipping from their ears

if not for the terror you'd be invisible
wrapped in tin foil prayers and bubble gum comics
evident only by your bigfoot prints
hanging from the fluorescent cedars

we can send up smoke signals
and fall to our knees in the unleavened dough
but what better way to find you
then through death's anxiety-ridden window?

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

the captain of this ship

the captain of this ship



We drank champagne pills and
glasses of carbonated vicodan and
danced the night (and our lives) away
to the tune of “Fantastic Voyage.”

We snorted cake and
chewed on imported coca leaves
and talked talked talked
‘till the authorities drove us North.

Bastards.

Good times are hard to hold on to,
like my sister’s lubricated fish.

It flops around her room and reminds us
of our inevitable deaths.

“Life is Just a Moment”
is next on her mixtape.
Who knows exactly
how much time we have left?

--Shawn Misener lives and writes in Michigan. He does the same thing every night: Try to take over the world. This piece was originally published in Calliope Nerve X: Natural Born Poets.

Friday, February 20, 2009

the little god in the yellow hat

the little god in the yellow hat



The Booming Voice From Above:

You can either be the dying crab on the beach,
or the jankety satellite that barely holds orbit.
Your choice!
You can either be the rotten discarded love kiwi,
Or the two way speaker at Rally's that never works.

You will forever be having to pull up to the window to order.
You will forever be having to correct the order.
You will forever be having to hear my dreadful voice.

You will forever be having to be, and that's a raw deal.
My voice has shook even the steeliest of balls.
My bounty has crumpled even the ironiest of knees.
You will forever be having to be my kinda bitch.

You can know death, though.
Would you like to know death?
You can know death then.

(recess)

Pleasant, no? A real no-brainer.
You will forever be having NOT that again.
I am in control, see?

You can either be the dried merlot in your toilet,
Or the hi tech plastic head to a nuclear projectile.

Get it?
You can be the last palm standing after the
next tsunami,
Or a broken support beam setting off to sea.

You will forever be having to make these great decisions.
Hooray for my questions!
Would you prefer fries with that,
Or the more sensible choice of a fruit cup?

--Shawn Misener lives in Michigan. He is in no way related to Julia A. Moore, the Sweet Singer of Michigan, who is widely considered to be one of the worst poets in history. the little god in the yellow hat originally appeared in Calliope Nerve Part VIII: Why Go?

Friday, February 6, 2009

Satellite Minds

Satellite Minds



This doesn't make much sense-
the green and brown beer bottles rattling together
on top of the fridge

Conan's impossible hair bounces
and retains form even through the rabbit ears

she says
our antennae will be obsolete next February
so if we don't get our act together
we'll lose it all

lose what-
Conan's hair?
I wonder aloud
breathing out smoke signals

even more-
she bites the orange and continues-

more than you could ever imagine

(static)

one of the bottles bounces off the linoleum
and suddenly I realize my trajectory
is not unlike
the fake metal
yellow-assed
supermarket chair I sit in:

half in the kitchen
half in the living room

there's only two of us in the efficiency
yet I swear there are three or more
depending on what her story is

divided
repeatedly and possibly endlessly
in our electrified radio wave apartment
by satellite minds

the strip of golden plastic
delineating truth from memories
and forcing empty space between us

--Shawn Misener is a writer. At least in his head, he is. It doesn’t pay the bills. He's been a high school teacher, liquor store clerk, apartment lawnsboy, cafeteria worker, mental health aid, student, and he is not yet thirty. Shawn is a regular contributor to Calliope Nerve.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Doolittle

Doolittle



Here comes the snow
he says leaning forward the snow is
relentless
it even blows the huge Japanese chimes
on the balcony the ones that scare the neighbors
into thinking
that someone is stalking them in their dreams

singing where is my mind
wheeeeere is my mind
dressed like a monk
all ochre and maroon and wind horse energy

the snow's gonna stick this time he says
stick all winter
and metamorphitall into piss colored slush
that sticks to the road your car and your eye
and it won't go away until April
so until then he says best to hunker down
and let your brain go gush
see it in the ice water it's swimming.

--Shawn Misener is a writer. At least in his head, he is. It doesn’t pay the bills. He's been a high school teacher, liquor store clerk, apartment lawnsboy, cafeteria worker, mental health aid, student, and he is not yet thirty. Shawn is a regular contributor to Calliope Nerve.

Kali After Lunch

Kali After Lunch



That's just beautiful
she comments smoke flipping from her mouth
beading up in her greasy brown hair the sun
breaking waves over her cheekbones the dead rabbit
slowing being taken away by a squadron of ants
amazing us both in their mindless efficiency

We're staring down from the balcony
and she wonders aloud why such a grisly scene captivates
when in our electric souls we fear death and avoid it
at all possible cost

I can't help but imagine butterflies bumbling upwards
from a kettle of molten iron swinging gently above
the most beautiful quilt conceivable
laced with neon greens and reds on a landscape of blue drizzle
little drips of silver destruction searing holes
and falling into a black infinite mess

And as the ants move along the rabbit becomes something
we can't identify a mess of bones and fur and blood
she lights another cigarette and sighs
concluding something between her green eyes that
she wishes not to share.

--Shawn Misener is a writer. At least in his head, he is. It doesn’t pay the bills. He's been a high school teacher, liquor store clerk, apartment lawnsboy, cafeteria worker, mental health aid, student, and he is not yet thirty. Shawn is a regular contributor to Calliope Nerve.