Thesis revisited

O' Thesis
again you appear before me
like a wall
or tower
or even a bully

A wall or tower, yes,
but spare me the corny cliches.
I need change!
So, thesis, will you hold me
upsidedown and shake the lunch money
from my pen ridden pockets?

Will you knock the books
out of my hands I use to create You?

You were more intimidating,
80 pages of relentless
monosyllabic unintelligent
word vomit,
all leading to a well-known conclusion.

Now I tower over you,
mere 24 pages,
more eloquent and
new, and idea-filled.
I shall come upon you and shake you

of any loose change.
I shall control you
hand you over to the authorities.

They will repay me with one single sheet of paper,
shorter and nicer than you,
O' Thesis,
and I will display this document proudly
never forgetting the torment
You put me through.

Why my job sucks

So I know this is punny, and rather cheezy, and incorporating pagan gods with puns and cheeseball-ness may not fit exactly into a standard for "good" poetry, but I just couldn't help myself.




Pharmaceutical Representative






is such an unnatural
conglomeration of words;
mostly resembling porcelain dolls
with the politically correct
one
single
African American Porcelain Doll.

I, the atypical barista
at the corporate coffee shop,
stare through you to a foamy
misty future.

You order many four dollar lattes
many, many, four dollar lattes,
affording them on the plastic credit
of your over-paid drug company.

Back to the building of dead and dying,
you offer the scissor arms
and cotton coats
your nose
to their asses
and then
the lattes I made.

They nonchalantly purchase your drugs.

Mammon
is satiated,
Moloch
spares you the furnace
heated by a multiple of 7 times
this quarter,
replenishes your credit card's
empty belly.

You return to me like
Porcelain Dolls,
with the politically correct
one
single
African America Porcelain Doll
and a list of names
and more names
and multi-named drinks,
and drinks that don't even exist.

If you do not smile, you're face may crack,
and mine certainly will not.

You order, you joke, you
don't tip, and I again
do your job for you.


Except this time you're getting all decaf and don't even know it.

hmmmm

Don't know what happened, but I accidentally posted on the fiancee's blog... thats what we get for sharing computers! its like sharing needles, only not...

http://mbdowntown.blogspot.com/

utterances

I'm a big fan of George Herbert and John Donne. If your'e interested in religous poetry, I recommend these old guys. They're great. Much like Herbert when he was young exclaimed "When I grow up I want to write religious poetry like John Donne," I have an increasing interest to do the same. It seems writing things does, in a way, to me, mean more and is more understandable and many many other reasons than just saying it. or whatever. I guess its the same reason anyone writes. Even if you don't like God or necessarily believe he exists, feedback is still welcomed.


Utterances








Lord



To utter Your name
is to desecrate it
distort it
deform it

defame it,

For my tongue is a railroad spike
not used for Your continuing methods
but for death and fornication.

To allow my utterances is pure grace,
to allow my silence while you are hammered on the cross
with mouths, my mouth,
is grace.

Lay Your track Lord.

I'm an engineer
lacking skill
surveying the land
questioning.

I am an orator who has lost his language,
and like Babel
I stare at my sky scraper unable
to explain it
or praise it.

It must exist alone
and I must
walk away

from it,
following those vaguely familiar
tracks
returning long way round
to a vaguely familiar home

following sunsets
and the sounds of birds
the mouth of the river speaking
more perfect than I.

MIni Iambic

Mini iambic






I'm looking at you from across the room,
the fears of the world melt and drift away.
I hope I will be back in you're arms soon
and unswerving, face the resistless day.

God's Blood

God's Blood








Shaking you held the tray of God's blood
but not out of fear
exposing the seriousness in your brow


you cried during a Christmas church service
over a sermon you didn't particularly care for
you yelled hoorah
even though you were a mechanic
for the airforce

my grip on your truth is shaking





As a child I envied
the fearless with
disrespect for authority
embarrassed
I spent nights crying

I remember the smell of the
gloomy classroom staring
at the road darkened
by the clouds I anticipated
the end of the day doodled
played with my glue


my memories of childhood are shaky
like your hands on God's Blood.

untitled

This is a generally unedited, sort of list of thoughts that I put in line form. its untitled because I couldn't think of anything

Discontent!

Brows pushing eyes down
wearisome frown
can't sit still.

I don't want to be asked about it, my

INSATIABLE LUST...(god help me)

GOD HELP ME
chokedown this medicine,
ring the bell of
discontent, the chord of

DEAR JESUS I CAN'T STOP

but you won't stop it will you?
In what way could I exercise my will
If I didn't have the freedom to work for it . . .



I want to retire to the bedroom
and watch the long legs make blisters on the floor
pacing, over and over, like the ebb and flow
that is my desire for natural skin.

The Words, the Word, these words,
your words,
crawl on my skin like spiders,
and like a web,
I can craft the truth just so
you can't see it unless the light hits it
just right.

Ah, the light. Well, the light. Yes, the light.

It would be honest,
but it would make me utterly known,

exposed, naked

like the flesh I long to devour with my eyes.

What is this feeling? this “temptation”?
Why do I wish to hurt and disappoint you?
This feels like adultery, but maybe―
more complicated.

If possible, dear jesus, dear jesus...

be sure to take this seriously.

What stitch can mend this?
Can time loosen the memory?
or will it just continue to stretch, to contort
to broaden until it is a thorn buried deep in the flesh,
working its way towards the heart?


Similar to what I did to you?

W. K .Medlen