revised poems

The Blues
By: Thomas P. Sloan

I could never eliminate all the pain and suffering
That weighs us down like rain soaked packs,
Burdening our journey on soggy paths.

I could never solve anything.

I can’t turn anything invisible or make it porous,
So when you look at it – its not there
Or when you feel it – it disintegrates in your hand.

I never wanted to, I never wanted to
Gloss over a rough patch with Park Avenue moisturizer scrubs,
Or conquer the South Beach Paradise
Miracle fucking
Weight loss
So I could be glistening and not sweaty on my
Gold plated turbo rocket ski-doo in my
Hovercraft pool I had made out of dinosaur bones.
I didn’t want to

If you gave me a list of everyone who wanted write words to
Fix things forever,
I’d name my father’s tumors after them.

And it’s simple
Fucking
Words.

I couldn’t lull the rifle out of a drunken Serb
As he pumped a round into the skull of
An old Albanian lady.
If I did he’d think less than her
Scatterbrained self would.

I couldn’t

These Disneyland fairytailers want to put a rainbow on
Every storm drain and call it a wishing well.
Just so our poor and hungry don’t wash up
Down in the gutter,
Thinning wine and blaming
Those who didn’t help them, no!

I wanted to paint something.
I wanted to paint me a cavernous waste shore.
I wanted to let the rocks!

I wanted to scream out to the hipsters out my window, coolly
And the jazzy jive brothers flipping coins under streetlamps,
When the air is thick, warm and muggy, like sex in cars
Cars that ring sirens outside my window that
Ring like a waltz or curly hair in the night with one perfect flower pinned above the ear
That left one single note
That was, get this, Blue!

Why not?

I wanted to carry my problems around on my belt
And wear them outside my pants for all the honest world to feel
I wanted them to listen to me like the voices on the TV
‘Til their tired and their eyes go heavy.

I never wanted to tell anyone anything
Because I might miss them, Why?
I wanted to feel that.
I wanted to appreciate what hurts.
For everybody,
All anyone can do with it, what hurts,
Their pain,
Their tree of woe.
Aches
Desires, laments, lust, loss,
Hurt.

I didn’t want to cradle their head and tell them it was just a scratch,
That they’d be fine, crying.

I wanted to contribute and give them the American dream.
And the only tangible contribution of Americanism is
That we don’t try and hide our problems,
There’s no neglect.
We don’t kill them and
They don’t kill us.

We keep them, give them names and flirt with them in bars.
Everyone does and
We appreciate it.

I wanted to take that hurt and put it in a ball and
Keep it
In the corner of my room,
Not to have all day but
To walk around and appreciate sometimes.

Like a perfect beat up couch or an old lamp.
I wanted to help,
And pay my dues,
So you could as well,
And feel it too.




The Walking Dead
When we die, hell will go wild,
Roses burn and spears are fired.
And we shouldn’t expect to go to heaven,
Just to be strangers there.

We can drag our crayons across the canvas,
Instead of walking in the normal way.
We can make lenses out of wax paper,
For glasses, so we can see, we’ll say.
And that’s all we see anyway.

We can abandon hope,
Or we can live every breath of love.
We can fold our hands and pray,
Pray that someone listens above.
Pray that our words are enough.

This is when our muscles contract,
How we react says a lot for our souls.
If we possess the strength to hold fast,
Or if we’ll make a life of death and holes.
Abandoned and empty from time and its tolls.

And when we’re born, hell goes wild,
Rivers flood and the father smiles.
And I don’t want to believe in heaven,
Just for everyone to go there.