Punk Rock Song of Bizarro

Bizarro am most punk rock hero ever

me shun beauty and hate what me love

me am very healthy with super weakness

and every day I go to sleep is an old ending

my every move is real-life fiction

Bizarro: The Movie, poor with mundane effects

you will not believe a man can fly backwards

I always see where I’m not going fast

All me need is Hate. Hate is all me need

to keep this cube-shaped world of ours still spinning

I cannot sing. I am weaker than a moving train.

Less powerful than jumping buildings.

Me am not unSuperman without glasses

unsecret identity is hidden all over my face

Look at my cheekbones. I am guitar expert

My band am not The Justice League of Bowling

I am weakest one of all. Everything can hurt me.

Cold and lonely fortress of solitude not hanging on my sleeve

We unthank you, Bizarro am champion of losers.

Me am arrive now with “Down, down and Right Here…!”

All me know is Hate. Hate is all me need.
The only crime in Bizarro World is being perfect

Me am the Man of Yesterday, me am beautiful

"Down, down and right here!".

"Down, down and right here!".

Grief (Re-Write #2)

Grief
(for Tim Hopkins)

We are built for loss, whether we know it or not,
we humans. Our memory is what God gave us
when He was not in a truly giving mood. 

Loss of innocence was a bite of real fruit. We cannot be hungry 
without it being a sin. Loss of the womb is called natural birth, 
and every mother & child can tell you the pain of creation is real. Loss 
of a child's imagination is called learning to live in the Real World, 
is called Oh grow up, will you?  

We talk all the time, but how little of that is Real Talk? 
Giving up being a nomad means pretending you own 
some piece of the world, and we call that real estate. 
Our ages are measured in real numbers. Life expectancy 

is a real concern when you live in Real Time. Praise authenticity 
when we say Keep it Real, but why is it we only say that
when we say Goodbye? People die. And the world continues
to just spin, like the people we lose are no longer real.

The real axis is where real numbers add up, but even
knowing that doesn't matter Our hearts are in real pain
our grief is never gifted a set of merciful linear stages,
but rather, a design in real time, and yet all everyone tells us
is to get real, get over it, and get one with our lives? Unreal..

We get it, World, we get it--
we read the real signs in every death, 

every cold October, every year:
every loss is real. 

Every loss is real. 

Every loss is real.

Pain Scale for Fossils (Re-Write #1)

The first thing nurses always ask-
is: Are you in any pain today?

And I say "Yes. The answer is always 'Yes'
That's how it is Chronic Pain. It's chronic.
Related to Time, as in, All. Of. The. But,
how could you know even though that fact
cleverly hidden in the medical history page 
in your computer that has my name on it.

Can you give the pain a number from one to ten?

So I say "Twelve. Or Twenty. Or Eleventy-five.
Because her numbers are not the same
as my numbers, so please- if this will save time
I am going to write this down...

Pain Level One: This is both of us waking to feel this way,
but, what you would call "a sick day" I call "Good morning."

Pain Level Two: Good morning, it is going to rain.

I know this, because pain is its own forecast. Pain births
itself, like a mythology, like a place that keeps discovering you.
My doctor and I examine charts, discuss excavations.
I know my body is a ruined temple,
because my doctor only speaks in lost languages.

Level Three: Good Morning, it is going to rain fire.

Level Four: I am starting to lose my shape from the rain...
Pain... whatever. It just hurts.

Level Five: This is the unsure place, the Rubicon 
somewhere in every day. The tipping-point between
Do I return to bed? Or keep walking in the rain?

Pain Level Six: It is raining. It is always raining, or going to,
or threatening. My to-do lists are written on rice paper.

Level Seven: Fifteen years ago, this pain kept me 
In bed, eighteen hours a day. Today my body is heavy
with coping strategies. The pain settles, 
like fossils, like silt and epochs. Someday, 
Level Seven will be my favorite Lost World.

Level Eight: Good Morning, it is raining crazy Tyrannosaurs.

Level Nine: Rain as Soothsayer, as Oracle, as Doom Prophesy,
Rain as Today and Every Day for Fifteen Years. My pain?
My pain today is a Fifteen and will never fit anyone's scale.

Level Ten: End game. Extinction event. Rain forever.

Predictive Text Poem #3

Consequently, I have to go
to the store and get some rest
of the day and feel better
soon  and that is why I'm asking
for a friend to talk to you okay
I will be there despite the fact
that I have to go to the store
for you to be okay in the video

Predictive Text Haiku

don't know if you are
interested in the sad
morning. i will be

Predictive Text Poem #2

I will be there in a few minutes and I will be there in a few minutes to talk to you about it when I get home I will send you the link to the video of the guy who was the guy who was the guy who was the guy who was the guy

Grief

We are built for loss, we humans. Memory
is what God gave to people when He was
not in a giving mood. The loss of innocence
was a bite of real fruit. We can't be hungry
without it being a sin. Loss of the womb
is called birth. Loss of imagination is called
grow up, will you? Loss of the ability to fly
at will is called the child accepts what is real;
is called what are you going to do with the rest
of your life, for real? Loss of being a nomad
is called real estate. Loss of people is a fact
of real life, accept it, kid. We get it. Every loss
is real. Every loss is real. Every loss is real.