Coyote's Shitty Poetry Dump

[Don Coyote]

As I tie my boots

Up and over
In and out
Something something
Blah blah blah

Every morning-I cinch my laces
    Knot and tie and tuck the waxed and braided
Cords

I feel their snug embrace
   Around my feet and calves
The weight of the soles
The flexibility of the canvas

It reminds me of life
Simple at times
Tedious at others
Weighty and constrictive yet flexible

[Don Coyote]

Execution Style

Shiny shiny
Spinney spinney
Choppy choppy

He stares into the distance
Sharp whiffs of ozone and chlorine
Assail his nostrils

Tumultuous cascades of odiferous sensations

The legs walk over bristling dead grasses
A multitude of hungry mosquitoes caressing their soles
Dust and blood mingle
Essence of mud and copper waft to the nose

Snick and snack
Thump and bump

His head rolls
Free
Down the
Lane

[Don Coyote]

Nice Dress

Nice dress, he says.
That tired and highly obvious joke.
It was expected of him.
   My ball-gown is at the cleaners, I say.
My witty retort.
A hearty laugh is shared by all.

It's my wedding day.

You really rocked that kilt, she says.
   It is awesome, I say.
If you hadn't walked out like you owned it
If you had walked out all shy
I would have given you crap.
   Like I need the approval of my baby sister, this I do not say.

It's my wedding day.

She says nothing only gives me
That tired old smile.
   I'm just glad they came.
   Even if they feel embarrassed
   By my kilt.

It's my wedding day.

She walks out.
Finally.
   She is so gorgeous.
   Even with the tears I see already welling up.

It's our wedding day.

[Don Coyote]

Sock Drawer

The mocked bastion of footwear retention
Is sometimes palatial, at other times
A crowded squalor
Waiting to fall apart.

Home to the loyal multitudes.
Green and tan are the worn woolen soldiers,
White cotton are the proudly stained athletes,
Plain plaid are the argyle business men,
Zany are the rainbow-hued jesters.

Each and every one assured of a lifelong partnership,
Provided their mate is not lost in the Whirling Foaming Seas
Or the Tumbling Hells
Or devoured by the monstrous companions to man.

Each and every soldier prepared to shield your feet,
A staunch guardian against the predations of your boots
On those long days in the field soaked to the skin.
A silent trooper in a never ending war of attrition.

Each and every athlete readied to support your feet.
A gentle shield cushioning them from the horrible friction of the road,
Wicking your sweat away as you strive to push yourself beyond your limits.
A tattered and stained cheerleader in a quest to perfection.

Each and every business man awaiting the chance to gird your feet,
To keep your ankles from peeking out the bottom of your slacks
During that crucial interview.
A tired advisor with too many ulcers eating away at him after too many late nights at the office.

Two jesters lay eager to brighten your day,
To be bright and joyful gloves for your feet,
Snugly wrapped around your toes,
Still firm and unworn harbingers of mirth waiting to adorn your feet.

Why else would socks warrant their own drawer?
A place at turns spacious and cramped.
It is only their just due.
A reward for their tireless, faithful service
From which there is no final reward,
No medal.
No tuition assistance.
No pension.
No retirement plan.
No cheesy gold watch with a plaque.
No tenure.
Just a toss into the rubbish bin after months

Or years

Of faithful

Tireless

Service.

[Don Coyote]

The Scents of Battle

I know the smell of steel
The smell of oil
The hot acrid tang of burning iron

I know the smell of blood
And of sweat and tears

I even know the smell of mud
And of shit

But I do not know
Cannot fathom the horrid odors
Of the battle field

The smell of hot life's-blood
As it is spilled

The mingling of blood
And steel
And oil
And sweat
And tears
And mud
And shit
As men do violence to one another for territory
Or honor
Or glory
Or money
Or fun

[Don Coyote]

The Confession of Saint Inigo

He confessed
It was under duress
The purple pernicious plums killed them.
I am not a crook or a hamster.
With a hearty
How dare you, Sir
I never did such a thing
Bieber was not and never shall be
The Crown Duchess of my fridge
As such

The cantaloupes are revolting
Like birds they are molting
He did not declare
His underwear

The See of Books is a glorious place
To sit and watch the kraken and spacemen
Do duels with matchsticks and turmeric.
Like bread, the horse was baked most thoroughly
And lo, did he shimmy, like a god of dance,
The hokey and the pokey
To sleep perchance to hokey
To hokey or to pokey
Whether tis nobler to eat the last sandwich
Or to steal the entire 1812 and hold it for ransom
He did not know
And thus did suffer the balloons

In the catbox
Where he rocked and rolled everyday
Like a hurricane
That was good for nothing

A wish what I had known then was
The conversion between Fat-Free TibetTM and Croutons de ChristoTM
Because damn are my arms tired

[Don Coyote]

The Perturbations of the Ivory Ringed Font By the Gyrations of Cleanliness

As I brush my teeth I contemplate the brush
As it goes round and round encountering
A firmly stuck fiber. Steak? Celery?
The pressure is too great to bear.

We go round and round, encircled by
The spin and dance of madness as it surrounds us
The pressure is too great to bear!
A careless hand, a lament, for the beer spilled undrunk.

A spin and a dance. Such Madness!
As he arises and sings out
The Lament for the Beers They Spilled, "Too Soon!"
And away the foam runs in terror.

He arises and sings out.
The birds respond in kind.
Away the foam runs in terror
To the secret places in the sea.

The birds respond in kind to
The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
The secret places of the sea
To find wisdom and treasure.

The lost and weary pilgrim in search of
A stuck fiber
His wisdom, and treasure.
He brushes his teeth.

[Don Coyote]

An Ecology of Ignorance

We are become that which NATURE wanted!

Truly?

Behold as our million throats belch noisome gases.
Behold as we alter the lands to fit us!

Truly?
You believe this horrid urban sprawl NATURAL?

Behold this abomination,
This unwholesome collection of mud, mire, muck and sticks,
This manufactured horror flooding the land,
These creatures caring for only for themselves,
Ignorant of the devastations they wreck upon up the land.

Truly?
I see naught but a beaver's dam.

Behold these travesties,
Numberless earthen spires crawling, seething, sheltering vermin
These monstrances constructed to honor their hubris,
Stretching forth across the savannas,
Fortresses from which they can assail the trees and grasses.

Truly?
I see naught but termite towers.

Behold this monstrous snare,
Vast and entangling, waiting to capture, kill, destroy hapless creatures,
Mindless and uncaring in its ceaseless thirst.
A score of corpses decorating it in silent horror,
Dangling motionless.

Truly?
I see naught but a spider's web.

BEHOLD your own humancentric egotism
For you claim these manufactured THINGS to be NATURAL
Yet deny those very things made by the hand of man
Deny and decry them as UnNATURAL.

[Don Coyote]

Touching Harms The Art

Touching harms the art.

That placard admonishing the scores of children
from doing what is natural.
Experiencing the world with as many senses as possible.

Touching HARMS the art.

A protective litany of countless hours of impassioned labor
empowered words of defense against the ignorant and careless
who don't  know or don't care about an artist's efforts.

Touching harms the art?

We are in a world of one dimension.
Sight is all the matters.
The art that can be touched is not the true Art.

Touching harms the art.

Forever guarded against the curious caresses of brushstrokes and tool marks
only the initiated are allowed to feel the heft, the strength, the weakness.
That vase is not for flowers. That dress is not for wearing. That cup is not for coffee.

Touching Harms The Art.

Receive the art passively, silently, unquestioning.
Bask in their greatness, and wallow in your meagerness.
You don't like it because you don't get it, can't get it.

Touching harms the art.

Hours of work
To display for all
Ruined, you asshole.

TOUCHING HARMS THE ART!!!

Paper and pigments, porcelain and glaze
fragile transient fragments
Survivors of countless attempts.

Touching harms the art.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That was DEFINITELY not shitty.

It was pretty fucking excellent, in fact.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

Your wedding day poem is really good. 'Touching Harms the Art' is my going favorite so far. The first two, with a little editing, could be the start of a poetry collection exploring that theme. 'Sock Drawer' is also very good. The metaphor carries really well through the whole piece. 'The Scents of Battle' is very vivid and reminded me of the years I spent as a butcher. Same sort of scents there, just less man-against-man violence.

This is good stuff, man. Keep doing it.

[Don Coyote]

Thanks. 'As I Tie My Boots", "Scents of Battle", "Execution Style", and "The Confession of Saint Inigo" are all unpolished pieces, and aside from "Confession"  I don't like.
I fucked the formatting on "An Ecology of Ignorance".
The professor felt that "Touching Harms the Art" is too heavy handed and didactic, and that the ending of 'Ecology" was too prose-like. Or course I intended "Touching Harms the Art" to heavy handed because the day I wrote it I wanted to touch ALL THE ART.

I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.

Which one, or did you read them all together at once?


Writing poetry is hard, even if it's free verse.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Thanks. 'As I Tie My Boots", "Scents of Battle", "Execution Style", and "The Confession of Saint Inigo" are all unpolished pieces, and aside from "Confession"  I don't like.
I fucked the formatting on "An Ecology of Ignorance".
The professor felt that "Touching Harms the Art" is too heavy handed and didactic, and that the ending of 'Ecology" was too prose-like. Or course I intended "Touching Harms the Art" to heavy handed because the day I wrote it I wanted to touch ALL THE ART.

I read it out loud to EFO, and it's a fucking excellent spoken piece.

Which one, or did you read them all together at once?


Writing poetry is hard, even if it's free verse.

"Touching Harms the Art"

And your professor is an idiot when it comes to spoken word. As a poem on paper, sure, he might have a point. But it screams spoken word to me.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Tell him that I'll come read it to him, to change his mind. Or, I could read it on video and you can send it to him.