sometimes

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

sometimes I know what to do
sometimes I’m playing telephone with the sky

Fireworks for family: or the madman’s plea

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I went to my parents house, all fucked up
It was fourth of July
I text my cousin, 17 years younger
She just got off work. I just left the Bird.
I needed a ride, so I wouldn’t pass out
On my way up the hill
I demanded her wheels and her heels, on the gas, because I had some things to say, to my family, then I backtracked, because I was being rude and asked politely.

I don’t know how much I had. If you’re like me you don’t count drinks, you count the feelings that are left. I had one. The truth. Which I hear you say isn’t a feeling, but it is when you bounce your truth off of those who don’t know it. It ricochets and comes back as pain. So I wanted the ones I loved to know my lane. Cheesy, I under-stand, but who gives a shit, when they can hardly stand, like a poet who rhymes the same word with the same word. It’s all bullshit, like the sentence and incorrect hyphens.

That little kid, whose diaper I changed, drove me in her Mercedes Benz. She stopped and asked me a question. She wanted to know something first. Now I’m writing this drunk, again, and I wish I could remember, but I know that whatever came out, meant that I loved her.

So she took me to my parents, whom at my 35 years of age, moved into a villa, as they deserved. It makes me proud because when I was 3, we lived in an apartment in Canoga Park, L.A.

It occurs to me now, the luxury I have in writing and not working. In drinking and not worrying. In being divorced and not…well, that part hurts, but it’s all beside the point. I saw my family and they saw me for what I’ve been since 17.

We had hot dogs, as Uncle Sam’s pointing finger demands. My drunk uncle wasn’t there but my drunk ass took up a chair. Thinking now, my baby cousins and only aunt were familiar with this scene, I’m sorry, that was disrespectful to my aunt and baby cousins. (Yeah, there grown, but my age keeps them under) I don’t know why. Never done it before. I’ve always avoided, being fucked up and walking through any of their doors.

My grandma’s were their too, but they didn’t bat an eye. Greeted me as if I was the same quiet guy. But I couldn’t shut up.

It occurs to me that maybe both of their husbands drank and told me lies. One of them died in a drunk accident, then Yaya took up the sacrament, in sacrifice of her only child. My mom, definition of strength, and I walked in with that whiskey/ cigarette stench. 18, all alone, no English, never knowing a home. My Mom, still hugged me, said she loved me.

My dad, with the burden of his old man, telling him it’s over, that he couldn’t stand. Holding on to a pedestal and cementing his feet into a man that knows fucking everything, that’s my dad, who used to squeal and squeeze and call me machete, with a little lisp. Full of love but needing to be tough because, fuck the rules of poetry, he had to hear his dad talk of his own suicide. So now he stands in cement, like a statue, that I admire, but is too tall to hug and too scared to soften his love. Or maybe it’s just my self-pity because he still says machete to me.

Who knows what I said as I ate that soggy, relished bread, full of franks. I wanted to speak frank, but I don’t know what I said, the point was, I love you, I don’t know how to live, and I’m not yet dead. So help, I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t. Know.

But I love you and I miss the Christmas story that grandpa used to read, even though I stared at presents with innocent greed. Then my cousins, belshnikle, (however it’s spelled) came out with humor when their lives were also in hell. Their daddy, my uncle, lost in his mind with alcoholic bread. Oats, hops, cans, pops, I saw his red face and winced but also pounded gavel. Then told my aunt she should tell him to pound gravel.

Like grandpa’s churchy slides, I projected what I knew should be done to me and it was and I’m no longer rhyming but the truth is, I also kept other people from climbing. If I’m drowning, I’m sinking, shrinking, struck with the curse of the alcoholic, too much thinking.

Too much thinking. I’ll never forget and when I’m drinking, my eyes always blinking. We were supposed to smile until our jaws quake, laugh until our lungs ache, lock our eyes til’ the gaze break and hold our hands til’ our bones break. Now…

If I don’t drink my hands shake. When the phone rings, I don’t take and I keep my eyes open til’ daybreak. I’m a shuttering glitch, stuck in a doorway.

And that’s where I’m at, rambling, not making sense. I want to be understood but I don’t care to understand. So now, I’m using my thumbs to write this shit. I stand in front of the mirror, after never drinking enough all day, after five lines of cocaine and for now my nose is clear, and for now I’m dancing to the same beat on the speaker my mom bought and I threw up nothing but liquid 20-some times in the sink, while my body still swayed to the music. And I dry-heaved 20 more times, still moving And I keep writing while I have 10 beers and a bottle of wine in the fridge And I rarely use my credit card and I keep writing and I rarely use my credit card but I raise up a line from that hill of California snow, roll up a 10 and breath in that fresh powder, like an asthmatic to his inhaler and I love you all, and the dogs are fine, and I love them too and I lay with them and I feed them and I take them to the vet and we’re fine but I’m not and I’m using too many conjunctions and that’s fine because I don’t want this to end, because I’m too addicted to breathing because I want to see how you all end up but I’m not sure how to stop and I love you and…

maybe this is how it’s meant to be

Wait until I turn into a tree.

Stuck in a long, slow, goodbye

Waiting for earth or sky

Always misbehave

To twirl an elegant wave,

like every stoneage queen’s hand

since water met sand.

yin & yang

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

the sweeter the blood
the fatter the mosquito

Yo

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

i’m the yo-yo dangling

Pulled up and down

by a string

tied to your finger

She’s

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

she’s that gap in the clouds where the moon shines through

a gasp of light through a cloudy sky
And I have to catch my breath from the shine

Phantom pain

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

she’s heartbroken
and I feel it too
though it isn’t mine
I feel it too

warriors, wounded from wars that don’t belong to them experience phantom pains from missing appendages. fumbling along, still grasping at body parts that no longer belong to them.

one loss following another
and I feel it too.

for they know not

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

i’m a sinner
by the way you define sin
the way you wash up
Or wash away
is a wack-a-mole
of spikes
smacked bare-handed
by the king of cups
splashing sacrifice
on your forked tongues
bleeding knees
pounding concrete
to the red spills
on the white robe
of the carnival prince

Keep digging

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

reading poetry
is archeology
discovering
something beautiful
but there’s a lot of
fuckin’ dirt

When was the ship lost?

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

head spinning
gasping for breath
between waves
clinging
from driftwood to barrel
from driftwood to anything
that floats
no sun
only clouds
the storm isn’t over
what did he forget?
the rigging
the sails
steering off course
the storm was too much
the ship is lost
only pieces left
to keep from drowning

I hid it

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

buried
in a sunny spot
between the shade of two trees
a treasure

I hid it
you know where it is
I hid it
you know it is there

I never showed you
if I even knew
what there was
to show

I’m digging
between yesterday
and today
for that treasure

I always wanted
you to see it
but I’m only digging
and it’s no longer sunny

always something before and

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

and I haven’t written in a while
haven’t even thought of it
and I’m stuck on coordinating conjunctions
as if continuing sentences running on and on
and I can’t see how the sentence began
and I know
and it’s on the tip of my tongue
and I know
but
another coordinating conjunction
it’s been too long

Falling water

Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And I go to sleep with white noise
it drowns out the leaking shower
and I remember when
you said we should fix it
when it was just a trickle
and now it’s a stream
and I go to sleep with white noise
because it drowns out the falling water

happiness

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I can’t see it directly. Those motes around the eyes when I stand up too fast but it’s there to be enjoyed in the periphery.

like bread crumbs to a pressing thumb

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

on my knees
beard to the floor
begging
for the obsession to stop
stand up
grab the keys
still begging please
and drive my ass to the liquor store

Best Guess?

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Best guess? The algorithm of life is scribbled by a hand trembling with Parkinson’s, guided by a brain swimming with Delerium Tremens.

in a marble

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

That I could
when I am small
squeeze
into the storms eye
of a marble

roll and be rolled
guided
by Newton’s discoveries
guided
by that hand
which bends trees with invisible speed

To look through
swirling globes of color
showing true
the things
all your things
skewed
to the shapes of sense
where
my brain’s waves crash

all your things
blurred into satisfaction
taming your impositions
that I could exist
in a marble

Butt

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

There’s no better symbol of the journey from desire to regret than the cigarette butt.

Hobo

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I hopped on a train
not sure when or why
But it runs winding tracks
Never going straight
Sometimes it stops
Sometimes runs backwards
sometimes full speed ahead
Cars teetering
But I’ve never seen it run
One speed, one direction
Towards home

Play Doh

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’ve found that little piece of Play Doh
went missing around the age of 4 or 5
I found that little piece of Play Doh
stuck somewhere between my
kidneys, ribs, lungs and heart.

I can’t quite make it out
but I can feel it giving way
to the pressure of my fingers
I can feel that joyful squish
running up my hands, arms
and dancing in my brain
just how I remember it

I found a little piece of Play Doh
given up for lost
I’m not sure how much is left
but I’m running it through my fingers
making fart noises, bubbles and
molding it to the shape of organs

I’m holding tight to a little piece of Play Doh
and my eyes light up
and I can’t see it
but I think it was blue
and I realize, it’s just as soft
as I am

Chipping scabs, touching stars

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

standing on a pile of pain
touching that middle star
in Orion’s belt
where grandpa said he’d be
waiting for me

dancing on floor made of
cracked and splintered bone
skin stretched thin
scarred pink and white
I dance, heals chipping scabs
fingers reaching for the stars

I can forsake you too

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I walk with a limp
two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
my right leg shakes
fearing each step

two devil’s on my shoulder
both on one side
one sat down, gently
with grandpa’s big smile
and the weight of Orion’s belt buckle

the other
splashing spirits
pressing against glass
shouting “one more”
a spluttering cry

Succorer!
grant me serenity
accepting two devil’s on my shoulder
courage
for these trembling steps
wisdom
to know which foot
one foot at a time

Filmed poem – The heart slaps along

A filmed version of a poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

A friend of mine and I were testing out his new camera rig, playing around with different shots at a park. He took the footage and made the below. What do you think?

“The Heart Slaps Along” Written by Marcus Jonathan Chapman. Filmed, edited and read by Patrick Garrett York.

To the scavenger

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

write as a vulture;
leave nothing
but bone

Decent and good parents

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

On the corner
of Cajon and Vine
sat at a cafe
a family
walked by

The kid
holding hands
with a woman
I’ll say his mother
passed a Porsche
and
while swinging
his free arm
said
“I just saw a Lamborghini.”

His parents said naught
to which I thought
“No, you didn’t
it’s a Porsche.”

30 years from now
he’ll be
walking
holding his lovers hand
They’ll pass by
a Porsche
and
he’ll say
with one arm swinging
“I just saw a Lamborghini.”

And his lover
having had decent
and good parents
will reply,
“No, you didn’t
it’s a Porsche.”

Someone is listening

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

There is a man
crossing the street
talking to himself
or
he has Bluetooth
or
he is talking
while the Bluetooth
connects
another mind
prepping speech
for tongue
or
someone is hearing
or
someone is listening
or
someone is listening
for the pause
triggering
their own tongue
or
he is talking
to god
or
he is talking to someone
and that someone
is also god
or
he is talking to
another fragment
of god
and
between them
god is talking
to itself
or
god is talking
and
I wrote
these thoughts

Beautiful things

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

There are beautiful things
There are such beautiful things

and they hurt

I’ve literally written a poem

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’m literally writing
a poem
You’re literally reading
a poem
I’ve literally written
a poem
You’ve literally read
a poem

Coffee black

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

coffee
black
like my soul
and other
poorly written
poesy

what is the soul?
nothing

coffee
black
like my lungs

coffee
black
like my humor
like fingernails
like that smoke stain
on the back of my
front tooth

coffee
black
like gunk in the drain
like dog nails
like tires

coffee
black
like letters perched
on invisible wire
chirping of the soul
of nothing

Cajon and Vine

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

sit
under gray clouds
and burnt sky
under waving patriotism
tattered

sit
next to bubbling youth
and bike racks
under manicured palms
weeping

sit
in the shadow of god’s cage
and tides of cars
like rolling waves
disappearing

sit
on the rounded corner
of
Cajon
and
Vine

Soul Asylum Radio

Hello fellow readers and writers,

Recently, I had the unique experience of participating in a podcast episode of Soul Asylum, a podcast on Blog Talk Radio. I was asked to share one of my poems, In Eulogy with the Burst.

Thank you CAL, Essama and AP Taylor for having me on. Check it out the 12/18/2020 Soul Asylum Radio episode, my portion begins at minute 20:35, but listen to the entire episode if you enjoy discussing and listening to poetry.

Tune in weekly to their show or catch up on their full catalog of episodes, they are enthusiastic and passionate about poetry.

Thank you, again, to Essama, for asking me to join and share a piece.

Made of stone

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Find yourself a house
made of brick
or cement
cinder block, if you can find it

find yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle

when the sun comes
and there is no wind
and the asphalt ripples with fever
sit in the house
and watch yourself baking
getting soft
sweat slapping at your eyes
sweat clumping your hair
twisting and curling on your neck
stare at the unit
cut into the stone
don’t touch it
stare and know your body works
you have walls, a roof
and that is convenience

get yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle

when the clouds come
and the trees whistle
and the specter of breath lingers
sit in the house
watch yourself tighten
sealing in the juices
blood oozes and muds
blood sculpting clay
in the fingers and toes
think of fire
suck down booze
imagine a woman resting against you
but stare
stare at those tight walls
taught as your skin
and know that is comfort

get yourself a house
made of stone
and know what the rib cage
is to the heart

Farting Hillary Clinton’s

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I was caught
between a train, teetering
and a cliff, eroding
hot coals spilled from the tops of the cars
but spot
would block them from searing me
the train passed and I walked back
on the highway
got on the next train and
a girl in a dress
asked me if I wanted to play video games
we giggled all the way to the arcade
I pushed in two quarters
and we
played Farting Hillary Clinton’s
then I woke up to
snoring dogs
and thirst
and the taste of iron on my tongue

Out of living bone

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Make me a phone
out of living bone
Caulk it with marrow
wrap it in tissue
strap it with muscle
give it some skin
            Taught but thin
pump it with blood
valve in some veins
connect it to nerves
massage in a brain
calve in a heart
            some pieces missing
pop in some eyes
maybe some thighs
wedge in a nose
             maybe some freckles
tack on some ears
            oh
            the eyes should have tears
throw on some arms
            and fingers that hinge
toss on some legs
            with toes that wiggle
slap on a mouth
            one I can kiss
call in a soul
            one I won’t miss

A text from Saul at 11:56 AM

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

How’s it going my favorite fuck face?
Got off work at 10 already buzzed
working 6 days and this is my day off.
Sandy got sick last week so I couldn’t
come out. Come to find out third Covid test
is a charm. Now everyone in the house
has it except Tommy. He stayed at
grandma’s house right when she really got sick.
So grandma doesn’t want visitors.
Totally understandable.
I’ve been calling him, and he just gets sad.
I offered to send him toys and help me pick.
He said I want my papa for 100 days.
Shit day off.

Me and Jack Kerouac

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

god and all the other little people
Me and Jack Kerouac
good line
but the first one
isn’t mine

The heart slaps along

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

The heart slaps along
sticking
to hot asphalt
with each rotation

pulling from gravel and tar
with each bounce

spurting ruby and blue
leaving rust in its dust

green shards from broken Mickey’s
orphaned bougainvillea
plastic straws
French fries
bottle caps
abandoned black rubber
cigarette filters
chewed gum
yesterday’s papers
sand
and
dust
stick to it

The heart slaps in a puddle
swelling
with oil, rain and gasoline
stopped

Send it back
spinning and rolling

Pulling from the road
with each bounce

send it
slapping along
wrapped
in flowers and glass

In eulogy with the burst

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And I see
not much more than
string
wet and woven
through bags
pregnant with tea
and bloated
from water and
the bubbles cluster
clinging
to the side of Styrofoam
shaped cylindrical
and the bubbles
bounce
in eulogy with the burst
and I taste their bitter
tears and set down my cup
licking my lips and thinking
not much more than this
and I know
it is everything

You know

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

When that orange burns through the gaps in the leaves
and you pull your sweater just a little tighter
and the rush hour of thoughts put you in a daze
and your faced with another night sleeping alone
and the dogs are whining for their walk
and you’ve mindlessly opened and closed the fridge
and you glance at the clock 90 times in one minute
and you turn the dryer back on without even checking
you know
you know you’re alone
but that little blue ball
Bukowski’s little blue bird
still hops
in your rib cage
keeps you pacing
you know your spirit
can take it
you know

A lesson from the laundry

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Two hours in the dryer
still wet
try again

At walls’ full of platitudes

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I saw him
And I used to see him
All in the same place
The coffee shop
Now they sell beer as well

I saw him, first
12 years ago
Drinking and staring
At the young women drinking coffee
He, old but taught
Defiance in his eyes
His stare a rebellion against gravity
Rebellion against time

I saw him, second
In meetings anonymous
Old and bruised
Bewildered and staring
At walls’ full of platitudes
Fear in his eyes
Earthquakes in his wrists
Now gravity rebelled

I saw him, third
The coffee shop
Old and limp and loose
His eyes set in cement
The defiance shaken out
A servant of gravity
I saw him
He didn’t see

I saw him
And I knew my own history
Back again
And I saw my future
With no humbleness
No fight
To bend the knee or
Have it bent for me

I don’t want to smoke

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I don’t want to smoke
and I sneak away
to coffee shops
and think about smoking
I drink coffee
read
Listen to people talk
people laugh
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
I close the book
and don’t stare
don’t stare
don’t stare
I finish my coffee
grab my book
head back home
and I read
I think about smoking
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
and I read the same line
I stand up
pace outside
get in my car
and go to a coffee shop

Now I have the time

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
of musicians
both living and dead
      Michael Nyman
      Philip Glass
      Alexander Borodin
      Katie Von Schleicher

and I take pride because
I feel what they create
and now I know their names

Now I have the time
to pay attention to my
backyard
the gophers have gone
I killed all the weeds
the wild parrots, escaped
from the pet store
50 years ago, gather
on the power line above
my easement
the Blue Jay’s cocking heads
and hopping
around the gopher holes
finding grubs
And I take pride because
they are part of my lot
and now I know their names

And now I have the time
to pay attention to the names
the names not belonging to me
or to the other one
I have the time to pay attention
because I have only time

I know a great writer

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I know a great writer
but you don’t
her greatness is planted
in not knowing, not
thinking she is great
and I know she is
a great writer
but she doesn’t and
she writes anyway
and I write but
I try not to think of
my standing
my standing over
or standing under the
writing of other writers
and I stand up
and I think of the words
and the words I don’t know
but that great writer writes
knowing nothing of her greatness
and I write but
I stand and go outside
taking off my shirt to let the sun
soak in
and I think of her greatness
and not my own
and she doesn’t
think of me

lazy day with nothing to say

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

lazy day with
nothing to say

the sun soaks
sludge bilks’ thoughts
mudslides smooth
peaks and valleys
to a single plateau

my mind, the sun, un-seeable
a walnut dazed
windows glazed in
snow buried, re:
whites, grays, haze
Trieved to a
Saint slobbering Bernard

Cocoa steams
streams magma flings
in loosening dreams
through the windows
of the sun, sloths
in heat buildup speed
and spew their sperm
soaked thoughts:

slow swimming sludge
obsidian’s cakes tectonics
quake meridians plates

lazy day with
nothing to say

Oh, rolling tongue

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Oh, rolling tongue
thick fatigue
lolling numb
“I’s” and “Me’s”
“Me’s” and “I’s”
“I’s” and “Me’s”
Oh cant reprise

beaded muscle
sweating taste
folding tussle
panicked haste
spit no more
of I or me
but wrap your mass
around a “we”

A sip of marrow

A short poem for a prompt from all poetry: 40 words glorifying violence.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

My eyes glaze, I lick my lips
and dream of your apocalypse
The drooling lust of palm in nail
a beat to hear your soothing wail
a crack of bone and bloody cloth
and slurp of marrow, that milky froth

Inside my chest there lives a cat

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Inside my chest I found a cat
I called it names to which it spat
‘til desperation made me scream
I know not, love, for what you dream
and then it nuzzled, flicked its tail
a cry of love found holy grail
still at my touch, bared tooth and nail
so I stay hid from love’s impale

And Paul

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

And Paul
I love you
brother

we want to see beauty
and we’re the same
with different words
so I choose carefully

we met in a circle
sharing our pain
and I could see it
and you could see it
thorns

through cigarettes
and ping pong
cups of pills
we saw the things
that broke us
crystalline

love
family
friends
structure
authority
time not ours
bills
regrets
love
being alone

nothing so abstract
nothing faceless

we graduated
from beeping hallways
and single file lines
to check-ins and check-outs
and broken curfew fines

And we finished our time
maybe got perspective
I went back to work
you went back
to the gatehouse

Then you had a kid
and I got married
we spoke on the phone
about all under which
we were buried

You called
now and then
from the road
I called
once and again
from my home

The kid started school
I got divorced
life felt so cruel
you fell out
and stayed at my house

And we laughed at the news
when we started to drink
and we cried in our shoes
when our egos would shrink

And I had to remind you
kitchen knives were for food

and blood
is too close to the surface
in all of us

And I remembered
how I used to be
and we both agreed
that you should leave

And for years
before nights were done
we talked about
beauty
and you said
we’re the same
and I agreed
but I want to see
the beauty

and Paul
there’s no beauty
in the bottle
we’ve both checked

and Paul
beauty is pain
because we feel it

Until I get to later

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I’ll die of exhaustion
tired of being alone
maybe head to Austin
forget to bring my phone

Throw on grandpa’s sweater
we had the same frame
drive until I wanna stop
look for something tame

No clinking brick to weigh me down
to wonder if to smile or frown
just stop for gas in dying towns
give knowing nods to wayward clowns

Stop by the road and find a tree
jot down the words, say poetry
throw my pens and pages in the back
drive off and think of what they lack

Distract away
her ringing words
“I’ll call you later”
later
later
later
later
later
later

And I’ll keep driving
until I get to later

Light’s Fingers

A short poem.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Light’s fingers touch in darkness stains
Colors froth through milky grains
Yellows yawp barbaric fire
Oranges howl of hell’s empire
though windows through the blackness break
no fingers lunge for lonely’s ache
My Adam’s hands, these gnarled tines
quaking reach to grasp what shines
that curdling plea of palm and nail
yet, no light hushes lonely’s wail