Garden

by Chris Butler

Laying in
her
dirty bed,
I plunge
my pointer
and middle
fingers
several inches
into the
moist soil,
to plant
the buds
that just
may bloom
into a
beautiful
flower.

Forgetting to Breathe

by Chris Butler

BREATHE!

AIR!

Gasping inhales,
exasperated exhales.

PANIC!

Quaking chest,
muscular tremors.

ATTACK!

Fade to black.

Cavity

by Chris Butler

She’s so sweet
her kiss gives me
cavities,
but I don’t need
Novocain to
kill the pain.
I want to feel
everything.

The Motions

by Chris Butler

Going through the motions like bathing in the ocean’s waves, allow the emotioal tides of life to wash you away then ashore with the celestial cycles. Every journey is traveled by an autopilot coasting on cruise control. In your daily tasks, perform strictly instinctual, habitual rituals, adorned in your uniform, marching around as a preprogrammed mechanical man. Picture yourself in a serene place and remain there. Smile politely at everyone you meet, and reactively respond to their inquiries that everything is fine, in order that they won’t request any further replies. Keep your eyes focused only on the earth in front on you. Prepare prepackaged, processed, preservative meals. And by the end of each day, make sure to mail it in, just so no one notices that you even exist.

Imagine Nation

by Chris Butler

The great escape,
to where no one runs wild
and the mind cannot
envision what the eyes
cannot see,

is sprung from serving a life sentence
in detention,
when all of my friends are pretend
and I ally myself with animated animals
speaking with squeaky voice boxes
fluently in my native language,
to keep me awake and daydreaming.

We role play misadventures underneath a smiley faced sun with watchful, starry eyes shaded by black Ray-Bans,
until the day passes away when sun showers and Technicolor rainbows morph into afternoon moons and twinkling twilight,
when I must return to the real world.

But I can’t make myself believe in make believe.

Love Won’t Come

by Chris Butler

Love won’t come
from just anyone.

Love won’t come
if unspoken of.

Love won’t come
until two becomes one.

Love won’t come
by touching gloves.

Love won’t come
from up above.

Love won’t come
like rising suns.

Love won’t come
With turtledoves.

Love won’t come
in red rose groves.

Love won’t come
under a thumb.

Love won’t come
with forced shoves.

Love won’t come
When cumbersome.

Love won't come
Except for some.

All Alone

by Chris Butler

All alone,
off on my own.
All alone,
a hobo in my home.
All alone,
flying higher than solo drones.
All alone,
under a mossy stone.
All alone,
buried with a dead dog’s bone.
All alone,
lost in this limitless limbo.
All alone,
roaming down ghost town roads.
All alone,
out into the great unknown.

Angels’ Wings

by Chris Butler

Angels
in three piece
suits,

don’t need
to spread their
wings

to fly
into the
sky,

away
from the peace
of clouds

paved with concrete,

as the
rest of us
are left

with skyscrapers’ skeletal remains.

Mannequin

by Chris Butler

I am the fake plastic man,
the stone statue standing in vogue poses,
staring down the envious,
standing around indifferent.
I am decorated in the highest fashion dressings,
and some days I’m left naked
with a figure of zero percent body fat and six pack abs
carved out of synthetic granite.
I watch the zombie shoppers
shamble through the aisles,
consuming the flesh of polyester fibers.  
They all want to look like me
because I am the fake plastic man.

Insert Her Name Here

by Chris Butler

Woman
brings us life
but is the
death of men.

Woman
causes young love
to get old.

Woman
is the savior
of knights
in shining armor.

Woman
is the damsel in
distress, damned to
the railroad tracks.

Woman
is the muse
not easily amused.

Woman
is the pretentious
Venus stiffening all
the world’s flaccid penises.

Woman
is the plastic doll
bursting out of an
easy bake birthday cake.

Woman
is the bella
ballerina, bulimic
at the bathroom ball.

Woman
is the apollonian
apple dangling from
the temptress’s branch.

Woman
is the devilish
diva born to adorn
ruby horns.

Woman
is the angel
not swathed in
virgin white.

Woman
is the goddess
who makes gods
feel inadequate.

Woman
is the soul-sucking
succubus causing
incubuses to succumb.

Woman
is the heroin
heroine injecting
venom into men’s veins.

Woman
is the siren
driving sailors to
suicide with her songs.

Woman
is the heartless
harlot tearing out
still beating hearts.

Woman
is who I love
to hate me.

Teenage Angst

by Chris Butler

You’re never too old
for teenage angst.

Twentysomethings
throw temper tantrums
over nothing,

and thirty is
when it’s time to
settle down.

Forty is the new thirty
but fifty is still
half of a century,

and too late for
midlife crises.

But when you have to
breathe with machines
and eat through tubes,

you will still want
to scream.

Third Wheel

by Chris Butler

The third wheel
tries to get in the middle
of bisexual bicycles,
creating a love triangle
of cyclical predicaments
riding on tricycles.

Weeping Willowfor Ali

by Chris Butler

Please don’t cry
weeping willow.

The sun will come out
to dry tomorrow.

Drinking rivers won’t
drown your sorrow.

Underground, your callow
roots will mop up
all of the overflow.

So please don’t worry
Weeping willow,
I will keep your
wood afloat.

Heaven’s Sunset

by Chris Butler

Heaven’s sunset
is paradise across
hell’s horizon line,

to melt the flesh
and burn our souls,

as blood red clouds
shoot blinding beams
through the pupils of
earth’s onlookers.

From the atop the hills,
the angels and the devils
bask above the scents.

Heaven is a gated community
and I’m in the ninety-ninth percentile.

Negative Nancy

by Chris Butler

Negative Nancy

possessed no positivity,

expecting the worst

since aborting her birth.

Negative Nancy

could not see

the bright side

of the sunrise.

Negative Nancy

trampled pansies 

because she thought

they’d cry rain drops.

Negative Nancy

waits outdoors on rainy

days just to color over

rainbows with dark markers.

Negative Nancy

was only a lonely

loner finding comfort

with strangers.

Negative Nancy

slept in cemeteries

for the peace

of quiet company.

Negative Nancy

stomped atop the streets  

until she met Mr. Nice Guy,

who made her smile.

U

by Chris Butler

My favorite letter
in the English
alphabet is
w,
because more of
you
is always better.

Lost and Found

by Chris Butler

Every time my heart breaks, a few pieces go missing:
between the couch cushions, under the oriental rug, cuddling a dust bunny in the vacuum’s belly, inside of my shoe’s soul, hiding in my other pocket, locked in the vegetable crisper, buried beneath the egg shells and coffee grounds in the trash and around the lost and found.
Every time my heart breaks, I can’t find them all.

Gone Fishing

by Chris Butler

Keeping my head

above water,

I am able to see

all of the fish

swimming in the sea,

but I’m not yet

brain dead, so

I know that none

of their schools

will accept me. 

Good Fortune

by Chris Butler

I cracked

open a

fortune cookie

and it read,

“Come back later…

I am sleeping.

(Yes, cookies need

their sleep too)”.

I guess

I’ll never

get to

rest

(in bed).

Hell

by Chris Butler

I’ve been to hell

and back

but I found the weather

to be better

down there

than it is up here

on earth,

even when I left

with a sunburn.

And although heaven

has the best view,

I know I’ll never rest

eternally next to you.