The Visceral Joy of the Biker

For years, I dreamed that I could fly,

But this dream didn't have to die.

Instead, it found itself replaced

By something different on its face

But similar in ways that count.

I pilot earthly, urban mounts.

I don't feel wind blow through my hair;

The rest of me cuts through the air.

I bank through turns as if on wings.

I hardly know of better things.

Just kick, stomp, twist, and off I go:

The closest thing to flight I know.

The Visceral Joy of Making MADD's Job a Little Bit Harder

I'm blasting the lyrics and bumping the bass,

Letting cool air and speed sweep my tingling face,

Head and limbs out the window, derelict at the wheel

Of my sweeping-turn, rolling-stop blotto-mobile.

The Visceral Petulance of Hunger

I have grown my stomach over-bloat.

I wear it 'round my middle, like a float,

Eating because I rather enjoy it,

Eating to fill a hole in the moment.

I have grown the stomach in my eyes.

I crave constant progress when I write.

I shop constantly for food for thought, 'cause wrong or right,

I insist on putting down a thousand words a night.

I have grown the stomach in my mind.

My tongue sits on my teeth's-edge, well-wet with appetite,

and if the teeth don't turn up anything to bite,

The tongue just might.

The Visceral Joy of Being a Teacher

I spend all day with the kids,

and I am never in the family.

They tell me more than they tell their parents,

An amount greater than almost nothing.

I am the teacher, the fairy stepfather.

I see them bury their enthusiasm

and then dig it up again.

The Visceral Joy of the Pessimist

My favorite thing about humanity

Is that if you bury expectations deep enough,

Someone will eventually climb up to them,

Though they will only squat there

and never stake a claim.

It is up to you to fence your expectations.

It is up to you to harvest their fruit.

Dig deep into the soil.

Boil the roots of validation.

It tastes like blood and bitter laughter.

It tastes just like I thought it would.

The Visceral Joy of the Nihilist

You can never know how I crave

The red light,

How I treasure minutes alone

When my ears ring in silence,

When my eyes drown in the darkness,

When I stand straight to keep from falling,

When I think in fast forward

To hold myself up on the very edge

Of sleep's unknowable oblivion,

When I hardly even have to imagine

That the world has come to a complete stop.

You can never know how I dread

The green light.

It would frighten me, too, if I still cared.

The Visceral Joy of the Hater

I tear, take to the film with my teeth,

and in my fiery tongue I enwreathe

The smooth and the holes of its silvery sands

As I demean and devour another man's

Creative vision.

Write Brained

I am my highest points,

The dedication to pick up the pen

Fifteen hundred times.

I am my rockless bottoms,

The friends I should have stood by,

The things I should have done.

I am the thankful condensation

In the handfuls of cold air I breathe

and I am the visceral joy that wells up

In my darkest fantasies.

I am the facts I remember

Off the top of my head.

I am the scent that seeps

Out of my shoes.

I am write brained,

The poet to be named later.

The Visceral Joy of the Offensive Lineman

I am one of five brothers,
Five brazen Olympians
In the events of Sin and Suffering.
Others may be damned to hell,
But we will thrive there.

Who dares challenge these Titans?
All I see are puny mortals,
Thin and flimsy canvases
On which to paint our perfection.

The Visceral Joy of the Defensive End

The quarterback is not red in tooth and claw.

He believes he is no subject of Darwin's Law,

A self-chosen ill fate that does not bode well.

He's majesty weakened, a wounded gazelle,

and if his linemen aren't ready, I will send him to hell,

For he himself is unfit to defend

Himself from myself, the defensive end.

My prey must hide behind his brother.

I'll shame the one to crush the other.

A quarterback who's unconcerned

Is one who soon will surely learn –

The warrior exalts in harm

and victory through strength of arms.

Rehearsal and the well-aimed throw

May meet an end in just one blow.