The Million Dollar Poetry Project

Hey Mr. Famous

by Wolfgang Nibori

i’d like to crack your crystal skull
i’d like to grind you up to find-
can’t you show me how it goes or must i always tow this line
you pretend you can’t remember, pretend it took a flash
still i’m reaching ’round for answers
still i’m drowning in the bath and it’s like
how much crazier am i gonna hafta be? how much further
to run from who i used to be
which is not to say that i’m somehow someone else
it’s just the ready-made admission we all create ourselves
at school i skipped the parties i never got invited in
then i’d party just to skip school let it sail into the wind
here i am, once again and i’m finding it to be
a fucked up kind of maze, an obscure lopsided game
so it boils down to fuck it
guess i’ll roll my dice anyway

This poem for sale: 16 lines for $16.00

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maybe impossible (in spite of trust)

by Wolfgang Nibori

you gotta feel it, revulsion at drinking a bottle of urine
memory of a needle’s sting, you gotta feel it
slide inside of you, to leave some, to take it away today
you gotta see it there, lying on the side of the highway
because no one knows your pain, no one can understand, we can’t relate to the way you hate
a spider scrambling up along your body, you gotta feel it
sick, tired, worn and shaking beneath the tent top
i can hold your hand yet i am never you
and so i never know, i gotta feel it
the last shot before you pass the fuck out
you gotta feel that
if you.. if you…
if you feel me?

This poem for sale: 13 lines = $13.00

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love’s filing cabinet

by Wolfgang Nibori

ah, those dust-covered fingertips i refuse to lick
but i found your page, that whole sheaf
buried. in the back of the archives
oh the pen was broken and the ink came clotted
we still wrote it all down, didn’t we?
yes, you and me, we made a record. we sealed us a little fate
even the devil couldn’t write up a contract the way we do
even the lost, greedy souls who broke our world
would never sign away their lives this way
you and i, recorded, filed and stuffed into the back of the archive
still those dust-covered fingertips counting
every day we tick off another notch on the survival post
tear-stained, yellowed, maybe faded by the dark
i’d draft and sign it yet again
cause hey, we made it this far

This poem for sale: $15 for 15 lines

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waking down from dreaming

by Wolfgang Nibori

your electric drill saw whining
spearmint tinted breath that always flows
bent the hands of time
into the shape of your cheap brass heart
think backwards just a minute
maybe you know how we got this lost?
try to hop back through the past while looking forward
i heard raccoons will chew their leg off in the trap
that’s a pinch of what i’m going through
yet even when it’s my desire i cannot blame you
some people found me screaming
i thought only i could hear
now i’m on this stump and wondering
are we in case of emergency, yeah?
is this the time to break the glass?
my hair hurts from the pulling as i try to twist
a little sense into my throbbing head
yet i got to keep on pushing
cause no matter what i do, like anyone
i’ll leave my mistakes behind when i’m dead

This poem for sale: $20 for 20 lines

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roar

by Wolfgang Nibori

dive, dive, dive, slice water inslide
thrushing whisper through channels of the ears
penetrating gravity to sink softly under fear
i push away the invisible wall once again
if only to transform liquid into oxygen
so i may breathe. below the sea.
i wish not my eyes a’burn. all sound now inside me.
i’m pawing for something, gazing for meaning
the sea of fetishes overwhelms me
you. you. you. the doll-rubber. you.
power to the smuggler. stolen. fetish.
forced imagery. manipulated thoughts.
always eating pictures. choking on the thoughts
so i can breathe. stolen. under this sea.
i told you to slice. did you do it?
well did you or not? fetish. disassembled plot.
pulsing blink of fish glow. ever swimming neon arrow.
flick the tail. disappear. stolen. buried. far from here.
oh, down, down, down. stolen fetish disassembled
down, down, down betwix the glowing gape of ichthine jaws
bite and tear. bite and tear. stolen fetish angel.
all is eating. endless digestion. no sense focus on the product in a world of coprophiliacs.
your sex ratio equation. x y algebraic madness.
equate all to fetishes like your parents micromanaged.
this is why all must die. this why all falls down.
this is the senseless end of heirarchal misauthority.
back to the surface, i leave you for the sea.
you know a strange man promised that you’d never follow me.

This poem for sale: $28.00 for 28 lines

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take a number and get in the punch line

by Wolfgang Nibori

i stand naked, bent and backlit by powder white light
savage in the lost found yet wildly misinterpreted
armored in scars from a thousand battles lost or won
against nature, against man, against Macy’s Day Parade of Gods
draw back now the colors to bring the rainbow taut
let the eagles drop screaming on you depraved snakes
snakes and rabbits pretending to be sentient
simply to fit in with the the livestock
i’ll piss you out of your burrows, stenched and drowning
i demand a refund for the lost causes you’ve sold me
laugh like a looning hookah sultan, let your fat bounce
hostile glances serve to reinforce your insecurities
bankvaulted dynamite belligerance drawing interest daily
the white light shows my red-rimmed eyes of blood undried
i stand bent without shame as i am for you’ve called me
twisted time and repitition
click your buttons but i’ll channel nothing except my own soul
consult your ghost strung chemical power lines
i don’t your source or your mockery of strength
i am every joker out there re-painting his sad clown face
in the frantic, maniacal hues of war

This poem for sale: $21.00 for 21 lines

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Seasoned

by Wolfgang Nibori

the desert is a death gaze rattlesnake
won’t look away and it will not blink
it’s got a black tongue, flip you off two ways
the desert is a death gaze rattlesnake
makes a sound so low you’ll never forget
a song so long that the tune goes flat
there’s a hive of people, swarm like bees
cloud the sky with rising unchained dreams
got a blue metal sting, two miles wide
the desert is a death gaze rattlesnake
the babies eat spiders before they are born
white as vampires who never slide tired
a gun on the hip with a ghost in the heart
sucks all fires dry before they can start
trouble crawls off, leaves a blood powder trail
it knows not mercy and it knows not pain
the desert is a death gaze rattlesnake
it doesn’t give a shit what you think

This poem for sale: 18 lines = $18.00

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me or the cat?

by Wolfgang Nibori

listen to the baby cry under dark blue sky
spiked through with star light
dash of streetlamp glow thrown across the grass
lanky, sleeking tomcat; you breathe wrong he is gone
moments as a pile of dust, sneeze and all is blown
high thrown as a kite string slash, beg mercy of the wind
off they roll as tumbleweeds, in motion yet in death
only serve to plant the seeds, what they used to be
higher and higher beyond glass placed over another’s world
inside it’s all the tumbling dice machines fail to predict
shaking hands, hand me down, pitch another bet
shaking hands, hold me down, best if we forget
forget and cut your eyes lest you start to empathize
let realization come condense
there but for the grace of choice go I
still not any hero for standing right across the line

This poem for sale - 16 lines = $16.00

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Serpentine Conversationsss

by Wolfgang Nibori

aye, says the Old One with a wink, you my child have figured me out
it’s what you grow for to make these connections
to take my place you’ll gradually become me
you’ll shed your youth like a snake’s old skin
be a brand new bright shiny adult, slithering towards maturity
you’ll hunt for what you need to eat and i don’t mean food
what i mean is a constant means by which to expand yourself
you swallow difficult things and stew on their properties
you’ll disassemble what you’ve been fed and shed
whatever you find worthless and unwholesome
and throughout the years you’ll grow if you want to
until you yourself are that sparkling-eyed snake
crafty enough to charm a new generation into
becoming what you will be and I am already

This poem for sale:14 lines = $14.00

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he knows what he’s doing he just don’t care

by Wolfgang Nibori

he’s got a bubbling whirl of synthesized chemicals
ricocheting round inside his skull now
maybe he even believes he’s flying but up you go then down you come
it’s a marathon race to a thin air mountain top
from up there he thinks he can see it all
but falling down, back down to ground below
he can’t remember what epiphany struck back up there
so it’s another trip down to the dark park
another handful of cash for roundtrip ticket
that process of gaining wisdom just to fumble it
that’s a routine he’s come to take for granted
the same routine that’s gonna grind his dreams

This poem for sale: 12 lines = $12.00

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