M.I.N.E.

We never walk at sundown.

We could live better on this planet.

You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.

If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call the planet Earth.

You will have a forehead made of stone.
I will remember the scent of stone.

A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,

but we could live better on this planet

so I guess
you will have your possessions
and I will have mine.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

The Chum Date Never Made Her Wedding

Mature with me
Be immature
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Grown old
Your bones
won’t have the chance again
to do stupid things
Fickle flicks
Preserve self image
The undead are dying
The dead live upon our breaths
The dead babies are being forgiven
in heaven
He has stale bready breath
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Make rain
Look at the windows on Main Street
Down there she killed herself
ultimately
Mature with me
Be immature
Pull away
Now the funeral procession
heralds the west winded ghosts
and the cafe waits back in childhood
They’re tracing over couches
Your parents while crying
drove the car home
for their tender memories
past the corn fields and shopping strips
the red airplane hanger


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Beings And Time

Where are you in the year?

The epoch is in the year.

The epoch eats fruit.

The Universe knows beings;
beings are owners of things.

Beings are time;

Marilyn Monroes,
Michael Jordans,
Ronald Reagans . . .

beings are time.

The Universe knows beings.

(Of course)
The owners and beings have questions.
The owners and beings attend conferences.
Who is the owner?
Who is the being?

The Universe knows time.
The Universe knows time.

(Of course
the owners and beings attend conferences.)


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Tuxtlo Shine

Last night came out again
in my feces again today.

Will the sunrise still rise
on burned, empty mornings?

Why has the sun continued to care
and the highjacking of planets is
only feasible, within reason?
Thus,
I drag my liver from off this porceline,

the shadows cause me whimper,
the civilizations come and go.

I pass upon in shame.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Θνησιμότητα

We’re all going to die.

The Universe will decide.

Will it decide?

Or will it just do?

Do what it does to our cells.

Do what it does on days

when our best friends die,
when we eat grilled meat on a stick,
smoke cigarettes,
read about maniacal politicians,
or lay down to sleep.

We all go away,

in one way or another,

forgotten in anonymity
after twenty-five
or
ten thousand years,

our purpose extinguished,
our intentions vanished,

weathered down in ceremonial
stone,

so some pompous asshole
can say,

“I know what they meant.”

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the
blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like
still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they fall asleep in church.

. . . “folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that, who’s plate was that?”


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Poetry Gen 1.1 (Old Tyme Burger Shoppe)

you cannot surpass

the ketchup and skullz.

you cannot surpass

Ye ketchup and skullz!

in Texarkana, Texas

there is a place called

Old Tyme Burger Shoppe.

Both Brains

They let him go
when he was particle-composed and had died of
cancer,
drifting through outer space
they let him go,
the people’s race of peoples didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an infinity emulsified
the mortal equation,
the surmountable forms of gray ways,
child without childhood
you picked at these fingers,
the seven wrinkles, your chance to perceive things
but accelerating away,
faster than cycles of sun or moon,
with the forms and “words” of humanness,

standing as a sun-drenched field before a 7-11®,
in light
a parent kisses their child at college,
the smell of wet tallgrass.

They got to go to college,

wave wave . . . wave wave
the forty classes

wave, for the presence of Einstein.
The ports and portals are much different.