Quicksand

I went out one night looking for the sun. I found
An open area, silver patch on the ground.
I sat there, waiting to see the cascading light
Drape all over me when the golden orb took flight.
I wanted to see it rise, but, instead, I sank.
It was slow at first. I didn't notice the Earth yank
Me down to bury me. I didn't notice the sand
Had swallowed my once sprawling legs, my arms, my hands.
When I realized how deep I was, I could not
Believe it. I struggled. I despaired. I was caught
No matter how hard I fought, so what could I do?
I relaxed myself until, fin'lly, I fell through.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Dismantle Ev'rything

Dismantle ev'rything; let's start again.
Let's rebuild the fields of their detritus,
The domestic debris caused by callous
In the money-minded hearts of bad men.
They'll advertise progress and change, but when?
When will they really deliver us this?
When it's become viscous to their bus'ness?
Tell me: will any of us be left then?
As all the streets lump and line with garbage,
The fish swim in estuaries of sludge
And the air you breathe makes you suffocate,
We've made all humanity a hostage,
Yet I, like you, prefer to be a judge
When it seems like action will come too late.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Election Coverage

From the small, barely audible speakers
Of a distant laptop computer, I
Hear a muffled sound, so I move closer
To it, listening—no real reason why.
Two people speak in repugnant voices,
In ugly language. They're commandeering
Me, telling me about all these choices—
And I can't believe these things I'm hearing.
They each dispute the other's thoughts, and they
Disagree for the sake of their egos.
They get louder with each word that they say,
But what are they saying? Who the hell knows?
It's just blaring noise filling the free air.
You yell. My ears hurt, but I doubt you'd care.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Thermodynamics

Thermodynamics has taught me
That ev'rything is entropic.
Like radioactive isotopes,
Things degenerate at a molecular level.
There is no combination of thoughts to yield
A higher production of energy-
Only the fission of idealism,
Subatomic splitting
So minute that it's almost invisible,
So meaningless that it's as if nothing changed,
But serving as the catalyst
To the severing chain reaction
Which multiplies quickly
To the reaches of infinity,
Out of the grasp of ev'ryone
As they are eclipsed
In the nuclear shadow
Of the holocaust sun.
If knowledge is power,
Why do we build bombs?

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Young Couples With Sagging Eyelids

'Beat boredom out with more boredom, '
She says, grinning—then vomits in her hands.
He wonders why, but never understands.

She thinks she's been living her life post-mortem.
She hates her coffin's fluffy decorum,
And wonders why he won't dig up her grave.
She says she deserves heaven, 'She behaves, '
But she's been buried in place where she stands.

He is uneasy, but doesn't complain.
He watches her decay in the marrow.
She has thinning blood, a festering brain,
But so does he. He doesn't notice though.

Like a dripping nose, they've become crusted;
They're so full of snot and maladjusted.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Ludovico

Readjust how I should have been feeling—
My state of mind and my way of being.
Show me happiness that is practical—
Refocus the lens that gives me seeing.

I do not care if it is natural
To manipulate my more rational
State to form a dream-like reality
And cloister it where it is tangible.

Apply those abstract ideals inside me—
Remove the traces that form tragedy.
Install the perfect passage of belief—
Instill the compass points of alacrity.

Chew through the sorrowful aperitif
Of my lifestyle, eat through the crumbs of grief.
Eliminate the recurring motifs
That color my unhurried relief.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Decapitated Chickens

The decapitated chickens have died.
Their feathers are plucked, their skin has been fried
In the fatty animal oils too much,
In the boiling batter scalding to touch,
In the savory glazes now applied.

Their souls are preserved in formaldehyde,
Disinfected in a jar alongside
Forgotten flavors, seasonings and such.
The decapitated chickens have died.

They're prepared for gnashing teeth, to collide
With the grinding chew, the tongue's licking glide
And sour saliva's slippery clutch,
The contraction of the muscular crutch
To lacerate swiftly, to chop and divide.
The decapitated chickens have died.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Fading Shades of Gray

An autumn leaf descends toward a fire—
Slowly, like a feather in the soft wind.
Dehydrated, its orange body is crisp
And brittle enough to crumble in hand.
In the past few weeks, the branches above
Have grown barren—so quickly they have thinned—
And the brisk air has become harsh and cold
As if to say nature's warmth must expire.
What was once green covers in the thick smoke
That pillows up from the crackling land.
The smolder of time takes each fading shade.
Orange becomes red and black edges expand
‘Til the veins flow gray. The leaf, ashen-skinned,
Becomes the dust of seasons to transpire.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Reruns

I live my life by watching it all pass
In thirty minute increments—in shows.
I'm feeling tired from sitting on my a**.
I don't go outside. I've heard fresh air blows.
I'm encapsulated and contained by my chair
In a world scripted and superficial:
Mem'ries manipulated for a stare,
Pixelated by blocks of commercials.
What I see is what I want… maybe not.
I prefer to watch… oh, I like watching
My melting brain cryogenic'lly caught—
Now, no more are the baby thoughts hatching.
Instead, I repeat myself in reruns,
An endless cycle of prepackaged fun.

I'd change the word if not for the rhyme scheme.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Leadlights

In the arch of a church window—
Silver stained with diamond panes—
The fractures piece together:
Paper thin, painted, and patterned
To illuminate the interior
With the intensely pale shade
Of transparency.

Dead-white and chalky,
The alabaster skin of glass—
With marble-like opalescence
And superficial iridescence—
Shimmers on the surface,
Reflecting its viewer's vision
With each ripple
Of the light's gleaming glare.

The bent, twisted marrow of steel,
The skeletal curve providing stability
To the etched imagery

[...] Read more

poem by Tim Stensloff
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