The Point We’re At

This is not a threat,
it’s the promise of
a kiss on your spine
for it’s there where
we fine-tune the line
between writing on the walls
and reading love poems
from my book
for the first time,

and it happens when
we stay in bed
into the early afternoon
the soft outline
defining the shape of our souls
lying lazy between us
and I must confess
it’s been a long while
since I last shared sins,

and still
we’ll bend and we’ll twist
and we’ll thrust our fists into
what is left undefined
yet is right under our noses,
this physical prose
that presupposes we’ve yet
to run out of ink
before we even begin to think in rhyme,

and maybe there’s still time
for someone to be the one
that one day calls me
on my bullshit
and says they’re not going to leave
until I fix it,
then affix a scar on my breast
above where my heart hides in disguise
within my chest,

and if this is a test
of my selflessness or
the exposure of a better man than me
then I’ll only be
your subject of ridicule,
the fool’s end
of a foolish bender
rendered reeling from the feeling
of being upended from the fall,

but if this is no test at all,
no quiet judgment,
no frantic call
of the wild within the beast of us
then the worst of our concerns
is rust in my bones
while we lust
for the rest
of your poem.

---

We Left the Tree Too Soon

Dear karma,

You’ve let me down
because all around
are animals and their mates,
they are primates
and they’re mating
and replicating
the same stupid
ooh ooh ooh
and
ah ah ah,
these fucking monkeys,
as they swing
from shiny thing
to shiny thing
while they fling
their shit around the room
and a broom
just smears it around,
no, you have to get down
on your hands and knees
to clean up the mess they made
and you can yell at them
but they don’t listen,
they just go about their day
as if to say
there’s no such thing
as just happened,
only what’s happening now
and what will happen.
fucking monkeys,
god damn savages,
with an average IQ
and a fat beer gut, to boot.

But you wanna know the sad truth?
they’re you
and me
and our knotty family tree,
blood relative or not,
agree or disagree,
we’ve got shit in our hands
cocked and loaded,
ready to be thrown
the moment the other
approaches with empty hands,
for no one likes the unknown
yet no one likes to be shown
a path to growth
and it’s gross,
it’s an overwhelming net result
of an insulting truth,

we’re better off
staying in trees.

---

Faith

This, I believe, I believe.

I believe for the next eight minutes
the Sun will still be there.

I believe that in order to live
one must calibrate, procreate, recreate, inundate, inebriate, and masturbate
the mind.

I believe it is impossible
to have all my laundry clean at the same time.

I believe there is at least one person out there
that is just like me, looks like me, talks like me,
even stumbles like me.

I believe that I will never
root for the Red Sox.

I believe, in all seriousness,
in love and hate, winning some and losing some, hot chocolate and the insanity plea.

I believe that two snowflakes can look alike,
and I believe I will never see them.

This, I believe, I believe.

---

Adam Greenfield is a professional podcast producer and published poet based in San Diego, as well as the host of a monthly open-mic poetry event, Verbatim Poets Society. His collection of writing, “Regarding the Monkey,” was published in July 2015 by Puna Press and was culled from over 20 years of material. The book has quietly garnered critical acclaim from those that have purchased the book but are too blown away by its contents to say so. At least that’s what Adam keeps telling himself. You can purchase a copy of the book online at punapress.com and also at Verbatim Books in North Park.