Business as Usual

By Michael Butorovich

In Michael Butorovichs rare and visceral first book of poems, the reader will find themselves immersed in a raw and at times humorous account of what it is to be a writer, thinker, alcoholic, and honest person looking to make their way in a world full of plastic standards and ideals based foundations built on sand.

Business as Usual represents a working-class poet looking to make a name for himself with honesty, creativity, and sincere perspective.

Based off of five years of writing, this collection of poetry offers language that is understandable and, at the same time, open for interpretation.

It is a must-read for any person seeking realism and originality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524582487

Michael Butorovich

Michael Butorovich was born December 6,1987 in San Pedro, Ca and began writing at a young age. After living a transient life down and up the Southern California coastline he resides in his hometown, where he is a working man during the day and composes through the long hours of the night. He displays some of his work and personal life via Instagram as @phonographer617 and contributes to his personal page shortdontstop.blogspot.com whenever he can. Michael can be found shooting pool on his free time. This is his first book of poetry.

Book preview

.SAID THE POET TO SOME.

I am here to make my contribution

                  Toward this pyramid business

                  Of words.

Some say I will not be respected

                  Or appreciated.

That this is a field for wannabe

                  Philosophers,

Pussy willows, depressed people,

And total wacko jackos who sit

Beneath a light and recite their

Non - practical bullshit to an

Empty living space.

Some say that this is a worthless

                  Place. An old Basilica with

                  Perverted shrines to their saints.

So explicit, candid and exclusive,

                  Anyone who’s unfamiliar with it

                  Quickly rejects.

SHIT - Is the level where the bar

                  Is set to the outer world.

Why would I waste my time with

                  This fictitious business of

                  Rephrased words?

You can say it called me as

                  A child before I knew

                  I could do something with it.

Even if I’m not respected,

                Or appreciated, or

                  Rewarded with a shiny

                  Golden facet;

In the least I attempt it

And fight to protect it.

I am here to make my contribution

                  Toward this pyramid business

                  Of words.

I say to some: You can eat shit

I listened to Mrs. Sexton when she said

Don`t let the bastards win

.ONE CORNER OF MY HEAD.

All the things I am ashamed of

              Are suspended from the ceiling

              In a secret room.

Hidden so deep I’m surprised

              They still exist.

Why haven’t these little heads died?

I keep saying that will

              Happen while their in the dark

              Away from view.

Secret room -

Secret room.

Some things are a bit too

              Painful to write or describe.

Secret room -

Secret room.

That’s the place where some things

              Go to.

To the faces I am ashamed of :

              This is where I place you.

3.16.1012

.TEN.SEVEN.TWELVE.

1987 – Present

Still a young man

Staring out of windows

Watching angels.

Scribing dancing devils

Who will breeze the meadows

Dressed as humans.

They are in the sentences,

The mal and benevolent

Haute in appearance.

Elegant horns and halos,

Sometimes worn both.

Though that combination

Is very rare.

He knows that because he stares.

Out before glass; before fences,

Before balconies and strange rooms.

He knows them because he knows himself.

But they know him

As somebody else.

Soon, they’ll see it.

Those tid bits

Of spirit; Of color.

Framed for movement.

Themselves running through it.

"Praise the surrogate,

Sometimes we can relate to it."

Find yourself in the fluid.

Angel, Devil,

Outside you are humans.

Inside you are hybrids.

Under any god

There is no separation

Except for ways of the act.

Every wing will choose a side

And curse the body in the middle.

Wearing horn and halo.

It’s a task to hold

Each light and shadow.

He’s done this well

And a short few know.

Only some realize

What is staring out of the window.

.NO.7.

I don’t drink hick piss.

That’s some sour shit.

I