serve and reject

it rarely makes sense
all of this confusion,
this tripe over which god,
which political affiliation,
which poison.

it rarely makes sense
all of this thought
of which love,
which charity,
which drug.

no meaning resides
in medical reform,
corporate reform,
political absolution
or fame.

there is no greater
belief than our own
beliefs and everyone
is wrong except us.

we ride the flames to
the trinkets they construct
to pacify us from ourselves
and from them.

we build reasons why we
conform without looking
back at what they've done
to us before.

they produce in absolutism,
they abolish ideals and rape
logic so we can pretend that
we have freedom.

they maim and disfigure
for wealth and social
control.

they threaten and torture
to maintain the norm.

they are right behind you
with weapons and food stamps.

they want you subservient.

here, hit now

Dear Dilemma please. Pacify, sanctify, allow living, lonely lover to explane. Bury below ample eyes of gold and glitter growing into past portions of excuse. For reasons why. Ask twice between crimson locks. Abide by rules not yet formed – witnessing crimson and gold glittering under yellow sun.

Monotony asks favors of fleshly fragments. So cold to the touch. For reasons unknown. Tempt the cool hand for other dimensions to pacify. A burden that one wishes to be releaved of.

Dilemma please pacify the spirit from thought. Pain for that which would be easy and gentle. These reflections hurt from within and without passion. Would never ask for truth from such feelings as these. One thing said, another meant.

Manage time worth spending.
Live, lonely lover.

And as these feelings are felt, so should they be. Wonder why and grasp at fleeing clouds for but a handful of mist to take back with you, O’ wondrous Dilemma. Not for thoughts to be transferred or tame, dear, sweet Dilemma.

Ask to receive? Golden threads to bind and banish; away with and under some other way as to pacify.

Spending time to manage.
The lover lives alone.

Explain.

As to being tortured from within and knowing that this abuse is forever. Forever and falling deeper into the demise which is love.

And so it goes. That which one may or may not have. Itches the mind. Always there. It actually was at one time, too long ago. So it might have been at another time, relative to the time which it stands now.

Time too long to take.
Wait?

Damp Dilemma descend upon mangled soul, upturned and in rapture.

Another idea to sanctify the long lasting impression of disgust. To torment. Everlasting gaze upon the stars above. Dream of these things, six feet from the surface, hands over eyes to keep out the darkness.

Two or three turns of the blade in the back, through the spine and ribs to feel the pain more fully. How many times? Dilemma plays at points not felt before, untamed and laughing from both sides of confusion.

One day is gone for time to decay in its natural state of being. Cool to the touch as if it were felt once before, some time long ago under thickets and localized understanding.

Flesh dying in the name.
Bodies under the sun, wilting in the name.
Careful steps, trotting along in the name.
Speaking once to be shut up for now and ever more in the name.

Ignored by the rest to set out alone, thinking deeply upon these countless times. Bent over the frame of someone that was once known. Plain to the touch; such Dilemmas are made of.

Countless times. Walking under parched sun into dampened night sky. Holding on for fear of letting go. Spasmodic points of being. Grave of bones pounding the mind’s eye. Submit for fear of nothing else. Cry because it’s true.

No demons to hold as final. No angels to recall your name. Empty. It is kept in back because no other place will have it. Symptom: Disorder. Punished, for it is deserved.

What they get is always what it never seems to be. To be is a fact of fiction. What is heard coats the meaning upon judgment of words which meant something some time and is new each time it spews forth from this time forward.

Drag out the bones to receive new orders from an old Dilemma; coughing out senseless commands. In the first place, the second had not shown. Secondly, the first was never there. Bones breaking and this is the mind. a piece to give.

It is killing. Cold and dead. What was the emotion? Holding back as if to give it new meaning. It is that and all is struggle. Contemporary, back bending force of will. Hold on for it never stops.

Bent over the frame of someone special, someone that was once known.

It is bad. Down the luck. Cry for it. Live for it. Bend at the waist for it. Fucked in the face of stupidity for it. In the face for all to see for it.

Damn the soul for wanting. Damn them for showing the soul the truth of wanting. Damn Dilemma for bending over someone that once was.

Face is fucked from the force of truth. Tickles the fancy for it. Forced from flame to cool water running down the back to be burnt again. Stop it again and go away. Force fucked dilemma in turmoil, tempting fate for the first to leave and the second to remain a mystery.

Counted as the last step taken. To decide, puncture the wounds and set up again to be broken down within the final hours so as to be rebuilt and demolished once more. Final step taken for sweet Dilemma to reenact those last moments: to what happened, to why it was, for reasons unknown. To explain.

Grounded firmly. Planted in a position both ill and unforeseen. Raptured hand basking in the light of the times. Hate and Anger are Holy names by which to symbolize life. The truth of our condition.

Countless times. A shadow of what it used to be. Shameful. Transpire to the greatest sleep. Dear dilemma, please.

Holding on. Firm ground under one foot, sinking in with the other.

Time is as they said it would be. Sold out for a new bag.

Dear, sweet Dilemma. If you had not covered the eyes so well perhaps they could have seen.

Hold true to bones broken at the ridge of sight, allowing little, taking it all. Slowly. Passionate? Not untrue, nor as real as it once was. and so little is as true as going slow into passion, breaking bones, and leaving little to the imagination.

It could have been better than that, the look she gave. Taken away again to find something new. Going on to brave something new. Stained once more. Again, time to cry. Dead, this something different.

Clouds, once white, tainted grey under night sky form baked sun, cracking shores of picturesque white sand. Black clouds to break up the monotony of grey. Then as blue as the heart that is kept. Slide down in to take another breath. Once more as it was said.

Dear, Dilemma. Colder now. Breaking to reign true. Ears of a dove. By sweet nectar of dear sweet Dilemma. The lover lives alone.

It could have been a better look given. Taken away so as to pierce that which had been given. She could have given a better look, presented herself better. We know what she means by the way she looks at us when we’re down. We know what she thinks of us. We know all too well.

Like love being thrown in the lap, both hands to snatch it up like well intended candy. The eyes glisten when things seem better off than they were yesterday. And what could you have seen today that would make it better than yesterday? Like love and want. If only it were true.

Sick inside, but lovely. Warm skin sweating so sweetly, to tickle the senses. This is the way it was.

Listening to the heart pump within the ribs. It flutters in you like a child. The way things should be – from within and sumptuous.

Lay on your stomach on the floor, yearning for that which once was. Again it is done as it was done with before.

Palpitation within the chest, throbbing. Parched from the sun. The sweat is all but gone. Dampened night sky.

Cast out over. Downtrodden spectator at wits end, cast out and over. Even still, slightly broken from the ordeal. At such ends for that which hasn’t even began. To think in, over, and above as a spectator. As it once was and shall be again. An obstacle in the rear view as you cross from one side to the other. Change is all that is given. This is what you have yearned for and now that it is here, it has become something else entirely. This is what you have yearned for, felt in the pit of your stomach and longed for, bled for, cried for.

Here it is, that which you have wanted. Yearned for. Bled for. Holding on for fear of letting go.

Sat shaking in the corner, risen from the floor. Legs pulled up and the arms are fit snugly around them. Care for less. This, the point in which to end the day. Over the toilet in disgust.

Holding to dear, sweet Dilemma to overcome the emotion of losing out on life. Ever searching and in need of the perfect life. Life at wits end, trying to struggle and survive.

Pulling closer as to never let go. This is your worth. This is all you have. This is it and there is no chance of letting go now. Reality foreshadowed in the light of possibility. Shaken, not overcome. Your dance for survival. This is what we know well.

Dear Dilemma dies after all this time. Holding on is an effort out of reach. This time, twisting you in the wind, alone and holding on. Now please, take this in the way of salvation. Our price to pay. Under the stars. Still in debt. Laughter as you blend away into nothing.

it's best when no one knows

the look of desperation is always there,
beneath the surface, below the smile.
it has been there a long time,
encouraging the hardest days,
blending well with the fluttering things
that get caught outside the line of sight.

another symptom of an already worsening
disease. this deep sigh, this relentless
acceptance of better things staying hidden
away in the dark, somewhere behind the
smile where no one can get to it. it's better
that way. there's no one to hurt if it falls.

some of the happiest moments can't be told,
they would only dilute in the tepid pond of
rationalization if they were found out. secrets
have much more staying power when they're
kept unknown. hidden secrets are things of
magic that become more powerful, the fewer
that know about them.

that day you left a present on someone's doorstep
and casually walked away. it was something they
really wanted and they'll never know who gave it
to them. that time you paid for that family's dinner
and left the restaurant before they knew it was you.
last Tuesday when you honked at that woman who
fell asleep at the wheel on the freeway and backed
off before the next exit. some of the best secrets you
have, and no one knows.

how many years ago was it when you swam out in the
lake and pulled out that kid? eighteen, nineteen years
ago? he was fine, you made sure before you ran off.

that time you had to jump out of the tree house that
caught fire. the way your legs felt after the burns.
that time you almost went off the side of a cliff, but
your car swerved at the last possible moment and
you were back on the road panting, "holy shit, holy
shit, holy shit!"

but there are so many other secrets better left unsaid.
so many other times, and times yet to come. and those
secrets will always be yours. some of the best secrets
you have, and no one knows.

devils and demons and bad little men

mistreated blanket of despair
wrapped up and safe from the
flames that lick the sins away

preached to the miserable
in dark corners all across
the ever loving world

slick tongues talking away
all the pain they've caused
over centuries of repression

because we all hope there is
something to look forward to
when we're all gone to dust

we hope for justice, if not in
this life, then in the next for
those that have done us wrong

and we listen to the twisted
tongues to tell us of the hereafter
and how it will be when we end

we strive for some meaning behind
all the madness we see, some greater
good to wash away the sour

we create war for this, justify murder
and hate and bigotry and lewd thoughts
to make it all right in the end

but we really have no idea what waits for
us on the other end of the long sleep, nor do
we care as long as our justice is served

we are the evil we see in the world, we are the
evils we do, we are the pain and the suffering
and the broken bodies lying in the mud

let's put blame where it belongs, let us tell the
truth and see ourselves for what we are-
we are the evil we fear

laugh last

there are too many dead
too many have paid the price
too many have suffered and
swollen in the sun

mangled babies in war torn streets,
dead by the hands of man,
machines of men, mowed over
during the wars of men

I had been told that the only
two guarantees in life are death
and taxes,
but war should be mentioned too

someone is always trying to
blow up someone else for some
such thing or another-
they'll drop the bombs and
wait for the fallout,
they'll fire the weapons and
hope for a hit-
they'll trip over the bodies to
get at the next

propaganda turns the stomach,
always a cause, always an enemy
trying to snuff out our freedom,
take away our money
when the MAN seems to be
doing a pretty damn good job
of it on HIS own

the quest for power is brutal

it is nothing more than madness

it sours the soul

it ends with vengeance

yet we continue, and there's always
someone waiting to fight the good
fight, waiting to lift a rifle and murder
others in this never ending search
for freedom and wealth and democracy

we can pretend all we want that war
is necessary, but what it comes down to
is bullies bullying other bullies until they
finally submit to the bull

let's face it, we make the wars because
we're losing the argument
and guns are brought up when the tongue
is too weak to win

it's nothing more than a street fight with
bigger weapons, bigger war chests, and
bigger balls
we eventually pay off the loser and rebuild
their cities and pay off their newly appointed
officials to play ball for cash prizes and pay
off their citizens to look the other way

there will be a time when we're all looking
the other way and they'll snuff us out too-
someone will build a bigger, better gun to
take care of us too

can't fly free

they look at me as they pass
the suits, the ties,
the abandoned stares ...

they look at me as they pass -
the bearded freak in a silly hat,
reading a book,
"What would he know about
reading books, this bearded fuck
in a funny hat?"

I nod and go back to reading.
they are better than me,
they know the ways of social angst,
they have done things that I cannot
imagine. they have impossible jobs
and make impossible money.

one is wearing a shirt that is worth
more than a good portion of my soul.
they have degrees that they're still
paying for -
twenty years to go -

I've read a lot.
no paper to show for it.
but I have something they can't imagine.
I have the understanding that none of us
will live forever. and I will never leave my
children
that burden.

they think their money makes
them immortal. I don't know how to
tell them they're wrong.

I go back to reading the drunk
author who fucked and begot
fuckedness, the mad author with
the bluebird that lived inside him,
the prophet author, the prophet poet
who was able to let that bluebird
free. he is better than all of them
put together on their best days.

I am bearded and alone, reading a
book by a madman in the faint light
that filters though the window of my
cage, wearing a hat, watching lunatics
pass by, giving glances of betterment
and disillusion as a bluebird flies freely
overhead.

overfed machines

the sun does not hold its once brilliant blaze
a cloudy film has coated the mundane in dreary absolution
and the creaking heart toils away at what could have been
if only another choice had been made

this regret coils around the mind
in such a way that it is rendered useless

the want of betterment,
the need to rise above,
the trapped feeling when
the prison walls come slanting inward
and threaten to crush the fragile flower
living within

this sudden need to escape,
to fall from the flames,
to lick the life away from
dripping fingers

collapse is a reward -
disenchanted
disregarded
disassembled
and drowned

giving up rather
than giving in -
letting the automation
toil away with the unnecessary
and lay spent, encased
in their own self centered protest

everything has an angle,
a scheme,
a hidden interest -
to guide them,
to allow them to be,
to succeed when all
else is failure

we are the casualties
of betterment,
the casualties of
constant progress,
the casualties of
thriving

in our homes, stacked
with trash,
piled high,
floating in once pristine waters,
creating islands of sludge
over oceans raped,
we stand on nothing more
than a whisper

our voices are caught
by the greedy, the fat,
and the overfed whores
who sell ass for fame and
fortune at the cost of everything
we've tried to accomplish

it's no wonder why the children
run scared with their noses
stuffed into the latest technology

look around and try to find something
good to leave the coming generation

any progress we've made can be bought
and sold and thrown away into landfill

it's no wonder why the children scream,
why the children distance themselves,
why the children refuse to cooperate
with the wasteful tongues

it's no wonder why the children cry,
why the children hide,
why the children abandon
the lust from wasteful tongues

the sun does not hold its once brilliant blaze
a cloudy film has coated the mundane in dreary absolution
and we stand by, hoping the machine won't gobble up the gears

if only another choice had been made

after dinner

this engorged fucking
the turn of the cock inside

lick the fingers and spread
the spit across the tip,
parting the lips
to feel the warm wet
on the shaft,
down to the base

and back out
rotate through the
moist, gripping
the ass and lifting
the leg up until the
foot is straight
toward the sky

and the balls slap
hard, curving under
to hit the clit, making
her rub it to the
friction,
to the motion
of moans and panting
and gripping
and stretching
the cunt with
the bulbous tip

spreading the dampness
outside and in

growing faster with every
thrust until the
sweat is dripping in
the eyes and the
skin sticks and slips
and slides wet against
the other

and the pussy clenches
and the cock throbs
and the balls contract
and the throat clicks
and catches on the words
and the cum tumbles out
and the pussy pumps like a heartbeat

and you're broken again
but just until the tingle subsides

in and out

over and again
this song in
my head

the same melody,
different tune

the words have all
changed to the
groan in my
chest

relief is the very
last orgasm
when the sky
turns black
and the moon
is dark
and the stars
need not show
their timeless
light

when the tears
have gone
all that remains
is the sting
of memory,
the past pushing
back through
you into the
bowels from
whence it came

that weakness
is a type of
purgatory,
a land of ill
escape,
a plain of
weeping grass
and soiled intent

the song that
is there is a song
of misfortune,
a song of timeless
love and failure

no true sorrow
but your own

nothing outside
of yourself

and the pain is
vacant and
gross,
a
dirty
thing for
which you
hold tightly to
yourself

this is not real
beyond the scope
of emotion and
drive which you
show it

this is not real
beyond the cries
you hear at night

this is not real
past the shores
and the drowning
gifts, waterlogged
with grief

this is not real
none of this is real
I am not real
you are not real
we never existed
outside of this
or because of this
or beyond this

illusions aren't as
pretty
when you lick
away the
frosting

hope is the next
thing that keeps
the weeping at bay

hope is the sound
of the same melody,
different tune

hope is waking
in the morning
and finding you
were never here

hope is a pounding
chest when the
excitement is
too much to
handle.

hope is the
smell of
daisies
when
tomorrow
never
came

grease and cigarettes

I went to the liquor store
to get a pack of smokes
for the day's festivities.

In the parking lot
stood a guy who looked
like he was recovering from
a bender. He asked for a smoke
and I told him I didn't have one. He
mumbled something under his breath
and I went into the store to buy a pack.

On my way out he said, "Hey, give me a cigarette."
I said, "Sorry, man, I don't have a cigarette for you."
"What'd you buy in the store?" he asked.
"None of your fucking business," I replied.
"Lookin' like Jesus and you won't give me a cigarette."
( I assume he meant my beard )
"I've got an idea, why don't you stop doing the shit you're
doing, clean yourself up a bit and get a fucking job instead
of beggin' on the street?"
"Fuck you, man."
"You first."

I walked the rest of the way home wondering why
people can't figure out their own misfortune.
Why is it necessary to get hot at someone
for not giving you a handout, demanding a handout
rather than simply asking for help.

I would have at least thought about giving him a smoke
if he'd asked nicely. If he had humbled himself a little
rather than pulling some alpha male bullshit I knew he couldn't
deliver on. Where there is venom, there was a bite.

so it goes. this way and that. spitting in the wind.

he doesn't care
how naked
he is

he doesn't care
if they see
him
exposed

he doesn't feel
that way
anymore
anyhow
and never did

he doesn't scream
when they cut him
with ignorance -
everyone is
ignorant of
something

he doesn't lift
the toilet seat
anymore or
turn on the lights
when he pisses -
he can't be bothered
with what drips on the seat

he doesn't spit
on their graves
in the early morning light
for fear that the others
will see him standing there
with his
cock out
in the wind

he doesn't scream
nor spit
nor lift
nor care
and he's not sure
if he's ever felt
a goddamn
thing before
in his life

out of the loop

every child should receive
a copy of Idiocracy and
Orwell's 1984 
to deal with the future,
the probable outcome
of years
without books.

an illiterate future
of lol's and wtf's
scattered across
liquid crystal screens
intended for movies
and pornography.

Big Brother isn't
out to get you,
you've already been had.
you've already become
a part of the problem.

our education system is
defunct, downplayed,
manipulated, and done.
no one really seems to care.
they gave us an answer.
they told us the money had
dried up and we believed them.

we're not doomed. we've just
been downplayed. we're not stricken.
we've been struck.

how can we believe anything
they tell us when everything they say
is the potential for a lie, a spin, a
doctoring of the facts? we only hear
what they want us to know. we only
see what they want us to be shown.

so we're not down, we're just out.
out of our wits,
out of facts,
out of the game,
out of time.

and the only one we have
to blame
is ourselves.
we let it happen by not
standing up when the
standing was good.
we rolled over and let them
take command over every
facet of our lives.

and now we're pissed because
the lottery profits aren't really
going to the schools. all of the art
programs are gone. homelessness
is on the rise. our jobs are at risk.
and there's no such thing as a
living wage.

but we've allowed for corruption.
the penalty is less than the crime.
home sentenced with a slap on the wrist.
we're not down.
we're not yet beaten.
we're only out of the loop.
and we've brought it upon ourselves.

Christmastime

Christmas is an odd
time for me
I've never been
good with it,
or at least, I haven't
been good with it
for a very long time

my mother died just
before Christmas
in 1995,
but that's only a
small portion
of
my problem

I don't believe in
the idea of 'Jesus',
but I do believe in the
winter solstice,
a tangible something
I can actually see
and experience

I believe in
Christmas
trees even
though I don't
put one up
( I'm a little put off
by taking a living
thing and cutting it
down to somehow
concoct joy in my life )

I believe in
creating happiness
during this time of
year
I believe in
other people
to a degree
I believe in
random acts
of kindness

but I can't subscribe
to the notion
that it's all about
Jesus or no Jesus,
one way or the other
and I can't stand behind
the idea that taking
Christmas out of
Christmas is somehow
good for everyone

I believe in the look
on a child's face
when they open presents

I believe in
the idea that
celebration is
good for the
common good

I want to be
mesmerized by
flashing lights
and tensile
I want to be
taken aback
by reindeer and
fat jolly men
with white beards
I want the endless
spectacle of Christmas
shows turned over and over
again on television
I want people to have
a time of year where they
feel obligated to be good
to one another

I like to dream
and believe
that there is
something special
about people coming
together for the sole
purpose of joy
and happiness
even if it is only one
day out of the year

I like to believe that
there is something
magical about Christmastime
even if I don't believe
in Christ

and I like to believe that
maybe you believe
the same thing

coffee, sugar, hold the Jesus

you'd think with a machine,
the coffee would come out
perfect every time

the filter sags and the grounds
get washed away down through
the basket and into the pot

the brew is murky and the head
of foam on top reminds you of
swamp piss saturated in motor oil

and all that's left to do is pour out
the mess and start over,
carefully
measuring each spoonful
and begin again

but this time, you stand there
and watch it, waiting for the
whole thing to drop out from
under you and leave bitter
grounds where there should
be a wealthy roast

and how many things wind
up getting filtered? our words,
our ideas,
our ways
down winding roads
and we're better for it,
for letting the filter slip
and wandering out into the night,
naked and
exposed

few have the ability to let themselves be seen
but it doesn't matter that much at all. we'll either
be seen for who we are or our story will get
washed down
to work into some complex idea that fits into someone
else's opinion of who we are or what we're doing

it's hard to bite your tongue when the world
is made out of candy. you want to try every piece,
find which one suits you the best without limiting
yourself to just one flavor

and so goes the battle with the masses
who believe their sweets are sweeter
than yours

their candy died for all of our sins
their candy rose from the grave
their candy offers ever lasting life

but that candy over there does the same thing,
only it did it a few centuries before their candy
offered itself up to the butcher block

and there's candy that refuses to be called candy,
calling out all the other sweets for being
too sugary

and candy that masks itself as meat
even though it has no meat at all
and is sweeter than the rest

and I'm stuck here,
staring at the
wrapper

the holiday slumbers

broken cups on the floor
and the woman weeping in
the faint light of
the front room

cinnamon in the air
a Christmas Tree
upended
ornaments broken,
ground into the carpet

White Christmas
playing
somewhere
soft

tears rubbed
into pink skin
and the wind
brings the snow
twinkling against
frosted glass

plates in the sink,
caked with food

a cat skitters by

I am asleep
in the bedroom,
covers pulled tightly
to my chin,
dreaming
of summer

her hands
upon my back
her tears
on my chest
the cold outside
and sobbing
in my ear

the lantern of
sleep
glows behind
my eyes

leaf

as a
leaf,
turning,
falling
ever
so
softly
to
the
ground.

as a
leaf
fluttering
this way
and
that,
bending
toward
the earth.

as a
leaf
caught
on
a
breeze,
making
its
way
to
dirt.

as a
leaf
gliding
effortlessly
to where
it finally
rests.

as a
leaf
breaking
down
into
raw
earth,
adsorbed
into
soil.

as a
leaf
saddened
by
life,
twisting
to
death.

feel it as it swims inside of you, releasing the hurt

for those of you that
know
what pain is
and how to use it
and how to embrace
it
how to make it your own,
you'll understand what I'm
saying.
for the rest of you, go read
something else.
we don't need you here.
you can't relate.
go pretend about
beauty
go pretend about
sacrifice
go fuck yourself
and leave us be.
now that they're gone
and it's just us,
do you find the joy
in tears?
do you see a tuft
of white
in the dark?
do you hold it
and cradle it
and make it your own?
I'm not talking about
the phony feelers;
those who say they know
of hurt and use it
as an identity.
I'm talking about
the sufferers,
the tried
the tender
the true.
those of you that have it,
know it. it is a part of your being
and you think of what life would
be like
if it wasn't there.
and if it wasn't there, you wouldn't know
what to do without it. it has become a skin
after all these years, a layer of moist
that keeps you warm.
it is sudden.
it is shallow
it is the meaning
of this.
and without it, we would just be
mindless slaves finding the
beauty in flowers, the beauty in
jest, the beauty in the soft of a child's eyes.
but we look and we embrace that nuance of
hurt that happens in all things, how low they've
been, how low they are yet to fall and we see strength.
that is our cancer
our sickness divine
our lust and loneliness
our crucifix
now that they're gone, don't you feel better?
don't you feel?
don't you feel at all?

see, what we feel is magnificent

it is the holy jest,

the true joke to this all.

a knot of feeling that

very few

can relate to.

it is our sacrifice so the

rest can know,

so the rest can cope,

so the rest can rest.

we take this weight

and conceal it in ourselves

because it is only us

right here

right now

and it is beautiful

because we get it.

give me god

be my messiah -
give me something
to believe in,
something to distract me from
this time and place,
something to give me
faith in humanity.

let me get fat on the words
let me bulge and bend
let me feel that sensation
       in the places I keep holy.

give me a messiah
that lets me feel -
a messiah that really
knows about this shit -
a messiah for the rest
of
us,
dropping off the edge
and waiting -
goddamn waiting
for the truth.

give me a holy god-
a god of sick
a god with desire
to make it right

give me a god
with a hard left hook,
a god that won't take any shit,
a god for the rest
of
us.

I need a saint to tear away
at the stitching,
a saint of men
a saint of women
a saint with the balls
to say
what needs to be said.

offer up a martyr
for the proud
a martyr made of
stone and sin
a martyr that will
really die for me.

give me a god that
doesn't mind
showing up
every once in a while.

I could use one.
could you?

merry what did you get for me?

remember Christmas
that we buy our loved ones
the most expensive gifts
credit can buy

we go in debt for them
to see them smile
and they for us

our entire way of life
depends upon it

our plastic gifts
given and received
our pride
our will
our triumph
through trying times

for this,
we give until our
pockets are empty
and we owe our souls
to the lenders until
next year
when we have to
beat out the year before

this, our special season
when it hurts to be alone
and without -
when the memories flood
and the suicide rate climbs
from frostbitten drifts
decorated with
Santa and Christ -
our mascots of poverty

O, this joyous time
this most miserable
time
when all the trees die for
our living rooms and dens -
when the casualties of war
with plastic
consumes the masses -

this gracious time filled
with love -
when thinking of your fellow man
consumes the trenches of
economic warfare
and our sadness only matches our
empty accounts -

and we think not of ourselves,
but others in this time of joy -
we give freely to the poverty stricken,
the sick, the homeless, the jobless,
the miserable
the torn ...

what did you get for me?
                                  Pa rum pum pum pum.

when I go away

it is easy to walk away
from a great many things

from people
and places
from sights unseen
and the conflicts of love

going nowhere
             so fast

my cruelty is my compassion.
I embrace leaving them behind.
but they don't understand.

there's no need for anguish,
no need to look back -just stepping
off stage until the next show.

and how this touches me -
to have know you and walked
away before it was lost,
to never speak again and only
have those memories to bind us.

a waste
a personal waste

would it matter if you were
able to say
good-bye?

would it have made a difference?

as worry

those mornings
the brush is missing
and the water is cold
and you can't find
room to breathe_

a saturated voice from
the other room
seems
understanding
and
sympathetic,
but you
lose the sound and
realize you are alone_

it is a confusing time
and the madness wakes you
like a slap. "what game is
this?" you ask,
but no one answers
and
it is almost time to go
and
you haven't had
your coffee_

some day it will
be gone along
with the worry.

The Child

there was a story about a baby.
a very young child.
a boy.

and he slept in a crib _
a crib made of jasmine
and clay.
the baby slept in the dreams
of dreaming,
and smelled the jasmine rise.

his dreams were pure.

a war arose around him. and
he was not aware. it is the
way with war. the baby did
not fuss for the war even though
it was all around him, waged in
the streets and the valley below.

no rage arose in his heart.
and the cool of his touch
could have ended the rape
in the streets. still he slept.

he remained unaware until
the last soldier fell. and the
baby was alone in the crib
made of jasmine and clay,
unaware that the world had
died around him.

such is the way with peace.

long gone

so long
gone and
going
past and
moving on
so long
gone to
great cities
and lonely
women
waiting
forever for
their love
to come home
so long
gone again
past the
migration
with ease
against winter
skies and
heroic days
so long
gone and
going past
barbed wire
fences and
forms littered
with glum faces
so long and
nice to have
known you
and yours
don't take
it personally
if I don't
come around
so long
gone and
growing out
of restrictive
spaces
so long
running
from the
days and
nights, hot
with sweat
and sour
tongues
so gone
that you've
forgotten
yourself
in the
mix -
so long
gone and
driving to
nowhere
and back
just to
catch a
glimpse
of yourself
going
farther
so long
and thank
you for
letting
me live
so long
gone and
going as
far away
as I can
travel
so long
and
given to
the past
asking for
forgiveness
so long
to living
in the
now
when
'the then'
has got
you
cowering
in the
corner
so long
gone to
small towns
once you've
figured out
that the
cities only
help you
to die
so long,
farewell
to a more
innocent time
when you
didn't have
to watch
your
children
every second
for fear of
molestation
so long
gone and the
fear of
watching
your back
for someone
trying to stab
you
so long
to days
gone by
and joy
and love
and the
reassurances
given
so long to
the great
ones that
escaped
before it
was too
late -

this. not yet. is proud.

drunks and
beggars

teaching at
universities.

imagine that.

the down
the miserable,
the low,
the poor
teaching
literature
at the
universities
to green
kids with
no hope
because the
adults took
it all away.

teaching
misery and
vice to the
future
generations.

teaching
hopelessness,
destitution,
and fatigue.

teaching
blackmail and
bribery -
intoxication and
debauchery to
the future of
h u m a n i t y .

they'll give them
what they need
to get by,
something they
can really use.

teaching
pain
for
what
is
to
come.

our wars, our peace

for all the days and nights
for all the long winters
and parched summers
and hardships endured
and tears fallen for
graceful moments,
every one
I call your names
so we may touch
where breath shivers
and shadows shimmer
in blood laced guilt
under it all,
below the waves
and the quaking ground
our eyes will meet
for broken soldiers
and dying causes
for lonely wars
and broken promises
for waste and wealth
for nature
for fuck's sake
let us call out and
put an end to the foolishness
let's stop this before
it's too late for us all
. . . or take a final drink
to toast the end
- either one

graffiti mind. urban sprawl.

I hear them moan
every night around two -
this dark love,
this reproachful whine,
calling all within earshot
like dismantled birds in a
jungle of disfigurement -
this loving call to all
that are near,
gathering their voices
in hymn
for retribution -
this great, surging sick
in the multitude of throats,
breaking out - singing ill
sounds, mocking the turmoil
they drink their wine and
spit on unholy ground and
thrash the bottles against
the walls that hold them in
tight like a mother with
mangled wings
these broken
these tortured
these countless
                        souls
screaming for release
graffiti minds sprawled over urban refuse,
caked in the shit and the stink
biding their time
for their time to come at last
ripping wake of grease and piss,
slick under the glass.
these broken
these tortured
these countless
                        souls
gathering their voices
in hymn
for retribution

waiting no matter what

we're only ever prepared for the very next moment
not much more than that
not much more
and we'll
fall

we think we could make it forever if the shit hits
but it is not that way
a day or two
and we'd
be sunk

we like to believe it will go on forever and ever
and as much as we realize that's a lie
we continue to play
make believe
with our
souls

our interest is to continue on in spit of it all
oure wishes include: survival,
love, art, sympathy,
and hunger

we're not who we think we are, but that
doesn't matter so long as we make
it until tomorrow,
to a brighter
day
                   
                     a brighter light
                at the end
                         of an
                      unforgiving
                                  tunnel

just some sympathy from the outside,
looking in on timid misery,
hoping for a change,
a new way
to live

but that is reason enough to keep going,
to surge forward and live
a life that maybe never
was in the first place
a higher standard
a better way
                   
                         a symphony
                      for the
                                 damned.

it may be too late, yet we keep moving
we might have lost our chance
we might be living in vain
we might be lost

we don't care what they do or who they
represent
we want it all and we want it now
we want to fulfil this
dream and scatter the
ashes on the moon

                          and now is
                    your chance to
                                     do something
                               great
                 what are you
                                    waiting for
                                                     ?

don't worry . . .

we exist in nine deminsions of
space
plus one of
time
and I know this
book
isn't going to get me through
the day
so I'll finish it before I head
off
and grab another that I'm
ready for.
none of this is real,
and I knew that a while back
when I was meditating and
found myself nowhere.
at the corner of Nothing
and Nowhere to be exact.
we exist in nine deminsions
of space
and one of
time
so it only goes to show that
most opinions
are slow on the uptake.
I light another cigarette,
take another sip of coffee
and look around,
hoping I'm here.
if I'm not here, I hope
I'm somewhere nice.
maybe at the intersection
of Somewhere and Future,
looking forward to a better tomorrow
that isn't as illusory as today.
this is the position of
my Event Horizon. I'm almost
certain that I exist right now without
existing at all.
another sip of coffee, a puff or two
and I'm back in, ...
or out, depending on how you look
at it.
dual nature of the universe
and I'm in a hole,
falling up.
an eight dimensional sphere.
harmonic oscillators.
quantum particles.
I'm pretty sure
none of this is real.

don't bother

It is Monday. I took a bath.
I stood up after I had fermented
long enough, grabbed my towel,
being careful of my notebook,
dried my face, my arms, and my
chest. I stepped out of the bath,
got my foot caught on the rug,
dropped the towel,
exclaimed, "O shit!",
and proceeded to fall,
with all my weight,
onto my ass. My back is fine.
My ass,
not so much.
I stood,
still dazed,
toweled the rest of myself off,
and walked into the kitchen.
There was a wet spot.
I slipped, grabbed for the stove,
came up with a cast iron pot,
steadied my ballance as I threw the pot,
checked my surroundings and found my footing
all at the same time,
patiently waiting for Death to pass me by.
I took a deep breath and walked around the corner
into the living room, nearly stepped on one of my cats,
spun, mid-air, and landed on my feet. I stopped,
made another check of my surroundings and
decided that I needed to sit down.

that shaking inside

it starts right after breakfast -
    these
            terrible
                       shakes.
it is not
          the only thing
                             to be thankful
                                                 for.
they are sudden and painful like I'm
being torn apart from the inside out
and no matter how I try to calm my
self, the shaking is only the first
                                              symptom.
it gathers in my guts,
                                working its way upward
                     into my head
and I can't shake this shaking feeling,
no matter how hard I try.
it works
            through
                       me
to my pit and the darkness gathers there,
bending, weeping, tearing to get out of me.
how long it has been, I cannot say. why it chose
me, I cannot tell.
                         it is only here,
                                               under the skin
          and behind the eyes
                                          and I can't seem to shake
                       the shaking.
it bends and moves deeper into what I am,
calling my name from the shadows of my guts.
I think it wants me dead.
                                      the signs are all there.
       it is waiting for the moment
to shake me right
             out
     of
           my soul.
I have a last cup of coffee
and get dressed.
I'm at my car and it is just a slight
                       vibration.
            as I head to work,
dodging traffic,
                        it is only a hum.
               and when I punch the clock,
the ticking begins.
           the
                terrible
                           ticking.
it is sudden and painful like I'm
being torn apart from the inside
out ...

likened hearts as bitter as sweat

all the pieces fit together like a puzzle:
madness,
pain,
joy,
sanity.
these are things I remember in those
pictures
of
you.
long nervous nights and anxious days,
starving a little
with my mind
warping around
images of you.
wondering why you tried so hard
to shatter
the pieces,
the momentos
of wonderful
me.
I imagine you somewhere else
doing the same
thing to someone
else in their
worst moments                    and
                                I
                                           pity
                                the
                                           souls
                                you
                                           mangle.
and I imagine you, imagining me,
gone away,
a little farther
than I used
to be
watching you fall over yourself    
trying so
hard to
break them too.
                                      one
                                            day
                             you'll
                                          break
                                the
                                      wrong
                  heart
                             and
                                        be
                               left
                                           in
                     the
                                cold

                           just
                                   like
                                          me.

  

some die

the clouds have come in,
the wind is picking up,
and it is getting cold.
a tree sways in front
and there is music
coming from
the other
side of
the
house.
I'm thinking about
murder
and death
and the
finality of it all.
how can a man
kill another
in rage?
what is it about us that
is fascinated with those
crimes?
do we wonder what the victim
saw in those fluttering moments
before darkness took them away?
do we care that much for them?
are we humane in our morbidity?
there is a cold wind
and the tree swims
away the breeze,
fluttering between
this leaf and that.
and the clouds
take away the
sun and
the imaginings
along
with
it
to return
with the
floating
morning
that breaks
the dawn.

looking forward

I would sit in my room and stare at the walls.

I imagined getting away,

what it would be like when I could finally leave.

And I thought about this time right now, and how far I would go.

I am who I wished to be, a little alone, a little depressed, but

that's just because the world is a hard place and life

likes to stab you from time to time. Beyond the normal

points of crises and despair, I am happy.

I like to think that boy sitting on his bed back in 

'84' 

would be happy too.

If he only knew where he would go,

the women he would find,

the troubles he would see that made him

grow taller, the assholes and pricks,

the lovely and lovable. It all makes sense when you're

farther down the road.

I look back at the young me, looking forward into

the future and I say, "See, it isn't so bad, is it?"

And he shakes his head, gives a small smile and says,

"We finally got away, didn't we?"

I return his smile. "You better believe it, kid. 

Aren't you glad you didn't do it?"

he nods, puts down the razor and looks forward.

"He can't break me."

"No, kid, he'll never break you. You'll be damaged, 

but you'll make it through. Just hold on. Did I mention 

the women you'll meet?"

"You mean we get to ..."

"Oh yeah, so many times with so many beautiful girls.

It'll make you cry in your sleep. But there's a special 

woman down the road that you want to pay special 

attention to. She's had it hard, but she'll love the fuck 

out of you. Give it time."

A single tear and the boy is alive.

step up

trying to stay active.
I have been doing this shit
since I was ten,
writing poetry about how my
stepdad thought I was a piece of shit
and he wanted me away.
I would have loved to have gone,
but my mother wouldn't let me.
the first chance I got,
I got the fuck out of there,
away from the sick drunk
and his fucking opinions.
always trying to teach me a lesson,
never letting me be.
always something new, no matter
how hard I tried to stay the fuck away
from him.
if it hadn't been for my grandparents, I'd
be dead by now. but you're only allowed to suffer
just enough so you don't fall.
but that's bullshit, and we all know it.
if the universe only gave you what you could endure,
there wouldn't be such a thing as suicide.
it was whatever he could do to humiliate me,
make me smaller, take away anything
that resembled joy.
sometimes, he would sit me on my bed while
he went through my room,
questioning me on everything.
he went through my writing ( not the
good stuff I hid in the rafters of the attic )
and told me how pointless it was. he laughed
at my drawings and said I was a satanist
because I had a thing for skulls.
"No, Joe. I like skulls because they remind me of death.
They remind me that one day, I'll be free of you
whether you like it or not."
so I got out of there my first chance and ran away
when I was fifteen.
I came back for a while when my mother was dying,
but the time was short lived.
I've gone as far away from him as I could.
and at my age, I still try to move farther than he'll
ever be able to follow.
catch me if you can, motherfucker.

sitting before me

I'm reading to them
and I'm nervous.
my butt is puckering
and I can feel the sweat
starting at my brow
and working its way to my eyes.
this is my stuff, my words
and I'm sharing them, giving them away
like crack whore babies at dawn in front
of the Fire Station.
there doesn't seem to be any way
to express how much I want to puke right now,
how much I want to purge myself of their staring
eyes and wanting glares.
but I speak a small word and my voice is too soft
and my hands tremble, but I'm the only one who sees
them.
I reach down inside of myself and the words explode.
they are watching the thunder.
the sound is seen like a shadow forming over all their heads,
suffocating them in their seats. I am amazed at this voice
that comes from within me, this register and tone, beating
at them and raping them there
in their seats.
a storm is inside of me and I'm nearly done,
almost broken, already damaged,
fucking them
in their seats.
watch the silly man speak the words.
see his hands shake.
feel the sweat from his enormous balls,
dripping into stained
slacks.
if he fumbles,
let him fall.
if he quakes,
let the ground beneath him swallow him whole.
let his stomach lurch and his intestines knot.
let him puke this unto us
in our seats.

California hills

there is a certain peace 

in the California hills.

a beauty, a quiet,

a silent despair

that is really quite

lovely.

the fewer people that

are there,

the better it is.

the wind hums against

the rocks and the air is 

fresh.

the Santa Ana winds pick up

and nearly knock you down,

but it will bring clean air,

pushing the smog out over

the mountains and away for a day

until the smoke from factories and tailpipes

and China come back with vengeance.

down certain trails, you can see

people fucking, dicks hanging,

pussies spread.

sometimes dicks with other dicks

and pussies with other pussies.

it is a sight to see -

these people fucking like mad -

like it is the last day to fuck or be fucked

and their hips are furious.

every stroke is planned, arranged,

and deliberate.

it is fine to see them fucking in the hills

where every corner,

every bush,

every mound of dirt can watch you there,

tapping out that ancient tune.

today is a fine day,

a lovely day. the Santa Ana winds are blowing

in from Fontana where it is always windy

and the sun will be up soon.

it would be a lovely day to bring the wife

to Corona, up in the hills

for a nice, long walk where we can hide

behind a boulder and hum a tune

to the winds that occupy the valley below.

we could sing a song to old lovers

and salute them as they pull up their pants

and pretend they were only going for

a walk.

there is no accounting for taste.

he felt connected with the world.

he was a lunatic, but still he felt this way.

there is no accounting for taste.

he thought of this as he bashed in the man's skull.

the man was on the ground and so was the blood.

still, he battered the purple face.

this world is beauty and solace, graven and misshapen,

he thought, kicking the man's head. I want to roll myself into its

warmth until it becomes a womb, encasing me. the man's left 

eye fell loose and dangled across his cheek. I want to 

inherit the Earth and its love. I want to kiss it to sleep at night

and milk away its fears when the sun rises. the man's lip

busted open, a trail of slick bent down his chin. I want

peace and prosperity for all. the man lost a tooth. It clattered

on the blacktop and settled next to a discarded newspaper.

I will kiss the children when I get in Office and lift their spirits

by putting God back in the institutions. the man's chest caved

with the tip of a boot and he coughed out blood. I will give them 

freedom. I will give them hope.

clockwork soul

in the interest of dying,
we are free.
in the interest of living,
we are bound by our
freedoms.
in this, our souls
are divided, if indeed
'a soul' is what it is.
in restricted shells,
we move, we incite,
we concoct and
conduct
true horrors and
prestine beauties,
glorified by sleep
and symptom.
god,
this is not.
self,
this is not.
hope
is its only reward.
so for these freedoms
we burn
and binde
and coil fingers
through knotted hair
and intwine ourselves
in thicket and thorn.
our bruises, divine.
our hardships
entwine.
we are the smallest
nothings
you will ever unwind.

mantra

get up,
go to work.
go home.
go to bed.
get up,
go to work.
go home.
go to bed.
get up,
go to work.
go home.
go to bed.
get up,
go to work.
go home.
go to bed.
get up,
go to work.
go home.
go to bed.
retire and
die.

black bird,

hear me.
black bird,
eat this from me.
take the thing inside me
and rip it away.
I am worn and cold.
unfurl your feathers
and fly to me,
black bird.
use your beak to peck away
the despair from the marrow
of my bones.
touch the wet inside of me,
remove the sick you see.
I want you to have it.
I want you to have it all.
kill this thing inside of me,
shuttle me to beyond reason,
you fucking bird.
I am worn and desperate
and so full of filth
under my eyes.
peck them too,
take the blindness away,
black bird,
and give me time to weep.

give to receive

Our clothes piled

along the floor

like leaves fluttering in the wind,

tossed away without need.

I lowered myself down

and she lifted her legs

and I gathered her sweetness

between my lips.

Entering her deeply,

I fluttered along the folds

and spread her gently

with my tongue.

Her breath came in gusts,

working its way through

the tension

as she gave herself to me.

I kept kissing her,

nursing along her thighs

and ascending to the heat

once again,

boldly lapping

as her hips

rose and descended.

With the tiniest moan,

she exhaled,

and a shiver

trailed along her body

and swept me up

between her legs.

I could feel her relax again

and I nibbled my way across

her stomach and back down

into her sex.

She jerked and cried out as

I lingered there,

not wanting to let it

recede.

I let my hands feel her,

take her in

and brush

the full extent

of her body.

I played

at the smooth intersections

of lust and held

tight as she released again.

She let out

a quivering sound,

an inaudible whimper

between the movements

of her hips.

She ran her fingers

through my hair

and pulled me in

as her feet grazed my back,

tightening on my neck

and pinning me there

until she came.

with these hands

I lean against the keys.

they rattle

a quaint tune

and bumble back

into position,

accepting line after line.

they refuse to lie.

they crimp and kick,

bucking me along in

their mysterious way,

a word at a time.

only these words,

no judgment,

no thick headed answers,

telling me what I want to hear.

there is escape at the keys,

a flavor resilient and gracious.

it takes a little time,

but I begin to understand 

what they are saying.

they are grand and neurotic,

bending this way and that,

sketching out what needs

to be said.

they scream to keep 

death

at bay.

the sweet, slippery wet,

draws me in.

a few more inches

and I'm almost there.

the tension, the tight pulling.

that lapping extension of soul,

promising release,

giving itself over freely

and without restraint.

my fingers graze,

play at the edges,

rubbing one out for 

the world to see.

just another line

and I'm spent,

lying on the floor 

in a heap,

waiting for the words 

to come.

bitten ( Russian Winter )

bitter cold
like Russia
in February.
ice on the eyes
and mouth.
frosted genitals
and the legs are too
cold to move.
cars bellow tailpipe
dreams out into the
morning, rancid and thick,
propane for the lungs.
given mornings
for blessing too few to count
and daydreams
hibernate in the right
of winter's draw.
misery in mounds
strewn by plows
across driveways
in this legion of snow
and slush and
creeping mourning madness.
no sight in blindness when it comes,
tailed by winds that eats the flesh from
purple fingers and seized joints.
no method in madness,
too cold to freeze.
no hope until spring
when the bodies move again
along dirty streets.

fat

the work is effort.

the work is pointless.

it makes a fat man fatter.

that fat man is not you.

that fat man doesn't know

who you are.

that fat man could care less

about you.

but every day we awaken to 

feed the fat man and his cronies,

giving them our time and

our breath,

and our beating heart

to make small checks

for the fat man

to get fatter.

if there is a symptom of

wrong in the world,

it is greed;

gorging fat mouths

overflowing

with our labor.

on our backs they survive

they thrive

and grind away our very last

nerve

until we're a broken

mass of obeying

servants,

begging for scraps

of bread in the streets

and a threadbare

sheet to hide our 

deformities.

it is the fat man that survives,

that thrives,

that continues on to watch

the sunset.

and when we retire after

a long life of work-a-day,

that fat man breeds

another to take his place

so it can all begin again

for our children

and our children's children

as we wither and wilt,

as we wither and die

from this life of working

for fat men and women

that live the life we should

have enjoyed.