we are the tragic and tender
children bound in adult boxes.
we are still afraid of the dark.
our triumphs are small
but they mean so much.
we have complex systems
to investigate other
complex systems.
we consume.
in our darkest hour,
we ask for forgiveness
for what we have done.
on our brightest days,
we laugh and play,
throwing caution to the wind.
we are afraid of the dark.
our compassion is limited
by our need.
our need is extinguished
by our want.
we hate crime,
but we are in love with poverty.
we are consumed with the rich,
but the rich hate our guts.
we fuck.
we are full of good intentions,
and there is no better philosophy
than our own.
our charity
is bound
by guilt.
we consume.
we are afraid of the dark.
we are governed by want.
we win.
we lose.
we die.
and in all of this,
we still wonder who we are.
we crave love
even if it is detrimental
to our health
and well being.
we make war
and blame it on the
holy teachings
of dead philosophers.
we make war
and blame it on the
need for freedom.
we make war
and blame it on
l i b e r a t i o n .
we celebrate
the day of our birth
every year
as if it will bring
something new
this time around.
we laugh
and we play
while the freedom
we fought for
is taken away.
we build shit
only to tear it down
to build new shit
to tear down sometime
in the future.
we mock who we were
in the past
only to watch history
repeat itself.
we endanger
the very essence of nature
to establish laws
that guard against
endangering nature.
we kill.
we give birth.
we denounce who we are
to become
who we were.
and in all of this
we still wonder who we are.
we like buttery, rich, sweet
statements to cover up the taste
of the atrocities
we have committed.
we blame it on
the greater good.
we are in love with
d i s t r a c t i o n .
we are afraid of
the darkness unfolding
before our very eyes,
wiping away the light
in thin trails
until oblivion takes us
kicking and screaming
into the void
of our own consumption.
there is no need
to wonder
who we are.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
taut and caught
what song
plays
in the ears of
the dying
when the light
finally lifts
from their sight
and the flies
dance about
their meat
?
what tune
drifts through
the air
of despair
upon the misery
of the deceased
from the crease
of skin
sewn tight
so the lips
just might
remain closed
when the
bellow blows
upon erupting
from the throat
?
what tears
are there
to fall about
the cheeks
of the already
forgotten
reduced
to the memories
of the lingering
dead
?
and why
should we care
that no one
is there
to hear
the hymns
of our screams
because our
mouths are
sewn tight
with wire
composed from the
fire
for which
we burn
?
plays
in the ears of
the dying
when the light
finally lifts
from their sight
and the flies
dance about
their meat
?
what tune
drifts through
the air
of despair
upon the misery
of the deceased
from the crease
of skin
sewn tight
so the lips
just might
remain closed
when the
bellow blows
upon erupting
from the throat
?
what tears
are there
to fall about
the cheeks
of the already
forgotten
reduced
to the memories
of the lingering
dead
?
and why
should we care
that no one
is there
to hear
the hymns
of our screams
because our
mouths are
sewn tight
with wire
composed from the
fire
for which
we burn
?
pent the gallows whole
running into the sun
as the flames
lick high
at the lips
of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god,
high on its own
reflection
we live to breathe
and die
in the throws
of living too long
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless
traps
set
by our own hands
continuing
martyrs of the cause
without pause;
our debt to remaining,
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt
the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor
across the neck
of our own doing
the shame of
breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity
and in this
we are so alone
that the emptiness
weighs down
the stones
placed on our chests,
quarried
from the empty dreams
which we will never
awaken
as the flames
lick high
at the lips
of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god,
high on its own
reflection
we live to breathe
and die
in the throws
of living too long
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless
traps
set
by our own hands
continuing
martyrs of the cause
without pause;
our debt to remaining,
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt
the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor
across the neck
of our own doing
the shame of
breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity
and in this
we are so alone
that the emptiness
weighs down
the stones
placed on our chests,
quarried
from the empty dreams
which we will never
awaken
bone yard of the bent
the privacy
of heart,
untamed
and forever
wandering,
built
by
years
of
r e a l i z a t i o n,
exploration,
courage,
and hurt.
if we could show what we have encountered,
our faces would resemble a map through
the bone yards of Hell.
if we could capture the love and the pain
in a vial, it would expand into a nova
and wipe away the smirk on those who
have charmed us away from trust.
and yet we still reside
in body of mind,
gently stroking the sensitive part of our soul.
what we once were
never left, but continues on
a little more guarded
in the cell of secrets we keep.
who we are
remains untarnished in the vat of acid
we swim,
carefully armored against
the weapons they wield
to break down the gates
of the innocence
they try to take
in this sympathetic bone yard
of HELL
of heart,
untamed
and forever
wandering,
built
by
years
of
r e a l i z a t i o n,
exploration,
courage,
and hurt.
if we could show what we have encountered,
our faces would resemble a map through
the bone yards of Hell.
if we could capture the love and the pain
in a vial, it would expand into a nova
and wipe away the smirk on those who
have charmed us away from trust.
and yet we still reside
in body of mind,
gently stroking the sensitive part of our soul.
what we once were
never left, but continues on
a little more guarded
in the cell of secrets we keep.
who we are
remains untarnished in the vat of acid
we swim,
carefully armored against
the weapons they wield
to break down the gates
of the innocence
they try to take
in this sympathetic bone yard
of HELL
Monday, December 29, 2014
the cries of summer sleep
this time,
she put the keys back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
in odd time signatures
as to sound out like the slaps of raindrops
upon asphalt
in Fall as the wind ceases and the clouds
carry steady against the sky,
so dark and milky,
soft as cotton soaked in silk.
and her mouth was dry.
the bed to her side,
so tightly made and soft with down.
the pillows fluffed and in place,
smelling of him,
smelling of her-
and a splash of vanilla that clung to the air
hours after it should have glanced away
like a ghost upon remembering it was lost
to the world as dry leaves that ignite
to the flash of lighting that caught them ablaze
in the dry, crisp air of an August Summer
in the desert oven heat.
the slippers he wore so often
and more than she would have ever thought
when she bought them as a last minute
gift
last Christmas eve while
she thought of his parents coming in
on a plane from Phoenix later that night,
arriving red eye
to spend Christmas morning with she and their son
she loved.
but that sneer when he said
he loved another, just minutes ago.
that sneer when he said her name.
that sneer
as the tear draped sorrow over her
eyes
and she struggled to the bedroom
to take the keys
that she just placed this time,
back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
as she cries herself to sleep.
she put the keys back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
in odd time signatures
as to sound out like the slaps of raindrops
upon asphalt
in Fall as the wind ceases and the clouds
carry steady against the sky,
so dark and milky,
soft as cotton soaked in silk.
and her mouth was dry.
the bed to her side,
so tightly made and soft with down.
the pillows fluffed and in place,
smelling of him,
smelling of her-
and a splash of vanilla that clung to the air
hours after it should have glanced away
like a ghost upon remembering it was lost
to the world as dry leaves that ignite
to the flash of lighting that caught them ablaze
in the dry, crisp air of an August Summer
in the desert oven heat.
the slippers he wore so often
and more than she would have ever thought
when she bought them as a last minute
gift
last Christmas eve while
she thought of his parents coming in
on a plane from Phoenix later that night,
arriving red eye
to spend Christmas morning with she and their son
she loved.
but that sneer when he said
he loved another, just minutes ago.
that sneer when he said her name.
that sneer
as the tear draped sorrow over her
eyes
and she struggled to the bedroom
to take the keys
that she just placed this time,
back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
as she cries herself to sleep.
Boy Blue (1)
A calm light shown through from the dark wood.
Silhouetted trees stood out in twigs and sticks,
black and towering against the hillside.
Boy Blue watched
as the Thicket Gores wound
their way up the steep slope
and over until they were out of view.
He could hear their calls in the night,
deep, resonating sounds that made his skin
tingle.
From the satchel at his side,
the one he had taken from grandfather's chest,
he retrieved a length of gold lace, and a piece
of root from a spruce. He tied the lace to the end
of the root and the root grew. The gold lace lengthened.
And of that, Boy Blue was holding a whip with a
fine handle that was sharpened at the base.
Crouching, Blue followed the creatures until he was
at the base of a bluff in the woods. He peaked over
and saw them in the clearing as they danced and sang
terrible tones to the night.
Their bodies were thick tangles of thicket
and thorn, grown in loops and twists where
skeletal joints formed in knots. Torn slats
of bark were fastened at their shoulders and the
knots in the wood were their eyes. The splintered
end of the slat formed a mouth with a root tongue
that darted out like a leech.
A post was placed in the center of the clearing
and a girl was tied to it with strips of bark. A fire
was lit in front of the post, and the girl wailed as the
flames licked up like demonic tongues reaching
for the food they so craved.
Blue reached into his satchel again and removed
a perfume bottle with a wick dangling from its top.
He said a few words and snapped his fingers,
and the wick lit with a pop.
He eyed the creatures in the night and held the bottle
above his shoulder. He pursed his lips and let out a loud
whistle.
The Thicket Gore turned and stared off into the dark.
There were six wavering at attention
as if they could not subdue their dance.
Blue stood tall
and threw the bottle at the feet of the Gore.
An electric light burst when the bottle hit
the damp earth, and the Gore threw up their thicket
arms to shield their slat faces from the light.
But it was too late, and the Thicket Gore began to burn
as the girl screamed from atop the pole.
Their thorn limbs began to unravel and glow like
embers in a fire.
They howled death from their splintery lips and crumbled
to the forest floor.
Blue reached into his satchel and gave a tug. Then another.
Finally, a hose wiggled free, and Blue turned the tip until
a steady rush of water came out. He pointed at the fire
that burned at the base of the pole. The flames coughed out
and there came a sizzle when the embers finally died.
The girl was crying.
Blue took out his army knife and picked a blade and cut the bark rope
that held the girl to the post. Tears stained her face through the
soot that had gathered.
Blue held the girl tight and let her cry.
"It'll be all right," he said.
"They can't hurt you anymore."
"I know," she said with a small nod.
Her face changed suddenly in a mess of running ink
and she was no longer the girl Blue thought he knew.
She wore the eyes of a witch and the deformed grin
of a devilish thing that made Blue step back in fear.
"You have come, Boy Blue," the witch spat.
She floated free from the post. Dirty rags of
a once white dress hung from the wretch, but no legs were
visible from within the gown. Her soot stained hands raised
and a fire caught in the witch's eyes. An electric burn
sparked from her fingertips like severed power lines
dangling from crooked branches. "And now you will die."
As the witch struck out, Blue held his satchel to protect his face,
and when the electric jolt hit, he was sure that he was done for.
Blue felt the impact, and it knocked him backward, but he never
felt the pain. When he finally gained enough courage, he peeked out
through one eye around the pack and saw the witch glare at him in anger.
Scorch marks marred the leather satchel, but nothing more.
Blue reared back the whip with a curl and let loose on the wretch.
With a loud snap, the witch's arm came free and hurled into the saplings
at the edge of the clearing. She let out a shrill scream.
"What have you done with Cindy?!" Blue shouted.
The witch grinned, toothy and fierce. "I ate her all up,"
she cackled.
Blue reared back again and the whip tangled about the witch's
throat. Her eyes bulged, and she let out a faint whimper before
Blue snapped the whip back. With a wet crack, the witch's head came
free. The momentum of the whip tossed the severed head deep into the woods.
And there came nothing more than still silence from the
darkened forest where
Blue stood.
The boy shed a tear for his friend and knelt down on one knee,
bowing his head in remembrance.
The sound of soft coughing, faint but apparent.
Blue tilted his head.
An arm poked out from the witch's neck. Small fingers uncurled
and grasped a wet earth.
Blue looked on in amazement, and opened his knife once more ...
He held Cindy in his arms.
"I couldn't breath in there," she said.
"It's all right now," Blue said softly. "You're safe."
Cindy looked up at him. Her face was covered in black slick.
"Can we go now?" she asked.
"We can go now," he agreed. "No more adventure today."
Blue opened the book from his pocket and read a few lines from between
the lines and the message became clear.
And with that, Blue fetched the brass knob from his satchel and pushed
it into the ground. A fine line appeared in the shape of a door, and Blue turned the knob.
With a faint hiss, the door opened, and dirt came free from the edge.
"You first," he said.
Cindy leaped into the opening.
And Blue followed shortly behind.
Silhouetted trees stood out in twigs and sticks,
black and towering against the hillside.
Boy Blue watched
as the Thicket Gores wound
their way up the steep slope
and over until they were out of view.
He could hear their calls in the night,
deep, resonating sounds that made his skin
tingle.
From the satchel at his side,
the one he had taken from grandfather's chest,
he retrieved a length of gold lace, and a piece
of root from a spruce. He tied the lace to the end
of the root and the root grew. The gold lace lengthened.
And of that, Boy Blue was holding a whip with a
fine handle that was sharpened at the base.
Crouching, Blue followed the creatures until he was
at the base of a bluff in the woods. He peaked over
and saw them in the clearing as they danced and sang
terrible tones to the night.
Their bodies were thick tangles of thicket
and thorn, grown in loops and twists where
skeletal joints formed in knots. Torn slats
of bark were fastened at their shoulders and the
knots in the wood were their eyes. The splintered
end of the slat formed a mouth with a root tongue
that darted out like a leech.
A post was placed in the center of the clearing
and a girl was tied to it with strips of bark. A fire
was lit in front of the post, and the girl wailed as the
flames licked up like demonic tongues reaching
for the food they so craved.
Blue reached into his satchel again and removed
a perfume bottle with a wick dangling from its top.
He said a few words and snapped his fingers,
and the wick lit with a pop.
He eyed the creatures in the night and held the bottle
above his shoulder. He pursed his lips and let out a loud
whistle.
The Thicket Gore turned and stared off into the dark.
There were six wavering at attention
as if they could not subdue their dance.
Blue stood tall
and threw the bottle at the feet of the Gore.
An electric light burst when the bottle hit
the damp earth, and the Gore threw up their thicket
arms to shield their slat faces from the light.
But it was too late, and the Thicket Gore began to burn
as the girl screamed from atop the pole.
Their thorn limbs began to unravel and glow like
embers in a fire.
They howled death from their splintery lips and crumbled
to the forest floor.
Blue reached into his satchel and gave a tug. Then another.
Finally, a hose wiggled free, and Blue turned the tip until
a steady rush of water came out. He pointed at the fire
that burned at the base of the pole. The flames coughed out
and there came a sizzle when the embers finally died.
The girl was crying.
Blue took out his army knife and picked a blade and cut the bark rope
that held the girl to the post. Tears stained her face through the
soot that had gathered.
Blue held the girl tight and let her cry.
"It'll be all right," he said.
"They can't hurt you anymore."
"I know," she said with a small nod.
Her face changed suddenly in a mess of running ink
and she was no longer the girl Blue thought he knew.
She wore the eyes of a witch and the deformed grin
of a devilish thing that made Blue step back in fear.
"You have come, Boy Blue," the witch spat.
She floated free from the post. Dirty rags of
a once white dress hung from the wretch, but no legs were
visible from within the gown. Her soot stained hands raised
and a fire caught in the witch's eyes. An electric burn
sparked from her fingertips like severed power lines
dangling from crooked branches. "And now you will die."
As the witch struck out, Blue held his satchel to protect his face,
and when the electric jolt hit, he was sure that he was done for.
Blue felt the impact, and it knocked him backward, but he never
felt the pain. When he finally gained enough courage, he peeked out
through one eye around the pack and saw the witch glare at him in anger.
Scorch marks marred the leather satchel, but nothing more.
Blue reared back the whip with a curl and let loose on the wretch.
With a loud snap, the witch's arm came free and hurled into the saplings
at the edge of the clearing. She let out a shrill scream.
"What have you done with Cindy?!" Blue shouted.
The witch grinned, toothy and fierce. "I ate her all up,"
she cackled.
Blue reared back again and the whip tangled about the witch's
throat. Her eyes bulged, and she let out a faint whimper before
Blue snapped the whip back. With a wet crack, the witch's head came
free. The momentum of the whip tossed the severed head deep into the woods.
And there came nothing more than still silence from the
darkened forest where
Blue stood.
The boy shed a tear for his friend and knelt down on one knee,
bowing his head in remembrance.
The sound of soft coughing, faint but apparent.
Blue tilted his head.
An arm poked out from the witch's neck. Small fingers uncurled
and grasped a wet earth.
Blue looked on in amazement, and opened his knife once more ...
He held Cindy in his arms.
"I couldn't breath in there," she said.
"It's all right now," Blue said softly. "You're safe."
Cindy looked up at him. Her face was covered in black slick.
"Can we go now?" she asked.
"We can go now," he agreed. "No more adventure today."
Blue opened the book from his pocket and read a few lines from between
the lines and the message became clear.
And with that, Blue fetched the brass knob from his satchel and pushed
it into the ground. A fine line appeared in the shape of a door, and Blue turned the knob.
With a faint hiss, the door opened, and dirt came free from the edge.
"You first," he said.
Cindy leaped into the opening.
And Blue followed shortly behind.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
a smile and a wink
i have worked terrible jobs
in horrible places for pathetic pay
without future.
you have too.
we work the hours of the potentially
rich
without
the benefit of reward.
a paycheck?
yeah,
we get one.
what of it?
is it securing a future
for you and your's?
no? well that's what i'm getting at.
you work away the hours, the days,
the weeks, the years, the decades,
and when you're finally done,
there doesn't seem to be enough
to stop.
you're stuck in the dead end. but
there are a few who luck out
and get to do what makes them
happy.
and be sure that those people
are few and far between.
they're a fluke. the rest
of us are so goddamn stuck that
we might as well be working in a
flypaper factory with our assholes
used as glue dispensers.
and it gets worse from then on out.
there's the mortgages and the car
payments, the utility bills, and food.
there's clothes to buy and entertainment
to be had. and maybe you like a drink
every once in a while, or a smoke,
or a toke - whatever your poison,
but there's health insurance to buy
and the kids aren't ready for school,
not the real school where they learn
that they're screwed from the very first
breath they take.
don't even think about
how much you're going
to pay
in taxes!
fuck, it'll make you cry.
so back to your shitty job. we all have them,
every damn one of us,
and they barely pay the bills
and when it's all said and done,
we spend our lives there, making
what we can
and enduring the misery of it all ...
and along comes a smile,
or a wink - even better -
and your day is a bit more endurable
and maybe the dream is real
and you can retire
remembering that wink,
that smile
and it makes the time pass
easy.
then there's the cemetery plot
and the headstone,
and you had better bought yourself some
life insurance or whoever you left
behind
is going to have one hell of a bad time
trying to plant your ass in the dirt.
but there's another smile
and you think that maybe they like you,
maybe it's not all that bad.
and here comes a wink
and you laugh because it's the best thing that's
happened all day.
and your car breaks down
and you shit your pants at work
but they won't let you go home
to change.
you have to keep popping out
those cogs
for the machine that owns you.
when you finally get home, you stink of
a hard days work,
but there's a smile and a wink
waiting for you at the door.
and you get up in the morning to do it
all over again
and hope for another wink
and maybe a smile when the day
has come
to an end
so you can pretend
that it is all worth
the effort.
in horrible places for pathetic pay
without future.
you have too.
we work the hours of the potentially
rich
without
the benefit of reward.
a paycheck?
yeah,
we get one.
what of it?
is it securing a future
for you and your's?
no? well that's what i'm getting at.
you work away the hours, the days,
the weeks, the years, the decades,
and when you're finally done,
there doesn't seem to be enough
to stop.
you're stuck in the dead end. but
there are a few who luck out
and get to do what makes them
happy.
and be sure that those people
are few and far between.
they're a fluke. the rest
of us are so goddamn stuck that
we might as well be working in a
flypaper factory with our assholes
used as glue dispensers.
and it gets worse from then on out.
there's the mortgages and the car
payments, the utility bills, and food.
there's clothes to buy and entertainment
to be had. and maybe you like a drink
every once in a while, or a smoke,
or a toke - whatever your poison,
but there's health insurance to buy
and the kids aren't ready for school,
not the real school where they learn
that they're screwed from the very first
breath they take.
don't even think about
how much you're going
to pay
in taxes!
fuck, it'll make you cry.
so back to your shitty job. we all have them,
every damn one of us,
and they barely pay the bills
and when it's all said and done,
we spend our lives there, making
what we can
and enduring the misery of it all ...
and along comes a smile,
or a wink - even better -
and your day is a bit more endurable
and maybe the dream is real
and you can retire
remembering that wink,
that smile
and it makes the time pass
easy.
then there's the cemetery plot
and the headstone,
and you had better bought yourself some
life insurance or whoever you left
behind
is going to have one hell of a bad time
trying to plant your ass in the dirt.
but there's another smile
and you think that maybe they like you,
maybe it's not all that bad.
and here comes a wink
and you laugh because it's the best thing that's
happened all day.
and your car breaks down
and you shit your pants at work
but they won't let you go home
to change.
you have to keep popping out
those cogs
for the machine that owns you.
when you finally get home, you stink of
a hard days work,
but there's a smile and a wink
waiting for you at the door.
and you get up in the morning to do it
all over again
and hope for another wink
and maybe a smile when the day
has come
to an end
so you can pretend
that it is all worth
the effort.
the wind, the breeze, the air, the need.
the wind howls
from the north,
singing its song of change.
the wind brings
a new air,
warping that which
stands in its path.
the wind whistles
and moans,
overturns the trash
and tramples the dust
inside of the pain.
the wind is nothing but
mind, perceived by a spark,
lit by the hand
who acknowledges it
blowing.
we bring the fire of
our own misery,
shedding skin
after skin
like snakes
biting at the winds
that shift and change
everything over into itself
again and again.
there are a very few
who
break the loop,
and try as hard
as they can
to find need
in the suffering of man.
ask the peaceful.
ask the lovers.
ask the charitable.
ask the wind.
through all of these years,
the wind,
it blows,
again and again.
from the north,
singing its song of change.
the wind brings
a new air,
warping that which
stands in its path.
the wind whistles
and moans,
overturns the trash
and tramples the dust
inside of the pain.
the wind is nothing but
mind, perceived by a spark,
lit by the hand
who acknowledges it
blowing.
we bring the fire of
our own misery,
shedding skin
after skin
like snakes
biting at the winds
that shift and change
everything over into itself
again and again.
there are a very few
who
break the loop,
and try as hard
as they can
to find need
in the suffering of man.
ask the peaceful.
ask the lovers.
ask the charitable.
ask the wind.
through all of these years,
the wind,
it blows,
again and again.
a time has come
where all of the ideas
have been had
and the images we hope
to represent
have been shed
like clothes
when you come in out
of the rain.
the original ideas
have been spent
and all that is left
is the self,
the individual:
independent hopes
and dreams
shuffling off into the shadows
we are but moments
in time,
speaking the same tales
to warn lives of life.
we repeat the same mistakes
like tunes whistled
in the wind,
lost again to the sounds
of our own blowing.
repetition in the face
of reason
for the sake of sounds
sounding in the smoke.
some say
that the world
is becoming a deranged place.
but that is not so.
the world has always been
full of
wickedness and disgrace
with tiny lights of hope
shining
far off into
the darkness;
little flecks of love,
of reasoning,
of potential,
squelched by those
who cannot stand
by and let goodness be.
we have been making war
and hate
since the dawn of man.
we have created death
in the eyes
of imaginary gods
and let ourselves be
the mechanism
by which
the ax falls.
the disfigured acts
for which you see
are nothing new-
war is the same idea we've
always endured.
suffering is our
inheritance.
doom is our clenched fist
striking. child
has always killed child.
man has always beaten
down upon man.
woman has always
defied woman. power
has always led
to the want of more
power.
it is the idea of
survival
above all else.
but there are
more important things
than simply surviving.
and no matter
how many times
we repeat the same ideas,
we are simply mocking
our own deaths,
over and again
'till the end of time.
amen.
have been had
and the images we hope
to represent
have been shed
like clothes
when you come in out
of the rain.
the original ideas
have been spent
and all that is left
is the self,
the individual:
independent hopes
and dreams
shuffling off into the shadows
we are but moments
in time,
speaking the same tales
to warn lives of life.
we repeat the same mistakes
like tunes whistled
in the wind,
lost again to the sounds
of our own blowing.
repetition in the face
of reason
for the sake of sounds
sounding in the smoke.
some say
that the world
is becoming a deranged place.
but that is not so.
the world has always been
full of
wickedness and disgrace
with tiny lights of hope
shining
far off into
the darkness;
little flecks of love,
of reasoning,
of potential,
squelched by those
who cannot stand
by and let goodness be.
we have been making war
and hate
since the dawn of man.
we have created death
in the eyes
of imaginary gods
and let ourselves be
the mechanism
by which
the ax falls.
the disfigured acts
for which you see
are nothing new-
war is the same idea we've
always endured.
suffering is our
inheritance.
doom is our clenched fist
striking. child
has always killed child.
man has always beaten
down upon man.
woman has always
defied woman. power
has always led
to the want of more
power.
it is the idea of
survival
above all else.
but there are
more important things
than simply surviving.
and no matter
how many times
we repeat the same ideas,
we are simply mocking
our own deaths,
over and again
'till the end of time.
amen.
Friday, December 26, 2014
American Screams
old America is dead.
it went the way of
the cowboy.
it went the way
of the middle class.
it drowned on greed.
it starved itself of
its hopes and dreams
and sold its ass
to the highest bidder.
old America
cried itself to sleep
one night,
long ago,
slipped into a coma,
and never awoke.
but we have a
new America
with pretty lights
and flashing screens.
it is owned by
the rich.
no need to worry,
they'll tell you
what they want
you to know.
they will give you
what they feel
you deserve.
they will take away
what they believe
you will not need
for your journey
through the fire.
they will house you
like sardines and
blame it on the cost
of housing.
they will keep your wages
low and blame it on the
lack of economic stability.
they will lower the gas prices
like throwing a bone
to a hungry dog,
and you will eat
what they give you.
they will smile
and say
there is no need
for concern,
you have a new iGadget,
right? that means you're
getting ahead. that means
you're bettering yourself.
don't worry about retirement.
don't worry about the weather.
don't bother yourself
with trivial matters.
and right on the button,
they'll give you another
police shooting to distract you
while they give away your
means
of supporting yourself.
maybe they'll give you
a new Russel Brand
to love for a minute
and hate in the next.
maybe they'll show you
an ethnically diverse candidate
running on Hope and Change
to herd you like cattle
into the voting booth.
but, in the end, they will
only give you
what they want to give you,
and cleverly disguise it
as a choice.
not enough choices?
here's a new type of gun
and they'll call it the tea party
or an independent. that'll get
you moving. that will make up
for the shit they throw on a plate
and call diner.
it went the way of
the cowboy.
it went the way
of the middle class.
it drowned on greed.
it starved itself of
its hopes and dreams
and sold its ass
to the highest bidder.
old America
cried itself to sleep
one night,
long ago,
slipped into a coma,
and never awoke.
but we have a
new America
with pretty lights
and flashing screens.
it is owned by
the rich.
no need to worry,
they'll tell you
what they want
you to know.
they will give you
what they feel
you deserve.
they will take away
what they believe
you will not need
for your journey
through the fire.
they will house you
like sardines and
blame it on the cost
of housing.
they will keep your wages
low and blame it on the
lack of economic stability.
they will lower the gas prices
like throwing a bone
to a hungry dog,
and you will eat
what they give you.
they will smile
and say
there is no need
for concern,
you have a new iGadget,
right? that means you're
getting ahead. that means
you're bettering yourself.
don't worry about retirement.
don't worry about the weather.
don't bother yourself
with trivial matters.
and right on the button,
they'll give you another
police shooting to distract you
while they give away your
means
of supporting yourself.
maybe they'll give you
a new Russel Brand
to love for a minute
and hate in the next.
maybe they'll show you
an ethnically diverse candidate
running on Hope and Change
to herd you like cattle
into the voting booth.
but, in the end, they will
only give you
what they want to give you,
and cleverly disguise it
as a choice.
not enough choices?
here's a new type of gun
and they'll call it the tea party
or an independent. that'll get
you moving. that will make up
for the shit they throw on a plate
and call diner.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
burn away the haze
life is rough going.
you hold on
and do the best
that you can
with what you have.
lives fall out of place;
good lives
and bad lives.
there are times
when there doesn't
seem to be
such a thing as
retribution,
and all the pieces
don't want to line up
the way they're supposed to.
you lose people along the way
and it just makes
the ones who remain
all that more special.
and sometimes
there are so few
special people left
that you feel alone
in the crowd.
simple things
become a burden.
rising from bed
in the morning
is like waging
a war
when you
are the only trooper
left to fight
in the trenches.
in times like these,
you're led to drink
and drugs
or
hurling yourself
in front of a bus.
but it doesn't matter.
you're still here
for whatever reason,
and with a well placed
thought,
the remedy is at hand.
you get on with life
and life gets on with you
and the mysterious thoughts
come and go
like the rain.
but at the end of
every day,
no matter the clouds
in the sky,
the sun must set.
and no matter the fog
that distracts your view,
the very same sun
must come up in the morning
to burn away the haze.
you hold on
and do the best
that you can
with what you have.
lives fall out of place;
good lives
and bad lives.
there are times
when there doesn't
seem to be
such a thing as
retribution,
and all the pieces
don't want to line up
the way they're supposed to.
you lose people along the way
and it just makes
the ones who remain
all that more special.
and sometimes
there are so few
special people left
that you feel alone
in the crowd.
simple things
become a burden.
rising from bed
in the morning
is like waging
a war
when you
are the only trooper
left to fight
in the trenches.
in times like these,
you're led to drink
and drugs
or
hurling yourself
in front of a bus.
but it doesn't matter.
you're still here
for whatever reason,
and with a well placed
thought,
the remedy is at hand.
you get on with life
and life gets on with you
and the mysterious thoughts
come and go
like the rain.
but at the end of
every day,
no matter the clouds
in the sky,
the sun must set.
and no matter the fog
that distracts your view,
the very same sun
must come up in the morning
to burn away the haze.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
the scam of diversion through media
i have a hard time
supporting
protests
related to criminals
being shot
because of perpetrating
violent acts.
you want to protest?
how about we protest
high taxes on the middle class
while the wealthy
pay next to nothing
or
predatory lenders
or
inflated student loans
or
ridiculously low wages
that do not begin to
support
average families.
maybe we should protest
pharmaceuticals,
growth hormones,
homelessness,
health care
and everything
else
before we support
criminals
based on their skin color.
but i'm white
so that makes me
racists by default,
right?
or maybe it doesn't.
perhaps
i know people
of all races
that are trying to
get by
in an
America
that has gone loony
because of a media corrupted
by the billionaires
who own them.
and all they're trying to do
is divert your
attention long enough
so you don't realize
you're being
played like a fucking puppet.
but keep your eye
trained on the
police against race
soundbite
so they can throw in
a few new amendments
to a bill
that would enable
them to rob
what's left of
the working class.
keep your
attention diverted,
America,
Russia,
Great Britain,
China,
the World
so they can run you over
and take what little
you have left.
supporting
protests
related to criminals
being shot
because of perpetrating
violent acts.
you want to protest?
how about we protest
high taxes on the middle class
while the wealthy
pay next to nothing
or
predatory lenders
or
inflated student loans
or
ridiculously low wages
that do not begin to
support
average families.
maybe we should protest
pharmaceuticals,
growth hormones,
homelessness,
health care
and everything
else
before we support
criminals
based on their skin color.
but i'm white
so that makes me
racists by default,
right?
or maybe it doesn't.
perhaps
i know people
of all races
that are trying to
get by
in an
America
that has gone loony
because of a media corrupted
by the billionaires
who own them.
and all they're trying to do
is divert your
attention long enough
so you don't realize
you're being
played like a fucking puppet.
but keep your eye
trained on the
police against race
soundbite
so they can throw in
a few new amendments
to a bill
that would enable
them to rob
what's left of
the working class.
keep your
attention diverted,
America,
Russia,
Great Britain,
China,
the World
so they can run you over
and take what little
you have left.
Monday, December 22, 2014
the season begs the question
if we held the
conventional idea
of God to the same
standards as we hold
the rest of humanity,
that motherfucker
would be serving
eleven hundred
consecutive
life sentences
in the highest
security prison
we have available.
and this is why
i do not understand
why
we can not put away
childish things.
no matter the
denomination,
no matter the
perspective,
the lessons
become washed
away
by the actions
of unjust religions.
it begins to look
like children
throwing tantrums,
or governments
slap fighting
on the playground.
someone justifies
murder in the
name of the Lord.
someone rapes
with Christ like
intention.
someone uses
their God
to behead
idiots abroad.
and yet
we squabble
over a few verses
written
by madmen
a couple dozen
centuries ago.
but the fuck
if we can reduce
poverty,
or instill
an educational system
that benefits
the very social structure
we have worked
for
for countless generations.
and God forbid
if we can acknowledge
equality to the whole
for what it actually
symbolizes
by definition
without granting
more rights
to one class over
another.
we are hoodwinked
into whatever
the popular soundbite
of the day becomes
to distract us
from actual issues,
under the guise
of morality
through
scripture.
and it begs the
question:
what is our purpose?
so many lies
are told
by the ones
we elect into
positions of power
that the truth
has become jumbled.
the difference
between right and wrong
is a matter
of freedom of choice,
and the ability
to make those choices
without fear
of reprisal.
conventional idea
of God to the same
standards as we hold
the rest of humanity,
that motherfucker
would be serving
eleven hundred
consecutive
life sentences
in the highest
security prison
we have available.
and this is why
i do not understand
why
we can not put away
childish things.
no matter the
denomination,
no matter the
perspective,
the lessons
become washed
away
by the actions
of unjust religions.
it begins to look
like children
throwing tantrums,
or governments
slap fighting
on the playground.
someone justifies
murder in the
name of the Lord.
someone rapes
with Christ like
intention.
someone uses
their God
to behead
idiots abroad.
and yet
we squabble
over a few verses
written
by madmen
a couple dozen
centuries ago.
but the fuck
if we can reduce
poverty,
or instill
an educational system
that benefits
the very social structure
we have worked
for
for countless generations.
and God forbid
if we can acknowledge
equality to the whole
for what it actually
symbolizes
by definition
without granting
more rights
to one class over
another.
we are hoodwinked
into whatever
the popular soundbite
of the day becomes
to distract us
from actual issues,
under the guise
of morality
through
scripture.
and it begs the
question:
what is our purpose?
so many lies
are told
by the ones
we elect into
positions of power
that the truth
has become jumbled.
the difference
between right and wrong
is a matter
of freedom of choice,
and the ability
to make those choices
without fear
of reprisal.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
bird authority in the dark
Halloween night,
and i was seventeen.
Jeremy and i were
loaded and driving through
town in his civic hatch
singing along
to The Doors.
there was a car
behind us
with its brights on,
glaring through the rear window.
i flipped the car the bird
and we laughed.
then the red and blue lights flashed.
i hid my knife under the seat
and Jeremy crotched the pot.
he pulled over
and the cop
made me get out of the car.
he yelled at me for
a few minutes
before asking why
i had flipped him off.
"i thought you were
some asshole," i said.
"i could have been some crazy guy,"
he replied.
"you could have been," i said. "but turns out
you were a cop."
he finally
apologized for flashing
his brights at us,
and i told him i was sorry
for flipping him off.
we shook hands
and he let us go.
no one got shot.
hell, he didn't even write us a ticket.
Jeremy packed a bowl,
and we smoked it down
as we left town
on the far east side towards his
house.
"you flipped off a cop," he laughed.
i took the knife from
under the seat
and put it back in my pocket.
and i was seventeen.
Jeremy and i were
loaded and driving through
town in his civic hatch
singing along
to The Doors.
there was a car
behind us
with its brights on,
glaring through the rear window.
i flipped the car the bird
and we laughed.
then the red and blue lights flashed.
i hid my knife under the seat
and Jeremy crotched the pot.
he pulled over
and the cop
made me get out of the car.
he yelled at me for
a few minutes
before asking why
i had flipped him off.
"i thought you were
some asshole," i said.
"i could have been some crazy guy,"
he replied.
"you could have been," i said. "but turns out
you were a cop."
he finally
apologized for flashing
his brights at us,
and i told him i was sorry
for flipping him off.
we shook hands
and he let us go.
no one got shot.
hell, he didn't even write us a ticket.
Jeremy packed a bowl,
and we smoked it down
as we left town
on the far east side towards his
house.
"you flipped off a cop," he laughed.
i took the knife from
under the seat
and put it back in my pocket.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
shred the guitar like a heart made of roses
they were my first roommates
in Minneapolis.
i had known Jerome for a few
years. we smoked
pot together
and tripped on how
fantastic
it was
to be young.
the guy could shred a guitar,
make it do things
i had only heard
on records.
he got this pretty girl
to live with him
and me.
she was all smiles
and her name was Joy.
over the time we lived
together
we became friends.
we burned a few bowls,
drank some wine,
and read our sappy
kids poems to one another
while sitting cross legged
on the floor.
as jealous as Jerome was,
he never accused
us of anything other than
being friends.
which was good
because that's all we ever were.
Joy cheated on him
and they broke up.
worst was that she
slept with one of our friends
that i would have never
expected
to pull something like that.
you never really know
someone until they
break your heart.
last i heard,
Jerome went off
and became
a prostitute.
it was a bold and sudden
move ranked as high
as shitting on the hood
of your own car.
Joy only made it a year
or so with our mutual friend.
i never spoke to
either one of them again,
but through friends,
i knew what was happening.
i never got to
say goodbye to my youth
and neither did they.
we just grew up
and grew away
from our innocence
like it was something
that could be shed
through the skin
and tossed out
with teddy bears
and old baseball cards,
comic books
and music boxes.
you never get to say
goodbye
to your first love
because it ends
so badly
and sometimes
some asshole
with a keyboard
has to write up
a poem
to make you remember
it ever happened.
in Minneapolis.
i had known Jerome for a few
years. we smoked
pot together
and tripped on how
fantastic
it was
to be young.
the guy could shred a guitar,
make it do things
i had only heard
on records.
he got this pretty girl
to live with him
and me.
she was all smiles
and her name was Joy.
over the time we lived
together
we became friends.
we burned a few bowls,
drank some wine,
and read our sappy
kids poems to one another
while sitting cross legged
on the floor.
as jealous as Jerome was,
he never accused
us of anything other than
being friends.
which was good
because that's all we ever were.
Joy cheated on him
and they broke up.
worst was that she
slept with one of our friends
that i would have never
expected
to pull something like that.
you never really know
someone until they
break your heart.
last i heard,
Jerome went off
and became
a prostitute.
it was a bold and sudden
move ranked as high
as shitting on the hood
of your own car.
Joy only made it a year
or so with our mutual friend.
i never spoke to
either one of them again,
but through friends,
i knew what was happening.
i never got to
say goodbye to my youth
and neither did they.
we just grew up
and grew away
from our innocence
like it was something
that could be shed
through the skin
and tossed out
with teddy bears
and old baseball cards,
comic books
and music boxes.
you never get to say
goodbye
to your first love
because it ends
so badly
and sometimes
some asshole
with a keyboard
has to write up
a poem
to make you remember
it ever happened.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
A Simple Print
The vision is over in a few
minutes, and
he is left there
wondering what it was
that he just saw.
He remembers the woman clearly:
a flower printed dress, the colors faded
almost like autumn, mostly white,
but for the tiny flowers...
He takes his drawing pad and
sketches the flower he saw.
Light yellow,
like fabric stained with age
rather than an actual hue
that could be traced on paper.
From the bedroom window
he can see the bright and livid
Spring day leak through. If
love had a face, this is what it might
look like.
Once he has the flower
drawn, he turns over the paper
and looks at it from different
angles where the sun
shines through. Whatever way it's turns,
it looks the same. It's simple. It's quiet.
It reflects the print on the woman's
dress perfectly. "But who was she?"
he asks.
There was a part of her
that reminded him of himself,
a twinkle of her eye, or perhaps
it was just a glint. Either way,
he could sense a small part of himself
in her.
"Tomorrow, the vision will
be stronger. I will think more on it
then," he says.
And the morning came
from dreamland night
like a wink in time
until the dawning light
drew rays across his room
far too soon
for a boy his age.
He took
the book
from atop the dresser
and read of the woman
who had the print of a flower
upon her dress,
and began to wonder
what her eyes would say
if he should lay
his hand upon the page
in the very same way
before he had drawn its image
the night before.
Her face came to mind
and he traced the lines
until it rhymed with
the sketch of the flower
on the previous page.
It wouldn't reveal
her age
or who she had been
by the description given
no matter how many times
he reread the lines
that described her so eloquently.
"Maybe she's timeless," he says
with a grin
and began to bend
paper to pen
and found
the woman
once again
with eyes of sparkling ice
and a kiss of darkest night
trapped upon the paper
where he drew her.
minutes, and
he is left there
wondering what it was
that he just saw.
He remembers the woman clearly:
a flower printed dress, the colors faded
almost like autumn, mostly white,
but for the tiny flowers...
He takes his drawing pad and
sketches the flower he saw.
Light yellow,
like fabric stained with age
rather than an actual hue
that could be traced on paper.
From the bedroom window
he can see the bright and livid
Spring day leak through. If
love had a face, this is what it might
look like.
Once he has the flower
drawn, he turns over the paper
and looks at it from different
angles where the sun
shines through. Whatever way it's turns,
it looks the same. It's simple. It's quiet.
It reflects the print on the woman's
dress perfectly. "But who was she?"
he asks.
There was a part of her
that reminded him of himself,
a twinkle of her eye, or perhaps
it was just a glint. Either way,
he could sense a small part of himself
in her.
"Tomorrow, the vision will
be stronger. I will think more on it
then," he says.
And the morning came
from dreamland night
like a wink in time
until the dawning light
drew rays across his room
far too soon
for a boy his age.
He took
the book
from atop the dresser
and read of the woman
who had the print of a flower
upon her dress,
and began to wonder
what her eyes would say
if he should lay
his hand upon the page
in the very same way
before he had drawn its image
the night before.
Her face came to mind
and he traced the lines
until it rhymed with
the sketch of the flower
on the previous page.
It wouldn't reveal
her age
or who she had been
by the description given
no matter how many times
he reread the lines
that described her so eloquently.
"Maybe she's timeless," he says
with a grin
and began to bend
paper to pen
and found
the woman
once again
with eyes of sparkling ice
and a kiss of darkest night
trapped upon the paper
where he drew her.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
slowly shudders her name
her hand in mine
and everything is the way it should be
there is light
and there is darkness,
but we overcome them
together, her and i
her heart
and my heart
are much
the same
she does her part
and i do mine
and we give love
a proper name
her reflection
is in my eyes
and my mirror
is her own
through shining days
and troubled nights,
the feeling has simply grown
like the petals of a flower,
slowly unfolding
so has become our time together
as we strip away the layers
of one another
and each day
something new
becomes told,
in each caress and lingering touch,
the story slowly unfolds
and how any other day
wouldn't shine so brightly
without her here
holding me tightly
with the flicker of candles
dancing shadows across the hall
from the door where we share
our passions
enthralled
if ever sleep shall take me away
let this moment last forever
should i not see the dawn of day
through peeking window
clouded in stormy weather-
and held in her arms
till
the last breath of me
surrenders
and the last beat of my heart
slowly shudders
her name
in hushing whispers
and everything is the way it should be
there is light
and there is darkness,
but we overcome them
together, her and i
her heart
and my heart
are much
the same
she does her part
and i do mine
and we give love
a proper name
her reflection
is in my eyes
and my mirror
is her own
through shining days
and troubled nights,
the feeling has simply grown
like the petals of a flower,
slowly unfolding
so has become our time together
as we strip away the layers
of one another
and each day
something new
becomes told,
in each caress and lingering touch,
the story slowly unfolds
and how any other day
wouldn't shine so brightly
without her here
holding me tightly
with the flicker of candles
dancing shadows across the hall
from the door where we share
our passions
enthralled
if ever sleep shall take me away
let this moment last forever
should i not see the dawn of day
through peeking window
clouded in stormy weather-
and held in her arms
till
the last breath of me
surrenders
and the last beat of my heart
slowly shudders
her name
in hushing whispers
hold the fire
the fire is placed
in the hands
and brought to the pit
where the ashes rest
in silence.
the ashes ignite,
and the hands
are cooled
with water,
the same water that
flows from the river.
the river is west
where the sun slumbers.
the heart of the world
is in the sun,
and it never stops beating.
the beating is like a drum
struck by the hands
who held the fire
to ignite the ashes
which are cooled
by the water
from the river
in the west
where the sun slumbers.
feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums
struck by the hands
who held the fire.
the dirt is of ash
which was ignited
with the fire
held by the hands
that beat the drums.
the fire is
in the pit
where
the feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums.
shouts call
from the throats
of those who dance
like battle cries
to the sun that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that quenches the hands
who held the fire.
the earth shakes
to the stomping feet
and beating drums
that are a call
to the heart that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that cools the hands
that held the fire
which ignited the ashes.
we are the heart
that held the hand
who holds the fire,
and beat at the drums
which began the dance
for the sun that slumbers
in us all
for silence,
for that which
placed the fire
in the hands
and began it all anew.
in the hands
and brought to the pit
where the ashes rest
in silence.
the ashes ignite,
and the hands
are cooled
with water,
the same water that
flows from the river.
the river is west
where the sun slumbers.
the heart of the world
is in the sun,
and it never stops beating.
the beating is like a drum
struck by the hands
who held the fire
to ignite the ashes
which are cooled
by the water
from the river
in the west
where the sun slumbers.
feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums
struck by the hands
who held the fire.
the dirt is of ash
which was ignited
with the fire
held by the hands
that beat the drums.
the fire is
in the pit
where
the feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums.
shouts call
from the throats
of those who dance
like battle cries
to the sun that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that quenches the hands
who held the fire.
the earth shakes
to the stomping feet
and beating drums
that are a call
to the heart that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that cools the hands
that held the fire
which ignited the ashes.
we are the heart
that held the hand
who holds the fire,
and beat at the drums
which began the dance
for the sun that slumbers
in us all
for silence,
for that which
placed the fire
in the hands
and began it all anew.
abide the times and protest when you're told
there are good people
and there are bad people.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all criminals are poor.
not all wealthy people
are law abiding.
there are some people
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some people
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
sometimes there are clouds
in the sky,
but they don't always make
rain.
you can set a fire
without burning down
the city.
you can take a drink
of water
without drowning.
there are good law enforcement officers
and there are bad law enforcement officers.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all law enforcement officers are bad.
not all law enforcement officers
are law abiding.
there are some law enforcement officers
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some law enforcement officers
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
when there are clouds in the sky,
it doesn't always mean
rain.
a spark does not always
constitute a fire.
a body of water
doesn't necessarily mean
there is a body in the water.
and there are bad people.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all criminals are poor.
not all wealthy people
are law abiding.
there are some people
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some people
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
sometimes there are clouds
in the sky,
but they don't always make
rain.
you can set a fire
without burning down
the city.
you can take a drink
of water
without drowning.
there are good law enforcement officers
and there are bad law enforcement officers.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all law enforcement officers are bad.
not all law enforcement officers
are law abiding.
there are some law enforcement officers
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some law enforcement officers
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
when there are clouds in the sky,
it doesn't always mean
rain.
a spark does not always
constitute a fire.
a body of water
doesn't necessarily mean
there is a body in the water.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
the regulation of consumption
build the bridges
to bind us,
to find us
another
leader
of the sympathetic
mind
and gather the pieces
like pawns
in the fatality
of the game
and be shamed
by the trials
set forth
for value
and worth.
if ignorance
is bliss,
then wealth
is the catalyst
by which we shall
all be burned.
through it all,
we have never learned
from our mistakes
and we continue to take
any and everything-
for our wants
are at stake.
and what we have
isn't nearly as great
as what we take
when all that we
possess
is valued to be
less
than what we want
in the future.
give us new toys
to destroy
the fabric
of the value of life
so we may continue
in strife
at any cost
for all the products
before they are lost
and out of date
because we hate
to lose out
on perfectly good
junk.
to bind us,
to find us
another
leader
of the sympathetic
mind
and gather the pieces
like pawns
in the fatality
of the game
and be shamed
by the trials
set forth
for value
and worth.
if ignorance
is bliss,
then wealth
is the catalyst
by which we shall
all be burned.
through it all,
we have never learned
from our mistakes
and we continue to take
any and everything-
for our wants
are at stake.
and what we have
isn't nearly as great
as what we take
when all that we
possess
is valued to be
less
than what we want
in the future.
give us new toys
to destroy
the fabric
of the value of life
so we may continue
in strife
at any cost
for all the products
before they are lost
and out of date
because we hate
to lose out
on perfectly good
junk.
Monday, December 8, 2014
in the congregation of the flesh
under the fire
burns the sun
tilting away
from the edge
of nothingness,
singularly
like a rapture
in the eyes
of the beholden.
a glass black
thickness
ruptured at
the center
of the mind,
behind the
leaning sun
where thoughts
no longer grease
the consciousness.
held tight to
the chest
as penance
to the preacher
filled with lies,
disguised
as another
member
of the
flock.
damn us
in our time
of need and feed
on the fatal
flesh
of the fermented
followers,
always giving,
always judging,
always and forever
numb to the necessities
of the living dead,
bound by tribulation
and tears.
only the righteous
can be saved,
and i see no one
of worth
in the congregation.
burns the sun
tilting away
from the edge
of nothingness,
singularly
like a rapture
in the eyes
of the beholden.
a glass black
thickness
ruptured at
the center
of the mind,
behind the
leaning sun
where thoughts
no longer grease
the consciousness.
held tight to
the chest
as penance
to the preacher
filled with lies,
disguised
as another
member
of the
flock.
damn us
in our time
of need and feed
on the fatal
flesh
of the fermented
followers,
always giving,
always judging,
always and forever
numb to the necessities
of the living dead,
bound by tribulation
and tears.
only the righteous
can be saved,
and i see no one
of worth
in the congregation.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
http://www.amazon.com/Waiting-Die-~-Zombie-Novel-ebook/dp/B009KPQBOU/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_3
Waiting to die is free for a limited time. Happy Holidays from Richard M. Cochran!
Waiting to die is free for a limited time. Happy Holidays from Richard M. Cochran!
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Tristan's Adventure ~
My nephews were running,
playing, laughing,
having fun
when Tristan suddenly yells,
"Poop!"
"Do you have to poop?" my
wife asks.
"I already did!" he shouts,
and takes off up the path that
leads around Tom Sawyer's
Island at Disneyland toward
the bathrooms.
I break out into a sprint
and follow the boy.
He overshoots the trail
that leads to the bathroom by
twenty feet.
"Tristan!" I yell.
He looks back at me with a wide
eyed expression somewhere
between surprise and desperation.
I point up toward the bathrooms.
"They're up there," I say.
He makes a quick recovery
and launches himself at the stairs.
He's taking two steps at a time
which is pretty impressive
because his legs aren't nearly long
enough to take one step at a time.
I finally catch up to him at the landing
to the bathrooms and notice
an expression of indecision as he
carefully acknowledges each of
the three bathrooms
(men's, women's, and handicap accessible).
The only one that's not in use is the
women's room.
He looks back at me for some type
of higher wisdom.
"Go for it," I say.
He scurries into the women's room
and promptly drops his pants.
I say, "Dude, close the door."
By this time, my wife has finally made
the half mile trek with the other kids.
"Did you get him on the toilet?" she asks.
"No," I reply, "it looked like he was doing
okay by himself."
"He can't get up on the toilet
alone," she says.
"How would I know, did you see the way
he took those stairs?"
My wife goes in and helps Tristan
while the rest of us wait
on the landing. A few minutes go
by and my wife emerges.
"Did he make it?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says, "he just pooped a little in
his pants. When he was laughing, he must have
farted and some came out."
I laugh, not because it's funny,
but because we just sidestepped
a particularly bad Disneyland outing.
Five minutes go by and I ask, "Do you
think he's alright?"
My wife goes in and checks. When she
comes out, she says, "He's still going."
After another five minutes, she checks on him
again. "Still going."
"How much can he have in there?" I ask,
"He's not even three feet tall!"
"You see how much he eats, right?"
Earlier, he had taken out three
pieces of chicken and some
chocolate milk.
I nod. "Yeah," I say.
"Just give him some time," she says.
Another five minutes or so and
Tristan comes out with
a grin so big you can actually see
the empty spot the poop left
behind.
In a flash, the boy's gone, navigating
trails,
and generally roughhousing with
his brother.
My wife and I are left there
to inspect the fallout
left behind.
It looks like a small war
had been fought and won
in that women's room,
a war only a three foot tall
boy could insight
with the help of three pieces of
chicken and some
chocolate milk.
playing, laughing,
having fun
when Tristan suddenly yells,
"Poop!"
"Do you have to poop?" my
wife asks.
"I already did!" he shouts,
and takes off up the path that
leads around Tom Sawyer's
Island at Disneyland toward
the bathrooms.
I break out into a sprint
and follow the boy.
He overshoots the trail
that leads to the bathroom by
twenty feet.
"Tristan!" I yell.
He looks back at me with a wide
eyed expression somewhere
between surprise and desperation.
I point up toward the bathrooms.
"They're up there," I say.
He makes a quick recovery
and launches himself at the stairs.
He's taking two steps at a time
which is pretty impressive
because his legs aren't nearly long
enough to take one step at a time.
I finally catch up to him at the landing
to the bathrooms and notice
an expression of indecision as he
carefully acknowledges each of
the three bathrooms
(men's, women's, and handicap accessible).
The only one that's not in use is the
women's room.
He looks back at me for some type
of higher wisdom.
"Go for it," I say.
He scurries into the women's room
and promptly drops his pants.
I say, "Dude, close the door."
By this time, my wife has finally made
the half mile trek with the other kids.
"Did you get him on the toilet?" she asks.
"No," I reply, "it looked like he was doing
okay by himself."
"He can't get up on the toilet
alone," she says.
"How would I know, did you see the way
he took those stairs?"
My wife goes in and helps Tristan
while the rest of us wait
on the landing. A few minutes go
by and my wife emerges.
"Did he make it?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says, "he just pooped a little in
his pants. When he was laughing, he must have
farted and some came out."
I laugh, not because it's funny,
but because we just sidestepped
a particularly bad Disneyland outing.
Five minutes go by and I ask, "Do you
think he's alright?"
My wife goes in and checks. When she
comes out, she says, "He's still going."
After another five minutes, she checks on him
again. "Still going."
"How much can he have in there?" I ask,
"He's not even three feet tall!"
"You see how much he eats, right?"
Earlier, he had taken out three
pieces of chicken and some
chocolate milk.
I nod. "Yeah," I say.
"Just give him some time," she says.
Another five minutes or so and
Tristan comes out with
a grin so big you can actually see
the empty spot the poop left
behind.
In a flash, the boy's gone, navigating
trails,
and generally roughhousing with
his brother.
My wife and I are left there
to inspect the fallout
left behind.
It looks like a small war
had been fought and won
in that women's room,
a war only a three foot tall
boy could insight
with the help of three pieces of
chicken and some
chocolate milk.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
again from the start
i want
i'm running
the air is thin
so far down here
over us
is under, beneath us forever
between the ether
we're drowning
so far down here
shallow
it hurts inside
crawling
in under
to end up so high
come here and dream
of perfect beings
the art of needing
what we already have
welcome to the journey neverending
welcome to the end, the start of a new beginning
i'm running
the air is thin
so far down here
over us
is under, beneath us forever
between the ether
we're drowning
so far down here
shallow
it hurts inside
crawling
in under
to end up so high
come here and dream
of perfect beings
the art of needing
what we already have
welcome to the journey neverending
welcome to the end, the start of a new beginning
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
giving in
does it make you wet,
the way it moves,
how it soothes
the beast
inside of you?
the broken flower
that meant so much,
who was in touch,
but it was never
quite enough.
someone
who craved for
something more
to adore
when the nighttime
bore down
upon the trembling
ground
and forced
an incredible sound
from the core
like a war
waged within,
battling for something
more
than simply sin.
it was easy when
life didn't seem
so troubled
before the heat
in you doubled
and the warm wet
of you bubbled
and frothed
before you felt
so lost.
and you decided at
any cost
you would
find those lines
you've crossed
and toss
caution to the wind
and embrace the sin
you have craved
like a white flag
waved in the face
of desire
when you finally
gave in
to the temptation
within.
but now
that feeling is gone
and you wonder
if you were wrong
for singing the song
of love lost for so long.
there is a throbbing
in your heart
from where it all
fell apart,
but you know
you can start
anew.
the way it moves,
how it soothes
the beast
inside of you?
the broken flower
that meant so much,
who was in touch,
but it was never
quite enough.
someone
who craved for
something more
to adore
when the nighttime
bore down
upon the trembling
ground
and forced
an incredible sound
from the core
like a war
waged within,
battling for something
more
than simply sin.
it was easy when
life didn't seem
so troubled
before the heat
in you doubled
and the warm wet
of you bubbled
and frothed
before you felt
so lost.
and you decided at
any cost
you would
find those lines
you've crossed
and toss
caution to the wind
and embrace the sin
you have craved
like a white flag
waved in the face
of desire
when you finally
gave in
to the temptation
within.
but now
that feeling is gone
and you wonder
if you were wrong
for singing the song
of love lost for so long.
there is a throbbing
in your heart
from where it all
fell apart,
but you know
you can start
anew.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
want and need
we are so much more
than godlessness.
we are the core root
of the god we envision,
and through that vision,
we project our divinity on
others,
expanding upon personal
belief
systems composed of our
own experiences.
with or without godliness,
or a primal concept of
an energy, or consciousness
that somehow governs matter
and that which we cannot yet
gather into an intellectual structure
where we can grasp a particular
understanding of something
bigger than ourselves.
we must alter our consciousness
to move on and expand
upon our own experiences.
it's a form of hunger
that we need to quench
with self exploration,
grasping such things
as soul and spirit and
internal justification.
what is your purpose?
what is the purpose
of our nature?
where must we go?
with whom must we travel?
we go on into an interdependence
with all other living beings
to nurture a higher form
of thought,
of perception,
and evolution.
we are fundamental
to our own development.
we are solely responsible
for our own evolutionary process.
we are the link
between
spirit and form.
when we fight
and restrict ourselves,
we essentially restrict
the progress of entire generations
with our lackluster thoughts
on spirit and soul.
we inhibit the growth
of entire cultures.
and this is why we must
let go of want
in order to expose
that which we need.
than godlessness.
we are the core root
of the god we envision,
and through that vision,
we project our divinity on
others,
expanding upon personal
belief
systems composed of our
own experiences.
with or without godliness,
or a primal concept of
an energy, or consciousness
that somehow governs matter
and that which we cannot yet
gather into an intellectual structure
where we can grasp a particular
understanding of something
bigger than ourselves.
we must alter our consciousness
to move on and expand
upon our own experiences.
it's a form of hunger
that we need to quench
with self exploration,
grasping such things
as soul and spirit and
internal justification.
what is your purpose?
what is the purpose
of our nature?
where must we go?
with whom must we travel?
we go on into an interdependence
with all other living beings
to nurture a higher form
of thought,
of perception,
and evolution.
we are fundamental
to our own development.
we are solely responsible
for our own evolutionary process.
we are the link
between
spirit and form.
when we fight
and restrict ourselves,
we essentially restrict
the progress of entire generations
with our lackluster thoughts
on spirit and soul.
we inhibit the growth
of entire cultures.
and this is why we must
let go of want
in order to expose
that which we need.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
the human in me
you'll never hear
someone say
on their deathbed
that they didn't
spend enough time
at work
or paying more
taxes
or stressing
about the little things
in life that
cause the heart to beat
faster with fear
and anxiety.
what you will hear
is they wish they had
loved more,
spent more time with family,
let go of their inhibitions,
evolved and experienced
existence as it should be:
freely.
so what are we doing here?
what is this for?
maybe we should concern
ourselves with getting past
ourselves rather than
impeding the progress of others.
maybe we should learn to dig
the essence of existence.
maybe we should put
childish things aside
and grow the fuck up.
we need more
dirty hippie talk
and less contrived ideas
to hold back progress for
religion and money,
for corporations
and politicians,
for economic advancement
and monetary gain.
we need the human experience.
someone say
on their deathbed
that they didn't
spend enough time
at work
or paying more
taxes
or stressing
about the little things
in life that
cause the heart to beat
faster with fear
and anxiety.
what you will hear
is they wish they had
loved more,
spent more time with family,
let go of their inhibitions,
evolved and experienced
existence as it should be:
freely.
so what are we doing here?
what is this for?
maybe we should concern
ourselves with getting past
ourselves rather than
impeding the progress of others.
maybe we should learn to dig
the essence of existence.
maybe we should put
childish things aside
and grow the fuck up.
we need more
dirty hippie talk
and less contrived ideas
to hold back progress for
religion and money,
for corporations
and politicians,
for economic advancement
and monetary gain.
we need the human experience.
Friday, November 28, 2014
sell us some truth
Left wing
Right wing
same thing;
choose your state of
execution.
redundancy.
complacency.
what we have is
a system of
the distant elite
painting targets
on those who have been
marked since birth,
a working class
without enough class
to be considered relevant.
we don't have to make a
decision,
the decision has been made
for us, an incision in just the right place,
and if the news is slow, they'll blame it on race
or guns or abortion or the music of the generations
that's caused the politicians
to put labels on music
on art to make sure
what you're seeing isn't against their
particular agenda.
welcome to America.
we've already been sold out.
Right wing
same thing;
choose your state of
execution.
redundancy.
complacency.
what we have is
a system of
the distant elite
painting targets
on those who have been
marked since birth,
a working class
without enough class
to be considered relevant.
we don't have to make a
decision,
the decision has been made
for us, an incision in just the right place,
and if the news is slow, they'll blame it on race
or guns or abortion or the music of the generations
that's caused the politicians
to put labels on music
on art to make sure
what you're seeing isn't against their
particular agenda.
welcome to America.
we've already been sold out.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
shoot, stab, and destroy.
people are fatal.
they hold guns.
they cradle guns.
they become trapped
in cowboy images
wrapped up in a time
unlike our own.
they fit every round
in the clip
and secure it
into the weapon.
they become bound
by the idea
that they are not fatal.
they are impartial to
intention.
the trigger is cold.
the flash is bright.
under it all
there is only death.
people in other countries
do not have access to guns.
they stab
with the knife,
they slash
with the ax.
they blow each other
up
with bombs
and yet the war goes on.
that's why we should
all move
to the moon where
there aren't weapons yet.
maybe we can have a few minutes
before someone
starts throwing stones.
they hold guns.
they cradle guns.
they become trapped
in cowboy images
wrapped up in a time
unlike our own.
they fit every round
in the clip
and secure it
into the weapon.
they become bound
by the idea
that they are not fatal.
they are impartial to
intention.
the trigger is cold.
the flash is bright.
under it all
there is only death.
people in other countries
do not have access to guns.
they stab
with the knife,
they slash
with the ax.
they blow each other
up
with bombs
and yet the war goes on.
that's why we should
all move
to the moon where
there aren't weapons yet.
maybe we can have a few minutes
before someone
starts throwing stones.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
pretend you're rich
i'm confronted by
beautiful people every day.
they wear lipstick
and dress in the latest
fashions
from China.
their cars cost more
per month
than their rent.
they put on a good face
and emulate the wealth
that they seek.
they
piss and shit
just like everyone else,
but somehow believe
they are above the rest.
in the back of their minds,
they are always fantasizing
about the day their ship comes in
and they can finally afford
to truly live.
it will happen
one day
out of the blue;
a million dollars
will suddenly shoot
out of their asses,
and won't the rest of us
be sorry for not giving
a shit?
beautiful people every day.
they wear lipstick
and dress in the latest
fashions
from China.
their cars cost more
per month
than their rent.
they put on a good face
and emulate the wealth
that they seek.
they
piss and shit
just like everyone else,
but somehow believe
they are above the rest.
in the back of their minds,
they are always fantasizing
about the day their ship comes in
and they can finally afford
to truly live.
it will happen
one day
out of the blue;
a million dollars
will suddenly shoot
out of their asses,
and won't the rest of us
be sorry for not giving
a shit?
touch faith
fuck the preachers
and the soothsayers.
fuck those who prey
on the weak,
the gullible,
the fearful masses
with religion
and tithing.
the more you give
to build the next
mega-church,
the easier it will be
for you
to properly repent.
a church is a business,
plain and simple.
its very construction lends
to the idea of capitalism,
but without all the messy taxes.
the only thing a church
has to do with faith
depends upon the
preacher man's ability
to sell you the need
to part with your money.
cults do the same thing
but with less doctrine.
it's so funny to see
all of the bumper stickers,
like little badges for Jesus,
proclaiming their paid for
place at the pearly gates.
it's even funnier to see
those same people
throwing around judgement,
contempt,
and superiority
for the Lord.
but the funniest thing
is that it is all based
on their fear of what
happens
when the lights go out.
faith and religion have their place,
and it is totally fine if
it isn't used for greed,
for electing political officials,
for proclaiming your superiority
over everyone else.
but it never stops at personal
proclamations. it continues
to build until
you want everyone else
saved from themselves
in the same way it saved
you from yourself.
however,
some people read more
than just one book,
some read entire libraries
of information
that completely contradict
the very nature
of your professed truth,
some people want more
than just a story;
they want something tangible,
something that will actually
help the world
for the sake of all people,
not just a few who have brainwashed themselves
into believing they are more
chosen
than the next guy.
and the soothsayers.
fuck those who prey
on the weak,
the gullible,
the fearful masses
with religion
and tithing.
the more you give
to build the next
mega-church,
the easier it will be
for you
to properly repent.
a church is a business,
plain and simple.
its very construction lends
to the idea of capitalism,
but without all the messy taxes.
the only thing a church
has to do with faith
depends upon the
preacher man's ability
to sell you the need
to part with your money.
cults do the same thing
but with less doctrine.
it's so funny to see
all of the bumper stickers,
like little badges for Jesus,
proclaiming their paid for
place at the pearly gates.
it's even funnier to see
those same people
throwing around judgement,
contempt,
and superiority
for the Lord.
but the funniest thing
is that it is all based
on their fear of what
happens
when the lights go out.
faith and religion have their place,
and it is totally fine if
it isn't used for greed,
for electing political officials,
for proclaiming your superiority
over everyone else.
but it never stops at personal
proclamations. it continues
to build until
you want everyone else
saved from themselves
in the same way it saved
you from yourself.
however,
some people read more
than just one book,
some read entire libraries
of information
that completely contradict
the very nature
of your professed truth,
some people want more
than just a story;
they want something tangible,
something that will actually
help the world
for the sake of all people,
not just a few who have brainwashed themselves
into believing they are more
chosen
than the next guy.
Monday, November 24, 2014
start a fire
the stars break
in your eyes
so often
it has been
suggested
that you may
be
c o s m i c
tiny particles of
light,
dancing through
the atmosphere,
gathering
in form,
bent by will
threads of energy
tumbling through
the universe at
s p e e d s
too fast to see
with the naked eye
you are the matrix
of consciousness,
bound by reason,
always deducing
the next move
in this galactic
forum
of form and function,
always within the
parameters of
c o n t r o l
it would be such a waste
not to travel at the speed
you're capable,
to not take full advantage
of the quicken pulse
knocking out in your
chest,
not to be the brightest
impulse in the
electrical storm
of life
burn a little bit brighter
t o d a y
and tomorrow,
illuminate
the
c o s m o s
in your eyes
so often
it has been
suggested
that you may
be
c o s m i c
tiny particles of
light,
dancing through
the atmosphere,
gathering
in form,
bent by will
threads of energy
tumbling through
the universe at
s p e e d s
too fast to see
with the naked eye
you are the matrix
of consciousness,
bound by reason,
always deducing
the next move
in this galactic
forum
of form and function,
always within the
parameters of
c o n t r o l
it would be such a waste
not to travel at the speed
you're capable,
to not take full advantage
of the quicken pulse
knocking out in your
chest,
not to be the brightest
impulse in the
electrical storm
of life
burn a little bit brighter
t o d a y
and tomorrow,
illuminate
the
c o s m o s
Sunday, November 23, 2014
shine on
no matter
how little time
you have,
you have to keep
making time
for the rest
of your life.
i still cry
when i hear
John Lennon
died.
we have to
stop killing
our heroes,
or there won't be
anyone left
to look up to.
i won't ask
for redemption.
some never leave you,
they're taken from you
by those under
the assumption
that life
isn't for living.
take a few
minutes
to rummage through
the minutes
of living.
give someone a flower
before they're in the ground.
sing a song in harmony
before ever making a sound.
let us live forever together
let us start living better
no matter the weather
for storms will always rise
and love will forever gather.
we need to ask why
birds don't just fly,
they soar,
and no matter
who you are, there's
nothing to kill or die for.
how little time
you have,
you have to keep
making time
for the rest
of your life.
i still cry
when i hear
John Lennon
died.
we have to
stop killing
our heroes,
or there won't be
anyone left
to look up to.
i won't ask
for redemption.
some never leave you,
they're taken from you
by those under
the assumption
that life
isn't for living.
take a few
minutes
to rummage through
the minutes
of living.
give someone a flower
before they're in the ground.
sing a song in harmony
before ever making a sound.
let us live forever together
let us start living better
no matter the weather
for storms will always rise
and love will forever gather.
we need to ask why
birds don't just fly,
they soar,
and no matter
who you are, there's
nothing to kill or die for.
L o v e
it's okay to allow
the tears
for all the fears
you've kept
through
the years.
it's fine to cry
for those
who've
passed you by
as long as
you try
to accept
that those tears
will someday
dry.
and you'll
be left
to heft
the weight
on your own
for the deeds
you've sown.
and as long as
you've grown
beyond
the stones
that were thrown
in judgment,
you will survive
and strive
even if you happen
to be alive
after all of
your fears
have finally died.
at least you've
tried
when so many others
tend to lie
to themselves
about the truest wealth.
no matter
if life was tough,
you've always relied
on love.
the tears
for all the fears
you've kept
through
the years.
it's fine to cry
for those
who've
passed you by
as long as
you try
to accept
that those tears
will someday
dry.
and you'll
be left
to heft
the weight
on your own
for the deeds
you've sown.
and as long as
you've grown
beyond
the stones
that were thrown
in judgment,
you will survive
and strive
even if you happen
to be alive
after all of
your fears
have finally died.
at least you've
tried
when so many others
tend to lie
to themselves
about the truest wealth.
no matter
if life was tough,
you've always relied
on love.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
a certain power
hold on
to who
you have.
we are
fragile
things,
composed
of love and
life and the
ever present
need to feel
needed.
allow for
heart and
healing
and acceptance
of all that we
encounter.
we are the matrix
of mind
and composition
and energy,
forever flowing.
enjoy the moments
ever present.
be the feeling
you wish to
receive,
the feeling you
wish to believe.
be complete,
and that completion
will reflect upon
those who
compliment you.
be good
to one another.
to who
you have.
we are
fragile
things,
composed
of love and
life and the
ever present
need to feel
needed.
allow for
heart and
healing
and acceptance
of all that we
encounter.
we are the matrix
of mind
and composition
and energy,
forever flowing.
enjoy the moments
ever present.
be the feeling
you wish to
receive,
the feeling you
wish to believe.
be complete,
and that completion
will reflect upon
those who
compliment you.
be good
to one another.
Friday, November 21, 2014
between index and thumb
she got her fix
at the airport terminal
at LAX,
right up front
with all the other passengers
who were patiently waiting
for their way out.
low clouds choked the view from outside
the sweeping windows.
blue fairy lights winked
on the runway.
there were several people smoking
cigarettes outside on the platform. there was
dotted confusion as the display
read: DELAY.
she tore into her pocket
and removed a pressed flower,
dry and brittle and two shades
lighter than it was when it was alive.
she blinked twice
as she held it
between index and thumb,
cautiously remembering
who it had come from.
he had been a boy then,
but she saw him as a man now
who watched the flower grow
with water and sun and soil
and a smile just before he
planted it.
she wondered if he would see her
in the same way as when
he handed
the flower
to her
so many years ago
or if he would know
exactly what to say
in the same way
as he had
so many tomorrows
later.
she
had never stopped remembering
even as the wrinkles began to
line her face
what it was like to taste
the air
when he was near.
but she had been married by then
and so had he-
it wasn't the same
as it had been
when
they were young,
drowning in the sun,
playing in a patch of flowers
like the very one
she held
between index and thumb.
"forty years is a long time to
be away," she said into the phone.
"far too long to be alone in the
company of others," he replied.
he
had lost his wife
the weekend before Christmas.
she
had lost her love
six years ago, this past April.
In June, she suddenly recalled
his face, and found the dried little
flower in a box, tucked away
in the closet
where she only kept precious things.
she looked him up
and found
he still lived in the same small town
where she had worn a frown
the day she had left him behind ...
in fact,
he lived in the same small
house where they had first met
when she fell from her bicycle
and scraped her knee
and he came out to see
if he could be
of any help
to the little girl crying.
fondly,
she remembered how
inseparable they had been
back then
when
life
wasn't so complicated.
you see,
there was a time
when a little girl
of a certain color
and
a little boy
of another color
would have been frowned upon
for holding hands
in a patch of flowers
under the sun
like the very one
she held between
index and thumb.
the thought made her numb,
how some
could succumb
to ignorance
as if it were bliss.
but she had wasted forty years
and dried too many tears
on what others insisted she be.
"and now," she thought aloud, "is the time
for me,
a time where
i can finally be
with the man i hold
such fond memories."
and when she boarded the plane,
she knew life would never be the same.
for now, she could finally get on
with living.
she
landed in a small town
just before sunset
with a single chest
that contained
all that remained
of her life before.
as she walked down the ramp,
she noticed a man
holding the same
pressed flower
as the one she held in her own hand,
and there was a smile on his face
just like the one he wore
so many yesterdays before
when he had planted it.
"forty years is a long time to
be away," he whispered in her ear.
"far too long not to be with
the one you love," she said
like a smile
on the lips
of he
who planted it.
at the airport terminal
at LAX,
right up front
with all the other passengers
who were patiently waiting
for their way out.
low clouds choked the view from outside
the sweeping windows.
blue fairy lights winked
on the runway.
there were several people smoking
cigarettes outside on the platform. there was
dotted confusion as the display
read: DELAY.
she tore into her pocket
and removed a pressed flower,
dry and brittle and two shades
lighter than it was when it was alive.
she blinked twice
as she held it
between index and thumb,
cautiously remembering
who it had come from.
he had been a boy then,
but she saw him as a man now
who watched the flower grow
with water and sun and soil
and a smile just before he
planted it.
she wondered if he would see her
in the same way as when
he handed
the flower
to her
so many years ago
or if he would know
exactly what to say
in the same way
as he had
so many tomorrows
later.
she
had never stopped remembering
even as the wrinkles began to
line her face
what it was like to taste
the air
when he was near.
but she had been married by then
and so had he-
it wasn't the same
as it had been
when
they were young,
drowning in the sun,
playing in a patch of flowers
like the very one
she held
between index and thumb.
"forty years is a long time to
be away," she said into the phone.
"far too long to be alone in the
company of others," he replied.
he
had lost his wife
the weekend before Christmas.
she
had lost her love
six years ago, this past April.
In June, she suddenly recalled
his face, and found the dried little
flower in a box, tucked away
in the closet
where she only kept precious things.
she looked him up
and found
he still lived in the same small town
where she had worn a frown
the day she had left him behind ...
in fact,
he lived in the same small
house where they had first met
when she fell from her bicycle
and scraped her knee
and he came out to see
if he could be
of any help
to the little girl crying.
fondly,
she remembered how
inseparable they had been
back then
when
life
wasn't so complicated.
you see,
there was a time
when a little girl
of a certain color
and
a little boy
of another color
would have been frowned upon
for holding hands
in a patch of flowers
under the sun
like the very one
she held between
index and thumb.
the thought made her numb,
how some
could succumb
to ignorance
as if it were bliss.
but she had wasted forty years
and dried too many tears
on what others insisted she be.
"and now," she thought aloud, "is the time
for me,
a time where
i can finally be
with the man i hold
such fond memories."
and when she boarded the plane,
she knew life would never be the same.
for now, she could finally get on
with living.
she
landed in a small town
just before sunset
with a single chest
that contained
all that remained
of her life before.
as she walked down the ramp,
she noticed a man
holding the same
pressed flower
as the one she held in her own hand,
and there was a smile on his face
just like the one he wore
so many yesterdays before
when he had planted it.
"forty years is a long time to
be away," he whispered in her ear.
"far too long not to be with
the one you love," she said
like a smile
on the lips
of he
who planted it.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
shade my shadow clean
the same record spins
shade my shadow clean
a sigh of seduction
spread the dirt from me
hold this moment
as long as you can
take it with you,
pulled along by a dying man
with the same sigh
escaping
as the cloud stricken sky
as it's fading,
leaning in on a worn winter
where the wind shakes
the brittle branches breaking
fall
fall
falling
as the tears
from the stricken
sky
shade my shadow clean
and lean down as
you kiss me
away
like the passing of days
after the world has come to an end
where we can pretend
that it is all coming back again
so we can start
the record spinning
once more
shade my shadow clean
a sigh of seduction
spread the dirt from me
hold this moment
as long as you can
take it with you,
pulled along by a dying man
with the same sigh
escaping
as the cloud stricken sky
as it's fading,
leaning in on a worn winter
where the wind shakes
the brittle branches breaking
fall
fall
falling
as the tears
from the stricken
sky
shade my shadow clean
and lean down as
you kiss me
away
like the passing of days
after the world has come to an end
where we can pretend
that it is all coming back again
so we can start
the record spinning
once more
Monday, November 17, 2014
where we could go if there was nowhere left in the world
i'll believe in you
if you'll believe in me.
we could run away from this,
take ourselves to the
farthest reaches,
and never look back.
we could begin all over again,
start something new,
and leave empty handed.
we would only have to bring
what we would need to survive-
the wind, the rain, and the soil
we'll tread as we make our escape.
if we go far enough,
we could see lions
and bristly old evergreens.
we might find ourselves out there
and never care
where it was we came from.
if we try hard enough,
we could forget who we were,
we could become something new.
there would never be
the nine to five,
or the elusive checkbook
to hold us back.
we could be kids again
without
worry or regret.
we could run barefoot
through mossy green fields
and dip our toes into
cold, flowing streams
and wrestle away the memories
like storybook fairy tales,
telling all who come in our path
of the new world
just over the next hill.
maybe we'll see old pirate ships
filled with treasures
we could skip like rocks across a pond.
or find dinosaurs in forgotten lands
that read adventures of us
by campfire
to all those who follow in our wake.
we could set the moon on fire
and roast marshmallows
in its orbit.
we could tame wild dragons
and learn to fly
the way they used to
before there was such a thing
as religion.
we could listen to the call
of pixies from the great forest
beyond it all
and create our own call
so they know we're listening.
we could live only for today
and play
in the surf
of mighty behemoths
living under the sea,
waiting to tell their secrets
only to you and me.
we could find a lost civilization,
or make our own.
or we could close the book and stare into
one another's eyes
until the sun rises
through murky waters
just on the other side of oblivion.
if you'll believe in me.
we could run away from this,
take ourselves to the
farthest reaches,
and never look back.
we could begin all over again,
start something new,
and leave empty handed.
we would only have to bring
what we would need to survive-
the wind, the rain, and the soil
we'll tread as we make our escape.
if we go far enough,
we could see lions
and bristly old evergreens.
we might find ourselves out there
and never care
where it was we came from.
if we try hard enough,
we could forget who we were,
we could become something new.
there would never be
the nine to five,
or the elusive checkbook
to hold us back.
we could be kids again
without
worry or regret.
we could run barefoot
through mossy green fields
and dip our toes into
cold, flowing streams
and wrestle away the memories
like storybook fairy tales,
telling all who come in our path
of the new world
just over the next hill.
maybe we'll see old pirate ships
filled with treasures
we could skip like rocks across a pond.
or find dinosaurs in forgotten lands
that read adventures of us
by campfire
to all those who follow in our wake.
we could set the moon on fire
and roast marshmallows
in its orbit.
we could tame wild dragons
and learn to fly
the way they used to
before there was such a thing
as religion.
we could listen to the call
of pixies from the great forest
beyond it all
and create our own call
so they know we're listening.
we could live only for today
and play
in the surf
of mighty behemoths
living under the sea,
waiting to tell their secrets
only to you and me.
we could find a lost civilization,
or make our own.
or we could close the book and stare into
one another's eyes
until the sun rises
through murky waters
just on the other side of oblivion.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
so tell them
every breath is speaking
of a different way
of a better life
of giving back to us
another chance
we all come from
the same love eternal
a moment of peace
in tranquility
effortlessly
so passionately - speaking
a moment of love
living complete
in hallowed raindrops
under moonlit diamonds
where the sky
is just another way out
and we have a tendency
to shout
when all we need
is a whisper
of a different way
of a better life
of giving back to us
another chance
we all come from
the same love eternal
a moment of peace
in tranquility
effortlessly
so passionately - speaking
a moment of love
living complete
in hallowed raindrops
under moonlit diamonds
where the sky
is just another way out
and we have a tendency
to shout
when all we need
is a whisper
Thursday, November 13, 2014
a look of innocence
being in lust
is a sexual fire-
burning
for someone
in a way that
trims away the fat
from the very action
of need
of want
of desire.
hot breath coursing
along sensual skin,
tongues touching
playfully as hands
gather
at the warmth,
kneading passion
from within.
just a look
can tell a million
truths,
and a glance can
shake the stars,
but an eye caught
in the moment of desire
kindles a fire
igniting passions from afar.
is a sexual fire-
burning
for someone
in a way that
trims away the fat
from the very action
of need
of want
of desire.
hot breath coursing
along sensual skin,
tongues touching
playfully as hands
gather
at the warmth,
kneading passion
from within.
just a look
can tell a million
truths,
and a glance can
shake the stars,
but an eye caught
in the moment of desire
kindles a fire
igniting passions from afar.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
a crumb from the cake we should not eat
there is a certain level
of disgust
harbored for those
elected to office
who use their power
for anything other
than the will of the people,
brandishing their
new found glory
to aid the corporate
minority,
the charmed,
the indifferent.
have elections
ever been about
the silent majority,
those who work
throughout their lives
just to make ends meet?
what of those who strive
for a better existence,
for a small piece of the pie,
for a common goal
to get by and be happy?
have politicians
ever wondered about
the conditions
of the poor,
the realities
of the middle ground
workers who often
are left with nothing
when it comes time
to hang up the tool belt
and rest
after a lifetime of labor?
we are nothing
if we are not united.
they give us racism
and abortion
and religion
and drugs
and wars
and tax
and trials
and oil
to occupy our days
in order to keep
a tight noose
about our necks
so we can't look around
at any other possibilities
other than what they
throw in our faces.
we are divided
for control.
we are controlled
in our division.
we are nothing
if we are not united.
of disgust
harbored for those
elected to office
who use their power
for anything other
than the will of the people,
brandishing their
new found glory
to aid the corporate
minority,
the charmed,
the indifferent.
have elections
ever been about
the silent majority,
those who work
throughout their lives
just to make ends meet?
what of those who strive
for a better existence,
for a small piece of the pie,
for a common goal
to get by and be happy?
have politicians
ever wondered about
the conditions
of the poor,
the realities
of the middle ground
workers who often
are left with nothing
when it comes time
to hang up the tool belt
and rest
after a lifetime of labor?
we are nothing
if we are not united.
they give us racism
and abortion
and religion
and drugs
and wars
and tax
and trials
and oil
to occupy our days
in order to keep
a tight noose
about our necks
so we can't look around
at any other possibilities
other than what they
throw in our faces.
we are divided
for control.
we are controlled
in our division.
we are nothing
if we are not united.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Just the right word.
a fine wine,
no matter how costly,
it is still worth downing the
entire bottle.
Fuck can mean so many things.
It adds just the right amount
of flavor to spice up any
sentence.
But when used in just the right measurement,
it can become downright devastating.
Bring me words with ferocity,
with disgust,
with devilish intent.
Make those words melt
as butter on my flailing tongue.
Let them whip out among the masses,
let them bring tears to the eyes
of the weak,
the innocent,
the proper.
Only then will I know what
beauty such words hold.
Only then will I know
accomplishment.
Don't be mistaken,
using vulgarity
for the sake of vulgarity
just makes you an asshole,
a tit,
a cunting fool.
So choose your moment
and allow
the words to roll
from your tongue
as intended,
like a fine wine
better consumed
than spit out
like a Nancy.
Winter Worn
the time is right.
the wine is ripe.
autumn leaves drip
from the sky,
and the wind crests
a secret cold
of golden tongues.
the trapped and tired
warm themselves
by gripping fires
that tangle flames
like the tails of snakes
swimming to the deep
below, rushing waves
of ember and coal.
soon, winter will be at hand,
and another year will have passed.
i can feel the shivers from here
as a frozen tear
sheds
from the eyes
of the wasted.
the wine is ripe.
autumn leaves drip
from the sky,
and the wind crests
a secret cold
of golden tongues.
the trapped and tired
warm themselves
by gripping fires
that tangle flames
like the tails of snakes
swimming to the deep
below, rushing waves
of ember and coal.
soon, winter will be at hand,
and another year will have passed.
i can feel the shivers from here
as a frozen tear
sheds
from the eyes
of the wasted.
there is always a reason for hope
ours isn't just a dream.
ours is the beginning
of a new era.
what we bring
to the table
is an entirely
new way
of thinking.
out with the old,
the devastated,
the derelict,
the dead
and greedy ways
of the past,
replaced by
integrity and
understanding,
by the fascination
of a new way.
we are this moment.
we stand,
and we take control.
we remain resolute,
and we sway the world.
by our hands,
we can deliver
society from
the fraudulent,
the disturbed,
the wealthy,
the evil that has
befallen us
from time's very root.
if we say nothing,
nothing will ever change.
if we scream,
others will hear,
others will sound out,
and our voices can
be heard as a roar
of an earthquake
forming beneath their feet.
choices are simple.
actions require more than words.
what we leave behind
is proportionate to
what we accomplish
while we're here.
ours is the beginning
of a new era.
what we bring
to the table
is an entirely
new way
of thinking.
out with the old,
the devastated,
the derelict,
the dead
and greedy ways
of the past,
replaced by
integrity and
understanding,
by the fascination
of a new way.
we are this moment.
we stand,
and we take control.
we remain resolute,
and we sway the world.
by our hands,
we can deliver
society from
the fraudulent,
the disturbed,
the wealthy,
the evil that has
befallen us
from time's very root.
if we say nothing,
nothing will ever change.
if we scream,
others will hear,
others will sound out,
and our voices can
be heard as a roar
of an earthquake
forming beneath their feet.
choices are simple.
actions require more than words.
what we leave behind
is proportionate to
what we accomplish
while we're here.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
endless obstacles in our path
under plight,
we resign ourselves to
much ado about nothing.
we cannot fight
what we cannot see,
like standing still,
imagining we are running
through the gambit
of denial
and self realization,
plotting the course,
bounding over
obstacles
in our path,
remembering all that we
have scaled in our wake.
simple moments
bring us back to the fight;
a mother's kiss,
a child's smile,
leaning against a wall
in Spring,
watching the clouds pass
like tufts of cotton
against a blue silkscreen.
the troubles never leave,
but resolve and determination
lessen the blow.
and it's reason enough
to wake up in the morn
to a gentle breeze
and grab another piece
of the momentum
that threatens to
make us fall.
we are nothing
if we are not
tenacious.
we resign ourselves to
much ado about nothing.
we cannot fight
what we cannot see,
like standing still,
imagining we are running
through the gambit
of denial
and self realization,
plotting the course,
bounding over
obstacles
in our path,
remembering all that we
have scaled in our wake.
simple moments
bring us back to the fight;
a mother's kiss,
a child's smile,
leaning against a wall
in Spring,
watching the clouds pass
like tufts of cotton
against a blue silkscreen.
the troubles never leave,
but resolve and determination
lessen the blow.
and it's reason enough
to wake up in the morn
to a gentle breeze
and grab another piece
of the momentum
that threatens to
make us fall.
we are nothing
if we are not
tenacious.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
toss my salad
i'm not a Republican.
i agree with a few Democrats,
but not enough to align myself
with the Devil.
i'm not sure what a fucking
Libertarian is. i don't think they do either.
i'm too reliant to be an Independent.
Fuck Nazis.
i'm too important to myself
to be a Socialist,
and Communism just seems
like a different degree of
the oligarchy we're already
living in.
i don't want my government ran
like a business
because businesses are run by
self important narcissists
on a crash course with greed.
i don't want my government ran
like a daycare because
i'm way too old to be put down
for a nap.
all i want is financial stability,
a few new roads,
basic rights,
a medical system that's not
intent on making me bankrupt,
availability at an actual education,
and some environmentally sound
way to drive my ass
from point A
to
point B.
i want corporations
to stay out of my asshole.
i want less television
and more music.
i want art
and peace
and dignity.
i want to
stand for America.
i want America to be American.
i want to be.
i agree with a few Democrats,
but not enough to align myself
with the Devil.
i'm not sure what a fucking
Libertarian is. i don't think they do either.
i'm too reliant to be an Independent.
Fuck Nazis.
i'm too important to myself
to be a Socialist,
and Communism just seems
like a different degree of
the oligarchy we're already
living in.
i don't want my government ran
like a business
because businesses are run by
self important narcissists
on a crash course with greed.
i don't want my government ran
like a daycare because
i'm way too old to be put down
for a nap.
all i want is financial stability,
a few new roads,
basic rights,
a medical system that's not
intent on making me bankrupt,
availability at an actual education,
and some environmentally sound
way to drive my ass
from point A
to
point B.
i want corporations
to stay out of my asshole.
i want less television
and more music.
i want art
and peace
and dignity.
i want to
stand for America.
i want America to be American.
i want to be.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
she wants to get away
i know this woman
in a maddening situation.
she's not where she wants to be.
she's not who she wants to be with.
"but such is life,"
she says. "when you plant a tree,
you can't expect it to come up
anywhere but where
you dug the hole."
after the children
have went to school,
and the husband is gone
for the day,
she sits beneath
a shade tree
with a book
and pretends that the story
is her life,
where it should have led,
who she should have been.
she often wonders
if there is an alternate her
out in an alternate there
living the way she
intended.
she wonders if this other her
is happy,
but she's sure she is.
"anything's better than this,"
she says closing the book
and placing it on her lap.
she stares off into the clouds
and wonders aloud,
"who the hell am i, really?"
when the children come home,
they scream for a snack
before diner.
they hit each other and cry.
they break the family picture
that was hanging in the stairway
that resembles the lie
she has lived for far too long.
when the husband gets home,
he makes a drink
and settles back
in his favorite chair,
unaware
that she is at the brink,
hovering over the sink
in the kitchen,
wanting so badly
to puke
it all away.
in the morning,
the children have went off
to school,
and the husband has gone too.
she's finally alone again
and takes a walk to
clear her head.
sometimes she wishes
she were dead,
but that's a silly notion.
she's more than aware
that's it's them
that puts that thought there.
it's the thought
of an ungrateful family,
regret for opportunity
lost ... in a type of purgatory
that makes her stomach clench.
and that's when an idea comes.
"maybe i just need to
be fucked. maybe i just need
a way to get away
from this and that
and those children. maybe
it's me that's the problem."
soon,
she meets him.
he's rough
and rugged,
nothing like the man
that comes home
in the evening.
this one is different.
he looks at her in a way
that makes her feel
wanted,
needed,
lustful,
upended.
every morning
she goes to see him
after the children
have went off to school
and the husband
has left for the day.
it's a way
for her to unwind.
she melts for
the texture of his hands,
the curve of his beard,
the edge of a smile
that comes from his eyes
when he stares
at her
for too long.
and she doesn't wonder
of that other her
in that other there
somewhere,
living the life
she always wanted.
"maybe one day
i'll just go away
and never look back
at what used to be
and finally see
that the life of the other her
is the life i want for me."
in a maddening situation.
she's not where she wants to be.
she's not who she wants to be with.
"but such is life,"
she says. "when you plant a tree,
you can't expect it to come up
anywhere but where
you dug the hole."
after the children
have went to school,
and the husband is gone
for the day,
she sits beneath
a shade tree
with a book
and pretends that the story
is her life,
where it should have led,
who she should have been.
she often wonders
if there is an alternate her
out in an alternate there
living the way she
intended.
she wonders if this other her
is happy,
but she's sure she is.
"anything's better than this,"
she says closing the book
and placing it on her lap.
she stares off into the clouds
and wonders aloud,
"who the hell am i, really?"
when the children come home,
they scream for a snack
before diner.
they hit each other and cry.
they break the family picture
that was hanging in the stairway
that resembles the lie
she has lived for far too long.
when the husband gets home,
he makes a drink
and settles back
in his favorite chair,
unaware
that she is at the brink,
hovering over the sink
in the kitchen,
wanting so badly
to puke
it all away.
in the morning,
the children have went off
to school,
and the husband has gone too.
she's finally alone again
and takes a walk to
clear her head.
sometimes she wishes
she were dead,
but that's a silly notion.
she's more than aware
that's it's them
that puts that thought there.
it's the thought
of an ungrateful family,
regret for opportunity
lost ... in a type of purgatory
that makes her stomach clench.
and that's when an idea comes.
"maybe i just need to
be fucked. maybe i just need
a way to get away
from this and that
and those children. maybe
it's me that's the problem."
soon,
she meets him.
he's rough
and rugged,
nothing like the man
that comes home
in the evening.
this one is different.
he looks at her in a way
that makes her feel
wanted,
needed,
lustful,
upended.
every morning
she goes to see him
after the children
have went off to school
and the husband
has left for the day.
it's a way
for her to unwind.
she melts for
the texture of his hands,
the curve of his beard,
the edge of a smile
that comes from his eyes
when he stares
at her
for too long.
and she doesn't wonder
of that other her
in that other there
somewhere,
living the life
she always wanted.
"maybe one day
i'll just go away
and never look back
at what used to be
and finally see
that the life of the other her
is the life i want for me."
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
The man in the beige sedan
Glen drove his beige sedan
past 11th and Grand
the first time that he saw
her.
She was at the stop light
next to him
wearing a casual grin
that was trimmed
in bright red lipstick.
He tried to smile,
but he was struck with awe,
and he was sure she saw
through to the part
of his heart
that skipped
at the red of her lips.
She glanced back at him
through the rear view mirror
before she sped away
and no matter how Glen
wished she could stay,
she was on her way
before he could think
of what he needed say.
He thought long and hard
on what he would tell her
if he were to ever see her
again,
of how she had
been
on his mind ever since
then,
of the pins
and
needles that
coursed through his chest
whenever he imagined her
and how it made him lose his breath
as well as his composure.
He wanted to say that
he fell in love with her
the very moment
he laid eyes upon her,
but he knew that wouldn't sound right
right from the start
to lay out his heart
like that.
"But what do you
say
to the woman
you know
will be
the love of your life,
the woman you want to
be your wife,
the woman with lips
like a knife
that cut so deeply
into the core of your being?"
It was a few days later when
he saw her again and smiled.
Her eyes were wild,
and her tongue flicked the edge of her lips
like an illusory kiss.
He wanted to mouth the words:
"I love you,"
but he maintained his composure
and tilted his head
in a gesture
as if she should follow.
She gave a small nod of her head
and sped
up
to cut off the car in between them.
He pulled into the parking lot
of a cafe
just a few blocks away,
and watched as she parked
a couple spaces over.
They walked toward one another
as if they were future lovers
just waiting for this moment
to take them.
"I'm Glen," he said
with the same type of grin
that she had given him
the first time he saw her.
She gave him her name and said,
"It's a shame we didn't meet sooner."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well," she said,
"I just fell for a man in a beige sedan
at a stop light a few blocks over."
past 11th and Grand
the first time that he saw
her.
She was at the stop light
next to him
wearing a casual grin
that was trimmed
in bright red lipstick.
He tried to smile,
but he was struck with awe,
and he was sure she saw
through to the part
of his heart
that skipped
at the red of her lips.
She glanced back at him
through the rear view mirror
before she sped away
and no matter how Glen
wished she could stay,
she was on her way
before he could think
of what he needed say.
He thought long and hard
on what he would tell her
if he were to ever see her
again,
of how she had
been
on his mind ever since
then,
of the pins
and
needles that
coursed through his chest
whenever he imagined her
and how it made him lose his breath
as well as his composure.
He wanted to say that
he fell in love with her
the very moment
he laid eyes upon her,
but he knew that wouldn't sound right
right from the start
to lay out his heart
like that.
"But what do you
say
to the woman
you know
will be
the love of your life,
the woman you want to
be your wife,
the woman with lips
like a knife
that cut so deeply
into the core of your being?"
It was a few days later when
he saw her again and smiled.
Her eyes were wild,
and her tongue flicked the edge of her lips
like an illusory kiss.
He wanted to mouth the words:
"I love you,"
but he maintained his composure
and tilted his head
in a gesture
as if she should follow.
She gave a small nod of her head
and sped
up
to cut off the car in between them.
He pulled into the parking lot
of a cafe
just a few blocks away,
and watched as she parked
a couple spaces over.
They walked toward one another
as if they were future lovers
just waiting for this moment
to take them.
"I'm Glen," he said
with the same type of grin
that she had given him
the first time he saw her.
She gave him her name and said,
"It's a shame we didn't meet sooner."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well," she said,
"I just fell for a man in a beige sedan
at a stop light a few blocks over."
Monday, October 27, 2014
last night's show
the scene was rampant.
bodies shrugged,
bent,
and bore down upon one another;
brother against brother
as the sound slammed against the
ceiling
in a type of social healing.
a wave of sweat and angst
like the last supper
where christ gave thanks
to the execution he was yet to suffer.
an arm flailed across their line of sight
where there broke out a fight.
two young men blowing off steam
in a manner obscene.
a single bloody lip ring
clattered
against the floor and out of view
where ripe and bloody mouths
reeled from fists thrown anew.
"let's fuck,"
she said.
"here?!"
he asked.
"yeah, here!" she
shouted over the music.
by the next beat
they were curving their way
toward ecstasy.
a single tit fell from a torn
t shirt. a scowl formed at the edge
of her lips. he bore down
and grunted in between the drop
of the kick drum.
sweat,
semen,
and piss
rose from the pit.
a socially ironic lyric
jumped from the PA
and rummaged through the crowd.
the vocalist bowed,
took his stand,
snatched up the mic in his hand
and pronounced
the next line in time
with the chorus
as it flourished
and drove out along the crowd.
"fuck me harder,"
she said.
but he was already
giving everything he had
and didn't think it was bad
the way he was pushing himself
into the melody.
"don't you fucking come,"
she said, "until i get mine."
he grabbed that
single tit
that poked out from her shirt
and wiped away the dirt
from his brow,
thrusting like a madman
on a crash course with disaster.
his hips thrust faster
and the girl was almost there,
her ankles adorned in underwear.
and a crude smile formed
at the corners of her mouth
right before her boy
bowed out.
the lights came on
when the song
was done
and there was nothing left
to do
but run
out onto the streets
in a stampede
of stomping feet
and thrash the society
that held their indignity
to the dropkick of a steady beat.
bodies shrugged,
bent,
and bore down upon one another;
brother against brother
as the sound slammed against the
ceiling
in a type of social healing.
a wave of sweat and angst
like the last supper
where christ gave thanks
to the execution he was yet to suffer.
an arm flailed across their line of sight
where there broke out a fight.
two young men blowing off steam
in a manner obscene.
a single bloody lip ring
clattered
against the floor and out of view
where ripe and bloody mouths
reeled from fists thrown anew.
"let's fuck,"
she said.
"here?!"
he asked.
"yeah, here!" she
shouted over the music.
by the next beat
they were curving their way
toward ecstasy.
a single tit fell from a torn
t shirt. a scowl formed at the edge
of her lips. he bore down
and grunted in between the drop
of the kick drum.
sweat,
semen,
and piss
rose from the pit.
a socially ironic lyric
jumped from the PA
and rummaged through the crowd.
the vocalist bowed,
took his stand,
snatched up the mic in his hand
and pronounced
the next line in time
with the chorus
as it flourished
and drove out along the crowd.
"fuck me harder,"
she said.
but he was already
giving everything he had
and didn't think it was bad
the way he was pushing himself
into the melody.
"don't you fucking come,"
she said, "until i get mine."
he grabbed that
single tit
that poked out from her shirt
and wiped away the dirt
from his brow,
thrusting like a madman
on a crash course with disaster.
his hips thrust faster
and the girl was almost there,
her ankles adorned in underwear.
and a crude smile formed
at the corners of her mouth
right before her boy
bowed out.
the lights came on
when the song
was done
and there was nothing left
to do
but run
out onto the streets
in a stampede
of stomping feet
and thrash the society
that held their indignity
to the dropkick of a steady beat.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
from the top
from the top of
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet
i seem to be asleep
and floating,
wandering and shifting
through this
simple daydream
and i gleam
like a shattered
diamond
broken by the hammer
that set me free
and it's hard to believe
this is all i can be
and one other thing
i'm not what i seem
to them or me or any
others that happen to be,
that happen to be passing
and see
while i flee
to another ocean,
another dream
once i'm clean
the dirt washing from me
i will love and learn
and yearn
for forgiveness
from myself
from wealth
and emptiness
and complacence
and grievance
to do justice
with a promise
from the top of
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet
i seem to be asleep
and floating,
wandering and shifting
through this
simple daydream
and i gleam
like a shattered
diamond
broken by the hammer
that set me free
and it's hard to believe
this is all i can be
and one other thing
i'm not what i seem
to them or me or any
others that happen to be,
that happen to be passing
and see
while i flee
to another ocean,
another dream
once i'm clean
the dirt washing from me
i will love and learn
and yearn
for forgiveness
from myself
from wealth
and emptiness
and complacence
and grievance
to do justice
with a promise
from the top of
my head
to the bottom of
my rubber feet
Saturday, October 25, 2014
the softest scream
i don't need marketing
i don't need to be told what to buy
i can't afford what they're selling
anyway
i'm fine paying for my car and living in a dive
with the worst plumbing and for something to strive
what i need is a new way to sell my ass to the system
i need a new type of lube
so it doesn't hurt so
bad
give me a fucking pill and let me wash it down with a frosty glass of bleach
and make me learn by a trial of fire always a few inches OUT OF REACH
with a brand new commercial targeted to my particular demographic
WHERE teachers are taught to TEACH
in a curriculum pornographic
waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream
pay away the demons
and grab another bag
of product they're pawning
you think you do
but you don't know
what's it's like
to waste away in
the commercial they're filming
shaken and stirred
give me a dream worth dreaming
waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream
i don't need to be told what to buy
i can't afford what they're selling
anyway
i'm fine paying for my car and living in a dive
with the worst plumbing and for something to strive
what i need is a new way to sell my ass to the system
i need a new type of lube
so it doesn't hurt so
bad
give me a fucking pill and let me wash it down with a frosty glass of bleach
and make me learn by a trial of fire always a few inches OUT OF REACH
with a brand new commercial targeted to my particular demographic
WHERE teachers are taught to TEACH
in a curriculum pornographic
waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream
pay away the demons
and grab another bag
of product they're pawning
you think you do
but you don't know
what's it's like
to waste away in
the commercial they're filming
shaken and stirred
give me a dream worth dreaming
waste me not
land of the free
make me pay
learn me to
scream
Monday, October 20, 2014
nothing but flowers
i feel the
heart attack
in my head
expanding
like the light
of an angel
already dead
i feel the
pain of purpose
in splintered bones,
the shards
of which
i've always been fed
i feel the
holocaust of motion
churning in my guts
and another ruined
war
as the maggots infect the cuts
sober and shining
like the angels
that defecate me,
slowly consuming
and setting me free
how the hand
slices away
this feeling of exposure
of the sickened blessings
for which we nurture
from tits of corpses
and trailing lies
and so soon enough
everyone dies
but we can pretend
to see nothing
but flowers
heart attack
in my head
expanding
like the light
of an angel
already dead
i feel the
pain of purpose
in splintered bones,
the shards
of which
i've always been fed
i feel the
holocaust of motion
churning in my guts
and another ruined
war
as the maggots infect the cuts
sober and shining
like the angels
that defecate me,
slowly consuming
and setting me free
how the hand
slices away
this feeling of exposure
of the sickened blessings
for which we nurture
from tits of corpses
and trailing lies
and so soon enough
everyone dies
but we can pretend
to see nothing
but flowers
reaping
sometimes i see
the eyes
reaping me
now i know
i am the only one
how the heart
struggles
to beat
like a single drum
knocking steady
through
the blood of it all
sometimes i see
the world
wrecking me
i can't be the only one
how the soul
quivers
like a dove
in a torrent
driven
down into slick
all the eyes upon you
and the flame flickers
in your chest
you're not the only one
none of this
makes sense
until it's
robbing you
of death
like all of
the monsters
you thought
unreal
sometimes i see
the eyes
torn from me
now i know
i am not the only one
no matter how many
tears you shed,
it never
seems to become
entirely undone-
the matters of
what is reaping you
and the feeling
that you haven't
truly begun
the eyes
reaping me
now i know
i am the only one
how the heart
struggles
to beat
like a single drum
knocking steady
through
the blood of it all
sometimes i see
the world
wrecking me
i can't be the only one
how the soul
quivers
like a dove
in a torrent
driven
down into slick
all the eyes upon you
and the flame flickers
in your chest
you're not the only one
none of this
makes sense
until it's
robbing you
of death
like all of
the monsters
you thought
unreal
sometimes i see
the eyes
torn from me
now i know
i am not the only one
no matter how many
tears you shed,
it never
seems to become
entirely undone-
the matters of
what is reaping you
and the feeling
that you haven't
truly begun
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