lava

i wake up
and do
what i do

great
derailing
trains glide through
my head

enough pressure
to make anxiety
envious

i go to sleep
and do
what i do

and still
there's talk of
bombs
and abortions,
of light
and listlessness

the world turns
in and upon itself
every single
moment,
suckling the tit of
eventuality,
boring the shit
out of kids
and making adults
pray to unrelenting
gods
of misinformation
and reckless
abandon

bring hope
and settle down to do
what you do

let it linger
on the
truth for
a minute more

sleeping in volcanoes
isn't all what it's
cracked up to be.

don't believe in fate

sometimes the flowers
don't burn as bright
as they're supposed to.

and the clouds make
terrible faces in
the sky.

the sun dwindles
along the mountains
and the air
won't fill the lungs.

how can the
soul shine
when the
heart has
broken
completely?

sometimes the flowers
don't burn as bright.

stuck inside the skin
and writhing inside
the cells
and living the seconds away
time and again
until the big blue sky
comes falling down
and graces the soul
with just a hint
of the foreverafter.

when the pieces no longer fit

the slow burn
as the days
gather
and strip away
lost love

sympathy wanes
in small steps
bounding through
memories
better off lost

another dark night
swallowed
another day worked
away
and misplaced
along with all the others

friends come and gone
ushered away
like dust through
a keyhole

smiles melted down
into wrinkled frowns
as the eyes weep
a few degrees deeper

clasped hands
released
and the time is lost
and the great
separation begins
and the game
is coming to an end

all of that fluttering
away
and still you stand
firm
all alone as you drift away
with all the rest

how many smiles
have you missed?

how many seconds
were fucked away
with purpose?

try as you might
not a single breath
can be recaptured
in the movement
of the galaxies
swallowing you
                  whole

no single answer

you asked me
everything,
and it was
nothing i
could give.

simply looking
into your eyes,
past the
heartache,
past the
nuance of hurt,
and the flames
of wonder,
was enough.

i could
have
stared
at you
forever -
dreamed
in your
gaze
and led
you
by hand
into the
promise
    of
eternity.

all of those
questions
you had
and not a
single answer.

"i have nothing
to give,"
i said. "i have
nothing but
wonder and
excitement,
      joy
   and
confusion."

you said it would be all right,
that no real answers were
needed.
but i still felt as if i had let you down.

then you said, "your look was enough.
that was all i've ever wanted."

and so we went from there.

one day, my inner child will win.

don't grow up ...
don't bother with it,
it's totally overrated.

appreciate every moment,
every single second you're given.

don't live for anyone else
but yourself.
love who you love
and nothing more.
enjoy it all,
it's a fairly short ride.

if i could be a kid again
i would tell myself to never
worry. what happens is what happens,
and most of the time there's not
a goddamn thing you can do about it.

when i was young
and broke,
i was happy,
but i thought i was a loser
for not having the good job,
the ideal lifestyle.
but now, as i come
full circle into midlife,
i realize that those were the best
years
of life.

i did what i wanted
when i wanted to do it.

i only lived for the moment.

every breath was new.

every step
was an inch closer
to my childhood,
to the youth i harbored
like a precious treasure.

so don't grow up,
there's no need for it
as long as you're
living life to its fullest,
as long as you are dreaming
of who you've become,
as long as you're not tied down
by the anchor of adulthood.

leave aging to the elderly
because when you're determined
to be forever young,
you'll never truly die ...
at least not in your heart.

like a flower held by a baby

when they say you have a voice,
that you can make change,
don't believe them.
it's to keep us complacent
with the idea that whatever we
do
will make for a better country,
a better standard of living,
a
better way of life.

if we were to suddenly realize
that
every part of our system was
a scam designed to set us up
for failure,
our causes would become aggressive.

"Give peace a chance," is a
beautiful sentiment until you
realize there are about a million
motherfuckers out there waiting for
you to lay down arms so they
can rip open a gash in your back.

"Vote for the lesser of two evils,"
sounds lovely until you come to
the understanding that you're still
voting for evil.

"Turn a blind eye," would be wonderful
if someone wasn't trying to poke the other
eye out.

"Live and let live," is a nice idea until you
figure out the other assholes are trying to kill
you.

we can look at all the beauty in the world,
all 15% of it, or we can be realistic with
the notion that 85% want to do you harm.

we can pretend that everyone is equal.
that way if anyone fucks up, no one is
to blame.

we can make the next generation
pay out the ass for an
education that won't leave them
with a pot to piss in.

or we could all stop paying for
the shit they are trying to cram down
our throats and watch the money drown on itself.

i see the beauty in the world.
do you?

blissful ignorance

never underestimate the power
of not giving a fuck.
if you're literate on every
goddamn cause on the planet,
you're probably not living
to your full potential.

everyone has a cause,
a point of interest
that compels them,
and makes their panties wet.

just another day in the sunshine.

our most intimate experiences
could be splayed out in
front of us and we would
still
find a new cause
to engorge our egos.

there's so much to be
proactive about in life
that we lose sight
of life, itself.

be political.
be spiritual.
be charitable.
be righteous.
be necessary.
become trapped
by all of the illusions.
live every moment with an air of need and want and purpose.
initiate change.
be sympathetic.

it all ends in stagnant nothingness,
just as it was before we arrived.
and what you leave behind
is another set of illusions for others
to try to follow.

don't try.

for the sisters and the brothers

you can't struggle
with other people.
you can lend a hand.
you can give them a shoulder to lean on.
but you can't allow their struggle
to become your own.

each of us are working out
our own successes and failures.
sometimes we need someone to hear
our voice.
sometimes we just need an embrace.

only give what you can afford.
some people will try to pull you
so deeply into their world
that it feels as if you will drown.

step back and assess what you
can actually afford to do for
someone.

if you give too much, they will swallow you.
if you give too little, they can't overcome.

there is a middle path with everything.

how can you love someone
if you cannot love yourself?

how can you help someone
if you cannot help yourself?

don't fall into the pit of charity.
don't allow yourself to become a miser.
only give as much as the moment demands
and nothing more.
this is as much for them as it is for yourself.

become what you see as beautiful in the world
and look into the mirror often.

no one wants to live this way

take away all the guns
so the insane
can't shoot anyone.

take away all the knives
so no one can be
stabbed.

remove all the sharp objects
so when we fall,
it won't mean death.

stop building cars
so no one will
become the victim
of a hit and run.

rip out our tongues
so our words
can no longer harm.

take away the sun
so our skin remains
pristine.

take the breath
from our lungs
so we may not
inhale the toxins.

pluck out our eyes
so we cannot witness
the crimes of the flesh.

find a way to
lock us all up
so we cannot
harm the innocent.

take away our education
by making it so expensive
we run from the truth
so we may never ask the
questions that may lead
to the truth..

and when nothing remains,
we can wait to rot.

the landscape of a Phoenix rising

we don't talk about Detroit.
it's a dirty secret
that shows
what happens
when corruption
and greed become
commonplace.

we don't mention
the apocalyptic landscape
or
the 1.3 million people
who fled
for other parts of the country.

we turn a blind eye
to the fact
that good, qualified people
could run for office,
but they won't
because our political system
is a sham.

we won't mention neighbors
burning down
vacant houses in their
neighborhood
to keep the junkies
from squatting
in the eyesore that
once housed a family
with a future,
with an income,
with a reason to make
Detroit their home.

there are still people
in the Motor City,
hanging on,
foraging for life,
trying to continue.

the fact is
it could have happened anywhere,
but industry decided to die
in its birthplace
where Motown slung some
of the sexiest music
history has to offer.

and as the people slowly
rise to their feet
maybe we can learn
from the enormous mistake
that took place:
those who led us into ruin
weren't interested in us,
they were only interested
in the privileges that come
with leading.

suffer the way

as i fail
i fail politely

i laugh
at the mistakes
which drown me

i grin
as the hammer
drops

i would
cackle a cry
if it were
to ever
fall neatly in place

as the morning
yawns through
space
to bring the light
of day
i open my eyes
to see
that it is still
horribly real
and everything
i thought
would vanish
persists
into my waking hours

what joke is this
                     ?

what crime have i committed
to deserve
such a sentence
                    ?

it is simply
living
like everyone else
is living

the damnable
punishment
of breath
of action
of inaction
of change

how many dawns
before the weight
becomes too much
and the threads
unravel
into a nest of twine
where the shell rests
final
                    ?

and the searching persists
for an answer
to the disease
of beating hearts
and open wounds
and the salt
which rubs in
the pain
to grow
from the malignancy
which kills us closer
with each and every step

how may the day
mark the end
for this misery
to be through
                       ?

how many turns
of the knife
in a spine
too crooked
to stand firm
                       ?

may all the deaths
in the world be swift
and merciful
in light of the
suffering
we have all
endured

may there come a storm
which washes us from
this
like the floods of a god
who never lived

not truly
in this punishment
no more

better living

isn't injustice tiring?
because someone has an
opinion of how life should be
according to their designated religion,
other people must suffer.

why don't we all get on the same page?
suppose that everyone just let everyone else live
and prosper according to their own
idea of morality and not push their asinine
beliefs upon the masses.

we all are pretty much in agreement
as to what it is that justifies
peaceful living.

don't hurt other people.
don't pretend you're something you're not.
don't hate
or murder
or harm another being.

don't steal
or incite hate.

don't fuck somebody else's lover.
don't be a fuckwad.

don't stand in the way of another persons liberty
or freedom.
did I mention, don't be a fuckwad?

so there you have it.
let people live.
let them love.
let them find peace in their own way.
be loving and kind to everyone you encounter,
for you know not the trials they face.

so it goes

there is no fame
or fortune-
there is no grasping
at wealth
or accumulating-
there is no need
for fortune
to mandate prosperity.

there is no need
to harm,
to devour,
to bellow our thoughts
of right and wrong.

without beginning and ending
this is as it has always been
with a shroud of illusion
draped over the eyes
of those who refuse to see.

of all the harms we've done,
there is only loving kindness
to return to.

acknowledgement and acceptance for
all living things and even the air
which houses the unseen.

follow no one.

encompass everything.

be.

seconds drained in hours

don't live your life
to please someone else.
live your life
to meet the merits
of your dreams.
give of yourself to
remain yourself
to better yourself
for your future self.

all of this is temporal
madness
served with justification
simmered in need
brazed in desire.

quiet the mind
and step away
from your past,
allow it to escape,
to vanish like
the hours
before your birth.

give away the memories
and make the present
your place of safety,
of joy through
endurance
as if you've grown
beyond the bounds
of what you never
intended to be.

your time is now,
clicking to a clock
that never was.

Home

Her heart is made of rubber bands and string; loose fibers wound tightly around a frail heart and rosy disposition. If the cords are wound too tightly, they will break; if they are too loose, she will die. Amongst desert shrubbery, she wanders forsaken and forlorn. There are cacti in the distance like a painted picture done in pastels. She diverts her gaze before her tears drown her.

“It is never too late,” she tells herself as the crunch of sand beneath her feet drowns out her voice.

Up ahead, she can see something in the clouds; something large; something sinister. Through the puffs of cotton in the sky, a mountain of orgasm appears like the bloated eye of a dead man, bulging from its socket. She squints, trying to bring the image into focus. It laughs at her as sinister things often do. She can smell its offence; taste its looming grin.

She looks away.

It follows her like a sunset cast in shadow.

She closes her eyes, trying to breath. Her heart is calm now and the tension of the cords subsides. Panic is an illusion; a thing of beauty that is held within the hand like a frail and dying bird, paralyzed by its own existence.

She sighs.

In her heart, she knows that there is something deeper than all of this; something that ties together the days and the nights; something that will allow the suffering of her heart to melt away. But, to what end, she is not certain.

She craves release.

Sitting on the hot sand, she reserves a moment to collect herself; to scour her memories for a past that is as uncertain as the road that lies ahead. She’s sure that she was once real, that she had a heart of fleshly muscle beating within her hallow chest. But she can’t imagine anything other than the rubber bands and string that tense inside her ribs. Standing is as close to reality as she can hope for. Moving forward is the only way.

There is a memory that pushes its way to the front of her flailing mind. Hands reaching out like animated corpses, touching her breasts, pulling her down into the terror she felt so long ago. Pain is a nuance of an emotion; built of frail limbs and sarcastic, grinning, leering faces smeared with feces.

The faces distort and scram out in laughter, prodding her as she lays helpless on the ground. They beat at her with ill intent and gloved hands. They push her face into the shit below to stop her from staring.

She gasped at every impact as if it were a trial. She wrenched her body in twisted positions to look into the eyes of the assailants to get an image of what evil might look like. Her guts were ripped from her, replaced with string. Her heart was torn from her convulsing body before she was given a rubber band to keep her alive. They kept touching her. Their eyes were the last thing she saw before she became a living automaton.

She glanced back, but they were gone. They did not explain why they did what they did. They left her on the ground weeping. They laughed as they receded into the shadows, never to be seen again.

Her chest had been carved out and she would never feel again. She ran into the desert and refused to look back. She couldn’t bear to be seen like this; a strand of rubber ticking away in her chest, propelling blood and waste through her fragile frame.

 She was weak from the onslaught of memories, but continued forward into the burning sun. Little of those emotions remained after she scrubbed away the remnants of what they had done. Only the memories proclaimed victory over her swollen soul.

Golden strands of light extend out from the sky and blanket the desert floor. Curious, she investigates the points where the light makes contact with the sand. Each granule comes to life like gnats without wings; zigzagging across one another and grinning like the thing in the sky that follows her.

She is taken aback.

Waving hands from the sky above send currants of wind across the dust strewn environment. She is blinded by this and tries desperately to shield her eyes from the painful sting of the debris. Her nudity is unveiled and only a scarf remains to cover her face from the onslaught as her clothes are blown up and away with the handmade dust storm.

She perseveres.

Living granules of sand merge with her asshole and vagina and ears and wherever else they can penetrate. Her mouth is full of dust. She would cry if they weren’t so small and she could actually feel their assault. Her feet hurt as she pushes through the wind.

She can see the moon in the daylight like a pale reflection of what once was. It hangs convicted like a criminal, waiting for the sweet release of the unknown.

The sun retains its presence, molting, bulging and finally releasing an arch of flame and vapor to engulf the world below. A solar flare slaps outward like a whip of burning bliss, slapping anything in its way.

A blast of fire from the sun releases her from her skin and she can finally see. The wind no longer stings. The living sand no longer penetrates. The cords of her heart are frayed. She feels as if she is made of earth and glass. Her hips sway as she walks onward.

She is amazed at how easily her skin melted away. She is enamored by the way her brain leaked from her ears and nose and mouth. She is a woman of freedom. Contempt no longer encourages her to remain in misery.

This is the happiest she has been in years and she begins to dance. There is no longer a sky above; no longer a sinister thing dwelling within its safety above her in contempt. She no longer fears loss or regret.

Her hands are made of bone and cartilage; they easily point to the direction from whence she came. She turns and heads back to that place made of stars; the place that she originated. The walk home is always the longest.

terrible gods

At what point will it end?
Must all the Palestinians die?
Must all the Jews die?
Must everyone die and pay a price
for ancient Saints and Messiahs?

Shall we make ourselves extinct
for ghosts of discrimination, and
criminals of the cloth?

Is this need to recognize omnipotence
of such a value that we feel it necessary
to exterminate one another?

What of this thing called peace
and those leaders of revolution who
praise it so?

Let them build bigger bombs
and I will light a candle in remembrance
for those who lay down their arms.

Let them sacrifice nations to greedy gods
and I will pray to the sun
that we might burn quickly
and be forgiven our sins.

Let them make profit from their wars
while we give tidings to the poor
and pay the greatest price for the illusion
of victory.

Dig endless graves in sterile soil
for the children who die
for getting in the way
of the battles we fought
for gods of innocence.

what can be taken

it's a fucking fist to the throat
every time we look to the future,
to what will become of our beloved brotherhood,
our generations lost in purgatorial waste.
all classes, all demographics represented
through fashion and gadgets and ridiculed childhoods
spent trying to stay alive even if living means death.
and so the trap is set and we stand by until the lever
is pulled and the pendulum is activated, arching
ever so slowly toward the business end of eternity.
wait your turn at the chopping block
so they can get a clean cut
and take away the last part of you
that wants nothing more than to scream.

everyone wants to be accepted and held at the tit on longevity
but no one wants to fade into the mist beyond for a cause
that resounds greater than themselves.

we would rather pay heed to the giant of Economy
that we pretend is a living thing,
an organism with its own taste buds
with an affinity for blood and poverty.

play at the droning voice of pop music and quick takeout
and shield your eyes from the sun that burns you slowly.

play with drugs that numb your soul and keep the wolves in the
darkness where it's impossible to see them tearing away
the scraps of yourself that you never noticed before.

play hide and seek with paychecks that no longer represent
a living wage and buy the products they made for your
complacency and denial so you won't notice when
existence becomes unattainable.

dip your toe in the soup so the predators can get a taste
for you before you're boiled alive in the stews of misfortune
and ignorance, seasoned with want and need,
garnished with promises of wealth and prosperity.

the lies taste so sweet because they reflect our anxiety
in a time where producing more for the enemy has
become commonplace and our futures depend upon
bowing down to the very source of our slaughter.

to the point of breaking

where we wait
our hands bound
our tongues tied

the vision of the end
where the darkness
never seeps away

the cool mouth of Spring
that refuses to bring
the seeds to life

our penned names
on screens of deafness
uncompromising

a blanket of despair
draped across
rigid bones

the poor
the weak
the disillusioned

the mute
the troubled
the torn

where we wait
and reflect upon patients
that never settles

where we stand
and take our last breath
like a shuddering machine

and it all remains motionless
in the steady stream
of blood spilled

from a time when we
worshiped inaction
and complacency

so few stand their ground
where we wait
with batted breath

for nothing to change

for no one to care