Monday, December 28, 2015

identity

where is your heart?
do you keep it in a box,
safe from those that may do it harm?
do you wear it on your sleeve,
where it is always accessible?

i keep mine in a safe
with a little peep hole
so it can look out,
but never be touched
unless i choose to
flip the lock.

i love unconditionally,
but i'm fully aware of
how flawed we are.
people make mistakes,
and those mistakes don't
necessarily make someone
bad. it just means that they
are prone to the flaws,
to the misleading illusions
of who they think they
should be in order to live up
to a certain image of what
the world says they should be.

this is the way of things.
we are composed of every
minute, every limitation,
or ideal we have been fed.
we get stuck in these little boxes
because we are told that safety
lies in those containers.

it is much like stereotypes.
we are told that that portion of the
population does a particular thing,
and we are suddenly convinced
that that is true because
that particular portion
is now trying to live up to
the stereotype provided. it becomes a
viscous cycle that is hard to break.

and just because someone says
they love unconditionally
it doesn't mean they are willing to
succumb to the ignorance of race,
or the radical view of sexuality,
or the limited morality of religion.
it simply means that they understand
that underneath the masks,
we are all just people, making our way,
trying to find the unconditional love
that was always there, no matter
what stereotype you're trying
to fit in.

don't do what they tell you.
don't believe what you are told.
don't be who they assume you to be.
don't give in to small notions of what it
should be, or how they want to identified you.

lock up your heart.
keep it safe.
allow it a peep hole to look out
unto the world that is trying to
identify you.

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Mrs. Mackinac's Cat

there was this pitbull
like the kind you hear about
on the nightly news
when the news is slow.
a mean sonofabitch,
the type that takes out a couple of toddlers,
robs a bank, and has his way
with a choir group.
he's 1 in 500;
the other 499 just like a good
scratch behind the ear,
or a nice belly rubbing.
a real Killer.
he didn't get out from the yard much,
but when he did,
all hell broke loose.
cars were stolen,
stores were looted,
mayhem was had.
one day this pitbull got out.
women and children fled to the
safety of their homes.
deadbolts were secured,
and alarms were set.
the police were called,
and the national guard was informed.
this goddamn dog had
a swagger in its step,
a look in its eye,
and an assurance of what
it was put on this great, green Earth for.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat strolled out through
the cat door in the kitchen and meandered
along the walkway beside the house
and into the front yard.
it paused to lick its paws,
and glanced up at the pretty, puffy clouds
bobbing in the big, blue sky.
the pitbull spotted the cat
and went for it like a freight train,
all gristle and muscle
with a maw filled with enough teeth
to make a great white cringe.
it barreled along the street.
steam rose from its nostrils.
a woman screamed.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat casually glanced over at the
behemoth galloping closer.
the cat licked its paw again
as the pitbull cleared twenty yards
in a flash.
the dog opened its mouth.
teeth gleamed,
saliva flowed,
spittle sprayed.
mere inches away
from gobbling down the cat,
the feline jumped up straight into the air.
the dog was befuddled at the vanishing cat.
and down Mrs. Mackinac's cat came
with razor sharp claws extended
in switch blade - like glory.
the previously docile cat came down
with fury,
landing on the pitbull's face.
blood and fur flew.
the dog yelped.
the cat flipped backward
and landed on its feet
as the dog fled,
blind and defeated.
the cat licked its paw.
later that evening, old Killer
had to be put down.
Mrs. Mackinac's cat still likes
gazing up at the clouds
in the big, bright, blue sky.
and from time to time,
the cat can be seen bathing in the sun,
and purring a little tune
that tells of patience
and grace.

Friday, December 25, 2015

Xmas is a trick pony

everyone's a trick pony, and i have lost my taste for sweets.
they memorize their poesy. they believe it will get them
noticed,
recognized, adored. it's no bother. waste the space in your
head- better than writing anyhow.

smokesweet and drowned in opinion. let the quiet fill the
noise as the curtains are drawn and the bath is filled and
the steam rises and reason out all the shit that ails you.

when it is time for bed there's nothing left to do but rest
your head and let the sands of time settle all of the bets.

some believe in the miracle of Xmas.
i believe in rain.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

the headline reads:

creatures,
far and wide
come for the festivities.
they read the headlines,
but not the news
for they believe the
headline is good enough,
gives a taste
of what they need.
they believe it without
having to go any farther.
nothing's new.
nothing's changed.
there's new shit
the third Thursday
of every month
so they get high.
the creatures
stand
undivided in the truth
that leaks from the
tube. bloodbath
incarnate.
the windows are dirty,
but there's not much to see.
there is a glass of wine
waiting on the counter
so she washes it down
and peaks through the shades
across the way to the
neighbor's house where
she finds the old man
out in his underwear again,
clipping the hedges.
he wears a grin.
the shears are spot rusted,
but the blades still gleam.
he picks at his balls,
and discerns his next move,
wavering over the hedges
to eyeball the level of the cut.
she opens another bottle from the fridge
and pours another glass.
she takes a sip as the old man
delicately clips a stray leaf
from the hedge.
eyeballs it good,
and goes in for another clip.
the neighbor's Yorkie
bounds out from the hedges
and barks.
the old man is caught off guard
and jumps back.
the little dog pants.
the old man grumbles.
she downs the second
glass of wine
as the old man kicks at the dog.
the dog jumps him,
and begins humping his leg.
she giggles.
the old man falls back,
and in an act defying physics,
the shears tuck under the hedge,
lean drastically toward the old man's
torso,
and down, clipping off his testicles.
he screams in pain
while the Yorkie goes in
for another round on his leg.
      the headline reads:
man is castrated by lusty bitch in act
of exhibitionism.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

the truth in love's light

he remembered the warm kiss.
the shape of her legs.
her downy white skin
laced with lace,
and the taste
of her neck
that could drown
a man in lust.

he drank entirely
too much that night,
remembering,
remembering,
remember.

with music soft
on the air,
and a heart
that cared too much,
he could see her
clothes askew
and the ripe,
round ass
bobbing
in dusk's light.

eyes that showed
the gleam from the window
where crows cawed
and coughed out little rhymes
about drunken men
too far up love's ass.

sobbing,
he tore at his chest
and wailed
for his love was lost
on the ocean that drives
the waves through the mind
of a madman,
beckoning the
creatures into
absolution.

sobbing,
he tore at the tears
of his cheeks.
he wreaked of wine
and cigarettes,
and musk.
eyes swollen,
sight blurred,
coughing up
old memories
because he was
a pussy.

a single finger. a single salute.

save me a special moment where the dogs
are calm
and the fingers extend middle first
before the end comes quickly.
let me tell them one more time,
let them know,
let them
hear it from the source.
wash away the thickets
in manure
and hold until the very last second,
this draining extension
of worth
we call love.
bathe in the bile
that is inclusion.
build a monument
in their honor.
but it is not enough.
there is never enough time
to get it all out
and hand over the final moments
in a gesture
obscene.
there is never enough time
to take time for time.
there is never enough minutes
in the day
to say
all the building venom
that stirs in the soul.
a waterfall.
a lake.
a darkened plot of land
where a building once stood
as a magnificent testimony
to human endurance
and ingenuity.
and some motherfucker
had to go and blow it to hell.
is that not
where we are?
what we have become?
is that not the way of all things?
if it gets to be
too much,
blow it the fuck up.
forget about reason.
forget about logic, compassion,
mercy, sympathy, delusion.
if we think it
at this very moment,
it must be true,
right?
a cup.
a cigarette.
an ashtray
perched on a table,
ready to fall to the ground
where the ashes will be spread
like
the legs of forty virgins
just waiting
for an asshole like you.
because everyone knows
there is no heaven
for virgins.
there is only a heaven for assholes
and murderers,
con men and
scapegoats,
for leaders and the successful
who build empires on the backs
of the disillusioned.
so,
save me a special moment
where the dogs are calm
and the fingers extend
middle first
before the end
comes quickly.
i just want to let them know
where i stand.

9 to 5 minutes to midnight

it is easy to console the soul;
drop everything and follow where your heart
       leads you.
but if you want to pay the rent, the car payment,
the utilities, the insurance, the medical bills-
work away with everything you have
until there is nothing much left of who you were
before you began the miracle that is adulthood.
grind the coffee beans and brew up a pot
       before work.
shit, shower, repeat.
throw on some clothes, and make sure they fit the times,
and the fashion, but forget function: looking good
       is supposed to hurt.
put gas in the car, clean the windshield so you can see
       the assholes coming.
pay for parking.
lock the doors, and set the alarm.
take the walkway. glance at he old homeless woman
losing her mind. stand up straight.
be a slave to convention. go in debt.
punch the clock, or swipe the card to let the powers that be
know you are ready to begin. smother the soul
and begin your day.
try to make the screaming in your head stop.
use the toilet and cry on the pot.
refresh your cup of coffee.
glance at the clock. adjust your soul.
run away before it is too late.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Forget me not

Nothing is clear cut,
or set in stone,
or arranged in such a way
as to be the end all truth.

At some point in your life
you will be told
that you should think
outside of the box,
but
there was never a box
to begin with.

There is conformity,
and there is anarchy.
There is a blending of the two.
There are rules
to keep people safe,
and there are rules
designed to make money
for those who make the
laws.
Some laws are put into place
for the greater good.
Other laws are established to
bleed the people dry.

There is a fine line
between Democracy and Death.
But you can not save people from themselves.
We are all responsible for our own lives.
Every decision we make
carries weight. Every choice we
are confronted with
impacts the overall value
of the life we are dealt.

You will be told
that life is valuable
even though it is not
in the greater scope
of what life really
means.
One life suddenly snuffed out
will only impact
the immediate lives
it has encountered. It
may cause a stir
for a period of time,
but humanity is fickle,
and will soon forget
the cause of death.
A new issue will arise,
the demons of our past
will be soon forgotten,
and something new will
fill the space
in the void
where that one life
existed.

We will find new causes,
and those causes will be
left behind for other causes.
We are fickle,
we are picky,
we are forgetful,
and we are lazy.

A new piece of
technology will
be introduced,
and whatever it was
that had us in its grip
will soon diminish.
A new piece of
news will grip the
Nation, and the
old soundbite
will quickly fade away
into obscurity.
Something we should
pay attention to
will be overshadowed
by an act of violence
that will make the world
tremble,
and we will move on
to bigger, better things.

An environmental crises
will wane and fade
into an endless
war that can never
be won.

But never mind
all that,
how about the
new movie
that is making
the rounds?
Are you going
to go
see it?
Can we talk about
that for the next
few weeks
while people die
for lost causes?

Monday, December 14, 2015

just for a second

the mind machine
is indifferent
to the play of
the physical.
it matters not
that the Earth
rumbles
with war cries.

a tiny leaf
lay prone.

what we were once
is never so certain,
never so firm
that it cannot be
taken away
through forgetfulness.

what we become
is a matter of purpose.

we let go of
the tiny nothings
that tie us down
in order to become
what we must.

dreams fall away
              effortlessly.

no child
ever said,
"I want to be
     a slave to
  a system
that wants to
      destroy me
for gain."

     there is a breath,
     and another.
     a sigh,
     then another.
     a love,
     and then it's over.
     for every death
     is dire intention,
     dragging the last of you
     away
     until all that remains
     is the very thing
     you fear the most.

and suddenly you
are no longer who
you once were. you
have been replaced with
a modern facsimile of that
which you thought you would
become.

all the dreams
                wash away.

there's nothing more
to hold firm.
just a small frown
where a smile once
emerged, and
nothing more.

a tiny leaf
lay prone
in a puddle
of water,
clear as
the light
of the morning
sun,
above a ripple
like time
standing still
if only
for a second.

and 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 undoing.

so dreams
         are wished away,
                   and nothing more.

a tiny leaf
lay prone.

What she Saw

She sensed herself in the mirror,
but the image wasn’t her own.
The face was smooth
and
young,
but foreign, misplaced, wrong.

She had seen herself before,
had counted each of the lashes
which closed like a trap over her eyes.

She had watched her mouth tense countless
times without revealing too much
of herself.

But this woman was a stranger.
She splashed some water onto
her face
and let the droplets descend
along her
cheeks.

Still, the reflection did not waver.
The young girl was there,
gazing back through
those traps set to lids,
a dark red
before the mascara smeared.

She was pale.
She knew nothing of the world
that held her.
She knew nothing of herself
or anything else that had came along
through the years
like shards from the mirror,
reflecting the stains in her eyes.
But the image stood firm.

At her center was
someone who knew,
someone who had seen
their fair share
and failed to shake it off
like so many others had done
before her.

That woman there, she pointed,
could be tempted. She could be
hurt, damaged, broken beyond
repair.
I am not that woman, she said.

She had thrown off the man in her life
like an old rag
too dirty to wash.
She threw him away
in the same way
he threw her aside
and trampled that last part
of her that remained
pure.

The feeling of loss never came,
just the reflection of a young girl
that forced her to stare back at herself.

It’s a symptom, she said, nothing more.
I’m sick and it will only be a matter of time before
I’m well again.

Being ill taunted her.
She could feel the nausea like poison,
feel the heart race a little faster
with just a memory,
with the flash of an image
of the way he smiled,
or how he would hold her
so close that
the tension
melted
like wax along a rose colored
candle she only lit for him.

A small breath of laughter,
and he vanished,
but the girl in the mirror
remained,
droplets of water
drying
in the reflection
of a pool
she knelt beside,
hoping to rinse away the hurt
that was caused by the man
who took her innocence
away.

The mirror of water rippled away
with a touch from
the same finger
she used to point
at him in accusation
when she caught him
with that other girl
who looked just
like the reflection

she was staring at 
right now.

Thursday, December 10, 2015

where we lose humanity

there are those
who are radicalized
by cheap smiles
and designer suits.

their colors show
when their hate
is sparked
through anger and fear.

they fear others
like them,
those who may
do harm with bitter
     intention,
with misplaced
scrutiny,
with dire intent.

radicals are all
the same.
they use images of terror
to herd the masses.

they use flowery tongues
to misrepresent the truth.

they hide as common men
with a common goals,
and claim a common enemy.

they are the spark that
sets the fire
that rages in the hearts
of little men.

they become tyrants,
and millions
fall
by their foolish
endeavors.

Monday, December 7, 2015

percentages

there are
approximately
283 million
guns
in the United States.
less than 1%
of those guns
have committed
mass murder.
85%
of the mass
homicides
are committed
by men.
100% of men
rely on oxygen
to survive.
12 + 6 = 18
there are 318.9 million
people in the United States.
1 in 3 American households
own guns.
25% of Americans acknowledged
they were superstitious.
3% of murders are committed
with legally purchased guns.
14.5% of Americans live
below the poverty line.
approximately 34% of Americans
18 years or older have a college
education.
1.3% of all deaths in
the United States
are related to guns.
there 30,800 fatal car crashes each year
on American roadways.
there are 11,208 deaths a year
by gun related homicide.
15,206 people die
every year from poisoning.
5,800 deaths a year are work related.
1 + 1 = 3

Sunday, December 6, 2015

watch it walk slowly

   no one wants to visit
              the harsh reality
      that the days
                     are slipping away
               and there might not be
                        enough time
                   to make time for time.

it is always tomorrow
                        or the next day,
         feeding the minutes away
                for just one more moment,
         another chance to get it down,
                                       get it done.
but it all falls apart
                           and what was most important
                    gets pushed aside
            for what needs to happen now.

an endless,
                   circular motion,
                                              coming back
                       upon itself.

crazy, bark-eyed men shuffling along
to the music that plays in their own
rattling heads, looking for a few more
minutes to drum up a symphony, but
the orchestra never arrives.

no one wants to visit the harsh reality
that you truly die alone, and all the
friends in the world can't bring you
down that winding road.

so we wait,
                   shaking off the sand,
              and it gathers
                              @ our feet
           only to restrict our movements
                     more and more.

                              but nobody listens,
                                      and the flowers
                                      get cast aside

                                    for bigger,
                                              better
                                                    guns.


Wednesday, December 2, 2015

legal junkies

there's this thing
called oil.
it is becoming so scarce
that we are using
more expensive ways
to extract it from
the Earth.

it is not only used
to fuel
the vast majority
of our vehicles,
but also to provide
energy to nearly
every region of our planet.
plastics, pharmaceuticals,
hygiene products, clothing,
industrial additives...
the list goes on and on.

we create wars to
secure more of this precious
elixir because
we are becoming desperate.
we destabilize the Earth's
surface to extract much less of
this resource just to keep
it flowing.

it is not because we don't
have other means to utilize.
it is because it's cheap,
and reaps the most profit
in the least amount of time.

no one that you know is getting
rich off of oil. oil profits are reserved
for the wealthiest people.

these are the people that are
in charge. they pull
the strings. and
they will make all of us
go away because of their greed.

because oil also destroys
the climate of our
increasingly fragile planet.

no more farms. no more lumber.
no more oceans, streams, or rivers.
no more middle class. no more
poor. and eventually, no more rich.
we're all losing ground to
a dying resource
held captive
by the insanity of greed.

because the reality is that
greed is a sickness
and should be treated as such.
because only the sick
would destroy their only
home in exchange
for a temporary high.
greed is an addiction.
and like all addictions,
if it goes unchecked,
it will only lead to
more excuses to maintain
that addiction.