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