High, spacy, and hot,
wanting to write, but
not.
Too free floating, the thoughts
free will has brought.
Now, the paper is too torn in two;
Free will has wrought--
painfully pleasing…
destructive desire…
Gas City (one mile away)-- hard-on-for you.
Free will, so I see (on streets):
Some dance alone with hands raised to the sky,
some smoke Fentanyl patches,
with raccoon-like, dark, saggy eyes.
Free will, so
we’re vain, looking for ourselves in everything.
My own interest.
Free will, but
it’s weird seeing you
after not seeing you for so long.
After
it spoiled
my hands were soiled
from the flesh of another human being.
28 October 2010
06 July 2010
In Response to Your Suicide Note
Speaking to a lover of the past in dreams;
his expression is flat, he doesn’t hear me.
I'm invoking a blank wall
textured, painted cream cinder blocks of a prison
strapped to babies’ chests in a boiling bath,
summoning across the whole, wide world.
He doesn’t respond--
not to pins and needles
stabbing him full of steroids,
not to my dearest caresses
and loving gestures.
He won't even spit It back out at me.
Null.
Did my bleeding roses lie untouched
upon the shadowy, now empty stage?
No. No. No.
I am the puppet master not the puppet,
you see.
If I so desire, you'll respond to me.
“I’ll show you,” I said,
but instead
I showed myself:
being true to me means knowing what I need
and choosing who I am and am going to be.
Not your baby doll, or your desperate whore,
or par for the course in low self-esteem.
You showed me.
You are the puppet master not the puppet,
I’d see.
If you so desire, I will respond to you.
You died that day.
Put a noose around your fucking neck,
the whole world melted away.
They won’t even let me read your suicide note.
I’m just your ex-girlfriend.
Now here I dance, in pink, with other men,
planning my own permanent solution.
Dear World; I wonder if you’ve been okay without me.
Wonder if I’ll ever see you again.
Who was I when I thought I lost myself?
Not dancing, but... but... being pulled by
the puppet strings, attached to my limbs from yours,
covered myself with a thick layer of oil paint and glitter,
exposed myself to loud incessant rhythm of suicide bombers
always always trying to be free but never being free,
with whiskey blades and the chiming buzzing insistent
radio tv, linoleum electric turntables dreams and visions,
but there’s this love in me that keeps me stable, drifting,
afloat in the ocean, sinking, lifting, hurricanes & strife,
along in the River of Life.
You showed it to me when I had all those questions,
that could only be answered at the End of your life:
I really don’t know exactly who I am and am going to be,
but I’m One with the Universe and it’s
here on these pages
everyone I meet
forming One True Big Picture.
I’m learning how to live, even when in the corner of my eye,
shape shifters slide by; proceed with precaution to
the light and movement of the safe sanctuary,
quiet and serene spaces each sacred feeling
graduates, gently sloping, carrying me
along and that might make me a puppet on a string,
but my life isn’t over yet, I’ll never know what (if not null) it truly meant.
2009-2010
Aside: This poem was started 10 November 2009. RIP Sgt. D.J. Kirkland 20 March 2010. Somehow, I must have already known what was coming.
05 July 2010
MUSICAL CHAIRS
The friction of Just Being Alive
dissolves when I'm with you.
The jazz slides into me smoothly,
like milk-- cooly encapsulating the raging stomach.
Everything disappears--
pretzelled, entwined in your arms,
my Cave,
we're both safe from the elements.
My guts rebel at the realization that
THE TIMING MIGHT BE WRONG,
or, quite frankly,
THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING
REALLY WRONG WITH ME.
And you'll eventually see.
For you, happiness comes so naturally,
slinking back is easy,
your music is all you really need.
Inside me, the clock of inner dialogue ticks,
never satisfied.
Your answers to my questions, repeated, are so ambiguous.
I dug myself into a pit extemporaneously.
Now expectations, also known as hopes and dreams,
float free from me not freeing me,
I'm just trying to be too controlling.
The waves (sound, light, sea) are rolling over me,
trying to flood my raft
in a sea of men, but you, my dear,
are the one I want--
to guide me on our misguided trip through
a jungle of possibilities.
Would any amount of love
be enough for you to want to hold onto it?
You're wearing a question mark
on the deep and empty mirror, your face,
grab on to strangle you, strangle my
fear of being replaced.
Why would I become exactly what I hate?
I wouldn't have done this at 8 years old,
but now I'm caving
in under the pressure of your strangle-hold arms.
I can't heal you,
or even my own big old bruise.
My world used to begin and end with you,
the ultimate Muse,
now that phantasm disappeared, I'm alone
(even in this city, I have no real home).
Rain drips from the roof,
tapping me on the shoulder,
reminds me just because I'm older
doesn't mean I became any tougher.
What would hurt me then
STILL WILL HURT ME NOW.
I wonder if what you say isn't what you mean,
but a backhanded, lame ass attempt at comforting
and shutting up
the growls coming guttural out of my gut,
to bathe in the juices of my hungry, hungry cunt.
The only thing I knew to say was, "I love you."
I told you that I did, trying to kid myself
into believing (the man-perfected, all pervasive)
"your hard cock means you love me,
if not then I'm ugly."
The whole fucking thing was a sham,
product of a bored imagination.
You are: a hot shell of aesthetic proportions;
I projected Prince Charming, a vivid, stunning
DISTORTION.
But now, that's over, this story has been told.
I never got your love.
Go back to the beginning and repeat,
when the music that you feed me
with rough, soft (piano) hands
comes to its last, limp beat,
I'll have to take another seat.
May-July 2010
dissolves when I'm with you.
The jazz slides into me smoothly,
like milk-- cooly encapsulating the raging stomach.
Everything disappears--
pretzelled, entwined in your arms,
my Cave,
we're both safe from the elements.
My guts rebel at the realization that
THE TIMING MIGHT BE WRONG,
or, quite frankly,
THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING
REALLY WRONG WITH ME.
And you'll eventually see.
For you, happiness comes so naturally,
slinking back is easy,
your music is all you really need.
Inside me, the clock of inner dialogue ticks,
never satisfied.
Your answers to my questions, repeated, are so ambiguous.
I dug myself into a pit extemporaneously.
Now expectations, also known as hopes and dreams,
float free from me not freeing me,
I'm just trying to be too controlling.
The waves (sound, light, sea) are rolling over me,
trying to flood my raft
in a sea of men, but you, my dear,
are the one I want--
to guide me on our misguided trip through
a jungle of possibilities.
Would any amount of love
be enough for you to want to hold onto it?
You're wearing a question mark
on the deep and empty mirror, your face,
grab on to strangle you, strangle my
fear of being replaced.
Why would I become exactly what I hate?
I wouldn't have done this at 8 years old,
but now I'm caving
in under the pressure of your strangle-hold arms.
I can't heal you,
or even my own big old bruise.
My world used to begin and end with you,
the ultimate Muse,
now that phantasm disappeared, I'm alone
(even in this city, I have no real home).
Rain drips from the roof,
tapping me on the shoulder,
reminds me just because I'm older
doesn't mean I became any tougher.
What would hurt me then
STILL WILL HURT ME NOW.
I wonder if what you say isn't what you mean,
but a backhanded, lame ass attempt at comforting
and shutting up
the growls coming guttural out of my gut,
to bathe in the juices of my hungry, hungry cunt.
The only thing I knew to say was, "I love you."
I told you that I did, trying to kid myself
into believing (the man-perfected, all pervasive)
"your hard cock means you love me,
if not then I'm ugly."
The whole fucking thing was a sham,
product of a bored imagination.
You are: a hot shell of aesthetic proportions;
I projected Prince Charming, a vivid, stunning
DISTORTION.
But now, that's over, this story has been told.
I never got your love.
Go back to the beginning and repeat,
when the music that you feed me
with rough, soft (piano) hands
comes to its last, limp beat,
I'll have to take another seat.
May-July 2010
26 February 2010
A Year's TIME
Poems that I did not previously post for one reason or another. I am currently working on a play, so I may not post anything for awhile.
Untitled
Female climax
is not required
for procreation.
Will you say I’m beautiful if I let you breathe the cunt juices of yellow woman
down my neck?
Will you match my gaze if I am:
on my knees
with lips around your cock
swallowing deep & begging with my eyes?
Will you bring me pleasure if I lie by saying it feels good?
Will you Love Me Forever if my continual gratification
of your sexual desires
(without any myself)
is unspoken, understood?
January 2010
Hazy Frame of Reference
In the dirty, black broken glass back alley deserted in the vacuum that is my mind,
why are you there? what have you gotten into? Why do these glutton, mindfuck, greedy not Buddha—and is Buddha—sanctuary of smutty words and unwarranted tits in your face fingers in your hair play, rewinding spindly Nature, spooling through my subconscious mind all night?
Whether to kill you or send you a love letter, I don’t know, no Knowledge, weren’t we here once!
Packed in pork hides with our hot flesh and rough hands—eyeing eachother madly on the Banks of Eternity,
ready to cash in our shells,
drive away, or else be driven away,
Song parade of imagination, Batman of fatalist thoughts, shaking down to the bones, like twilight,
like grey, dim, pinking Indianapolis sunrises and sunsets, over & over in some warehouse, abandoned, powerlines of mind bouncing SHOCK THE LIFE OUT OF ME
whole world grey, grey hazing over, there is nothing left, Slanted Eyebrows, where did you go no way of telling where I am now without the Light, or if I am, or how to go over there from here, there’s no perspective, no street signs to speak of the Antichrist. You, yourself distorted image of god, Serial Killers, on antipsychotics—sociopaths, sinking into 10 feet of snow outside—This is a myth of my own creation.
Close encounters keeping us hard, fast from seeing & being the ultimate truth that lies in the back-lack of my skull, sitting in a hipstercafe (downtown), legs spread with a fat dildo, I’m not going, to try to, Push, Clogging up my Canal, You. Keep…keep…keep trying to push It out in the warm, crowded coffeehouse with a snowfort of Indians out front, I dream about you, lost, every night. for one week now (but not tomorrow since I’m writing this) The person inside me, living there: am I you am I afraid you’re in my soul??
Winter 2009
Untitled
Female climax
is not required
for procreation.
Will you say I’m beautiful if I let you breathe the cunt juices of yellow woman
down my neck?
Will you match my gaze if I am:
on my knees
with lips around your cock
swallowing deep & begging with my eyes?
Will you bring me pleasure if I lie by saying it feels good?
Will you Love Me Forever if my continual gratification
of your sexual desires
(without any myself)
is unspoken, understood?
January 2010
Hazy Frame of Reference
In the dirty, black broken glass back alley deserted in the vacuum that is my mind,
why are you there? what have you gotten into? Why do these glutton, mindfuck, greedy not Buddha—and is Buddha—sanctuary of smutty words and unwarranted tits in your face fingers in your hair play, rewinding spindly Nature, spooling through my subconscious mind all night?
Whether to kill you or send you a love letter, I don’t know, no Knowledge, weren’t we here once!
Packed in pork hides with our hot flesh and rough hands—eyeing eachother madly on the Banks of Eternity,
ready to cash in our shells,
drive away, or else be driven away,
Song parade of imagination, Batman of fatalist thoughts, shaking down to the bones, like twilight,
like grey, dim, pinking Indianapolis sunrises and sunsets, over & over in some warehouse, abandoned, powerlines of mind bouncing SHOCK THE LIFE OUT OF ME
whole world grey, grey hazing over, there is nothing left, Slanted Eyebrows, where did you go no way of telling where I am now without the Light, or if I am, or how to go over there from here, there’s no perspective, no street signs to speak of the Antichrist. You, yourself distorted image of god, Serial Killers, on antipsychotics—sociopaths, sinking into 10 feet of snow outside—This is a myth of my own creation.
Close encounters keeping us hard, fast from seeing & being the ultimate truth that lies in the back-lack of my skull, sitting in a hipstercafe (downtown), legs spread with a fat dildo, I’m not going, to try to, Push, Clogging up my Canal, You. Keep…keep…keep trying to push It out in the warm, crowded coffeehouse with a snowfort of Indians out front, I dream about you, lost, every night. for one week now (but not tomorrow since I’m writing this) The person inside me, living there: am I you am I afraid you’re in my soul??
Winter 2009
14 February 2010
Arbitrarily Chosen Title
All of our dreams were just
the refuse of thought.
Random selections from experience
sloppily copied and pasted,
to form a beast to overcome, or ignore.
Not only Dreams of Sleep
but all we aspired to do:
arbitrary pursuit of happiness;
pursuing misery is just as deep and worthwhile.
Self-centered, shallow,
everything we do is hollow,
shake the Present to guess what’s inside--
some mystery
rattling around in empty space.
America’s saga of war, laminated paper-torn
brutality: WMD’S to temporarily deter PRP’S.
Black backdrop.
SHE is bound and hogtied on a stage
he’s aiming a sleek and miniature handheld Stryker, debating whether or not to strike her with it,
and spontaneously shoots.
JORGE I love you….
It’s moving and
goes through her.
SHE I never asked for a second hand, but you gave me one anyway.
Waiting for the part where she loses consciousness, and she is almost to the point where everything goes away for good... Then she realizes she is not going to, composes herself. The backdrop changes from black to white.
JORGE I’m glad you didn’t die. I love you.
SHE, like a selfish little girl--pink cheeks, bloodshot eyes—was criticizing her corporal suit,
in the reflection on the microwave door,
hypocrite, her hypothetically insane
(see disabled: crazy and lazy)
mind
(all the thoughts leading up to now)
of memory foam
springing from its pores, decompressing in random rambling,
isolated tirade;
the clock, digital
THESE are the numbers: you don’t have to count (for your whole life, they’ll be counting down anyway),
struck midnight
(open late for owls and bats)
and the day begun.
SHE Rotender, Rotender,
Wherefore is my Rotender?
Opening up cupboards, swimming through dishes, scraping the roof of the microwave; flakes of packaged food, exploded.
SYLVIA Oh stupid, don’t you see
you have not fed me. Also I would
like to be pet. Why are you so stupid?
Why so human?
SHE Are you always awake this late?
Distorted creature of the darkness
you are,
yet so enlightened,
why ever do I feed you
when I should just drown you?
And, where the fore is my Rotender?
SYLVIA All things end that began,
but do all things that
have ended
eventually begin again?
Your Rotender is gone,
so you should stop questioning why
and waste your time more wisely.
By feeding me.
SHE slides on socks, stoned, to the cat food cupboard; a stingy, plastic, pizza joint cupful of kibble is produced and poured for the cat to casually nibble—by smacking it out of the dish and eating it off the floor.
SHE (Reluctantly) The best replacement for flesh is food.
(Melodramatically) Delightful Animal Biscuits,
where are you?
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS appear.
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS Pick me, pick me!
SHE grabs them, slams the cupboard door and, like a karate superhero, traverses the stairs 2, 3, 4 at a time. Instantly, in the long, dark, winding staircase SHE arrives at a door, opens it, and steps into a room.
In the small cramped, Eastern decorated room—walls covered with pictures of goddesses, mirrors, little plaques with inspirational words, plants and books covering the tops of the antique tables—a small, thin bearded man with icy blue, tired eyes is telling a story.
TIRED MAN I was camping up in the mountains in Wyoming back in ’72 for a couple of weeks. I got myself turned around, lost, and ran outta food. In those woods with no one else around, I walked and walked for a day and a half, cold and lost with no sense of direction.
It was so dark you couldn’t see anything, far from the light pollution of the cities. My boots soaked through from the rain. By the time I found a road, I didn’t know whether I was in Montana or Wyoming. Highway 16 runs east and west.
I hitchhiked down that road for hours and no one would pick me up, so when one stopped for me I tried to figure if he was a preacher or a fag.
When I got in, he says, “I’m just going to tell you straightforward that I’ve got a revolver on the back seat.” And so I says, “ Well I ain’t got no weapons, so don’t worry.”
I started to take off my boots right away. It hurt more with them off than on, all that water compressing your skin, so you end up with these sores. I’ll tell ya, that felt like giving birth. Giving birth through your foot.
I realized once I had those boots off and was a bit warmed up that the guy was shifting his car all funny. I looked over to see that he didn’t have any legs: he had to do the breaks and gas with his hands.
I just broke down. I started bawling. We were going 70 miles an hour down a mountain highway where it was pouring so hard you couldn’t see 10 feet in front of you and this guy was watchin’ me like it was a soap opera. I looked up at him and said, “Man, I was just stranded in those mountains for 2 days and my feet hurt so bad. I had wondered if there was anyone else who had it worse than me. But I get a ride from a stranger in a gold Cadillac with no legs.”
The stranger looked me in the eyes, said, “I would give everything I have to be stranded in the mountains with my boots soaked through.”
JORGE My boots soaked through in the War on Terror,
when I was alone for seven nights in the woods,
trailing before my eyes,
nightmares
seven nights in a row:
America itself rejected me.
I saw some distortion of your new reality.
Guilty.
Anxiety.
Goddamn was I stubborn to protect what was mine and the fact that it was mine, the possessiveness of an animal and with claws to tear off the face of the Threat
A photograph of America (these “United” States),
thinks it’s sovereign,
why don’t you try to step off the edge of the USA
into blank, white, laminated emptiness:
Beyond this,
there is nothing.
Gotta be okay that I just can’t know how this will end:
I am the threat.
I’m looking in the mirror and I have no identity now.
This isn’t me.
SHE How I long for disillusionment
from this hell, society shit of globalization,
warming,
every inch and second saturated with ants swarming…
SHE Opens the screenless window, bends her whole body over the sill, looks down to the pavement.
SHE The choice we make
for eupathy
to live, die, adopt apathy,
is arbitrary—
If this is all there is of me,
how can I ever truly be free?
St. Valentine's Day 2010
the refuse of thought.
Random selections from experience
sloppily copied and pasted,
to form a beast to overcome, or ignore.
Not only Dreams of Sleep
but all we aspired to do:
arbitrary pursuit of happiness;
pursuing misery is just as deep and worthwhile.
Self-centered, shallow,
everything we do is hollow,
shake the Present to guess what’s inside--
some mystery
rattling around in empty space.
America’s saga of war, laminated paper-torn
brutality: WMD’S to temporarily deter PRP’S.
Black backdrop.
SHE is bound and hogtied on a stage
he’s aiming a sleek and miniature handheld Stryker, debating whether or not to strike her with it,
and spontaneously shoots.
JORGE I love you….
It’s moving and
goes through her.
SHE I never asked for a second hand, but you gave me one anyway.
Waiting for the part where she loses consciousness, and she is almost to the point where everything goes away for good... Then she realizes she is not going to, composes herself. The backdrop changes from black to white.
JORGE I’m glad you didn’t die. I love you.
SHE, like a selfish little girl--pink cheeks, bloodshot eyes—was criticizing her corporal suit,
in the reflection on the microwave door,
hypocrite, her hypothetically insane
(see disabled: crazy and lazy)
mind
(all the thoughts leading up to now)
of memory foam
springing from its pores, decompressing in random rambling,
isolated tirade;
the clock, digital
THESE are the numbers: you don’t have to count (for your whole life, they’ll be counting down anyway),
struck midnight
(open late for owls and bats)
and the day begun.
SHE Rotender, Rotender,
Wherefore is my Rotender?
Opening up cupboards, swimming through dishes, scraping the roof of the microwave; flakes of packaged food, exploded.
SYLVIA Oh stupid, don’t you see
you have not fed me. Also I would
like to be pet. Why are you so stupid?
Why so human?
SHE Are you always awake this late?
Distorted creature of the darkness
you are,
yet so enlightened,
why ever do I feed you
when I should just drown you?
And, where the fore is my Rotender?
SYLVIA All things end that began,
but do all things that
have ended
eventually begin again?
Your Rotender is gone,
so you should stop questioning why
and waste your time more wisely.
By feeding me.
SHE slides on socks, stoned, to the cat food cupboard; a stingy, plastic, pizza joint cupful of kibble is produced and poured for the cat to casually nibble—by smacking it out of the dish and eating it off the floor.
SHE (Reluctantly) The best replacement for flesh is food.
(Melodramatically) Delightful Animal Biscuits,
where are you?
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS appear.
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS Pick me, pick me!
SHE grabs them, slams the cupboard door and, like a karate superhero, traverses the stairs 2, 3, 4 at a time. Instantly, in the long, dark, winding staircase SHE arrives at a door, opens it, and steps into a room.
In the small cramped, Eastern decorated room—walls covered with pictures of goddesses, mirrors, little plaques with inspirational words, plants and books covering the tops of the antique tables—a small, thin bearded man with icy blue, tired eyes is telling a story.
TIRED MAN I was camping up in the mountains in Wyoming back in ’72 for a couple of weeks. I got myself turned around, lost, and ran outta food. In those woods with no one else around, I walked and walked for a day and a half, cold and lost with no sense of direction.
It was so dark you couldn’t see anything, far from the light pollution of the cities. My boots soaked through from the rain. By the time I found a road, I didn’t know whether I was in Montana or Wyoming. Highway 16 runs east and west.
I hitchhiked down that road for hours and no one would pick me up, so when one stopped for me I tried to figure if he was a preacher or a fag.
When I got in, he says, “I’m just going to tell you straightforward that I’ve got a revolver on the back seat.” And so I says, “ Well I ain’t got no weapons, so don’t worry.”
I started to take off my boots right away. It hurt more with them off than on, all that water compressing your skin, so you end up with these sores. I’ll tell ya, that felt like giving birth. Giving birth through your foot.
I realized once I had those boots off and was a bit warmed up that the guy was shifting his car all funny. I looked over to see that he didn’t have any legs: he had to do the breaks and gas with his hands.
I just broke down. I started bawling. We were going 70 miles an hour down a mountain highway where it was pouring so hard you couldn’t see 10 feet in front of you and this guy was watchin’ me like it was a soap opera. I looked up at him and said, “Man, I was just stranded in those mountains for 2 days and my feet hurt so bad. I had wondered if there was anyone else who had it worse than me. But I get a ride from a stranger in a gold Cadillac with no legs.”
The stranger looked me in the eyes, said, “I would give everything I have to be stranded in the mountains with my boots soaked through.”
JORGE My boots soaked through in the War on Terror,
when I was alone for seven nights in the woods,
trailing before my eyes,
nightmares
seven nights in a row:
America itself rejected me.
I saw some distortion of your new reality.
Guilty.
Anxiety.
Goddamn was I stubborn to protect what was mine and the fact that it was mine, the possessiveness of an animal and with claws to tear off the face of the Threat
A photograph of America (these “United” States),
thinks it’s sovereign,
why don’t you try to step off the edge of the USA
into blank, white, laminated emptiness:
Beyond this,
there is nothing.
Gotta be okay that I just can’t know how this will end:
I am the threat.
I’m looking in the mirror and I have no identity now.
This isn’t me.
SHE How I long for disillusionment
from this hell, society shit of globalization,
warming,
every inch and second saturated with ants swarming…
SHE Opens the screenless window, bends her whole body over the sill, looks down to the pavement.
SHE The choice we make
for eupathy
to live, die, adopt apathy,
is arbitrary—
If this is all there is of me,
how can I ever truly be free?
St. Valentine's Day 2010
03 February 2010
ἀνωνυμία
In an effort to increase input of your opinions and thoughts, the Author now allows anonymous comments.
27 January 2010
Echo-Afterglow
Arms of torrential rain pour down in winter,
oh what we’ve done for warmth!
My blood circulates fast to fists, ultradian Cycling-- I am, instantly, tumultuously a god with superhero powers of invincibility, Flight, for the vapid rapid Fight.
A couple of degrees melt glaciers,
dissolves my integrity—
Who did I become for a moment?
Could I have been someone else or chosen different actions?
Unmethodical, impulsive in that moment, led only by the tick of the minute hand, clarified the speed of time passing, every second forgotten by the last.
I made the choice and, in doing so,
interpreted how I heard mankind’s voice.
What I heard him saying was far away from me, echoing through a disappearing forest that I could not see for its Trees.
I read deeper—
too deep, took it more seriously than it is from retrospect, panoramically ignored the ultimate context of introspect.
Should a Doctor prescribe glasses to help me see Right?
Do I need a Doctor to "convince me otherwise"?
Chemical reactions in the brain,
define what we know as pain.
Insignificant on the Out,
but I’m flying now—High above and faster and swimming drowning violently overhead,
a living ghost who haunts the Dead.
I peruse their bones for remnants of Value, dying gems may be buried among the maggots and skeletons, to be extracted and polished, vows renewed.
Ha!
I unfold wings and soar,
sun through the downpour
knowing all too well that the light will be matched by its opposite shadow—
for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Deep canyons are beveled out of flatlands,
which elevate gradually into the apex of a mount:
from the top I can only look down;
my vantage point
is the culmination of every action taken or not.
This place will keep getting hot.
Cold rain drops indiscriminately to the surface, flows down my face, foreign tears. I regret and am shameful of all I’ve done through fears.
Society drones outside my mind but (“The bane of gods and kings. The bitterness of knowing men are free.”) I am inside, lead-heavy. Asphyxiation. It is unaffected by what I choose to do.
My lungs are exploding,
and all red arrows point to You.
I was Wrong and am tainted forever by the (persistent) memory inside me, the afterglow of sin.
Cells respire “in the context” of this oil soaked ant hill, where I was born, will die. The oil and regret constitute my cells, me. We can’t overcome the species and medium we were born as, the TIME.
Who we are or ever could be is defined by the boundaries at TIME of origination:
117 elements in the periodic table,
X years elapsed before birth,
M minutes until death.
The walls of the box closed in
tighter from the pressure of innumerable forces.
We can’t even comprehend love or sin,
much less the effect of our choices.
The rope will pinch tightly
around my throat
only then I’ll be free
from the actions I chose.
oh what we’ve done for warmth!
My blood circulates fast to fists, ultradian Cycling-- I am, instantly, tumultuously a god with superhero powers of invincibility, Flight, for the vapid rapid Fight.
A couple of degrees melt glaciers,
dissolves my integrity—
Who did I become for a moment?
Could I have been someone else or chosen different actions?
Unmethodical, impulsive in that moment, led only by the tick of the minute hand, clarified the speed of time passing, every second forgotten by the last.
I made the choice and, in doing so,
interpreted how I heard mankind’s voice.
What I heard him saying was far away from me, echoing through a disappearing forest that I could not see for its Trees.
I read deeper—
too deep, took it more seriously than it is from retrospect, panoramically ignored the ultimate context of introspect.
Should a Doctor prescribe glasses to help me see Right?
Do I need a Doctor to "convince me otherwise"?
Chemical reactions in the brain,
define what we know as pain.
Insignificant on the Out,
but I’m flying now—High above and faster and swimming drowning violently overhead,
a living ghost who haunts the Dead.
I peruse their bones for remnants of Value, dying gems may be buried among the maggots and skeletons, to be extracted and polished, vows renewed.
Ha!
I unfold wings and soar,
sun through the downpour
knowing all too well that the light will be matched by its opposite shadow—
for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Deep canyons are beveled out of flatlands,
which elevate gradually into the apex of a mount:
from the top I can only look down;
my vantage point
is the culmination of every action taken or not.
This place will keep getting hot.
Cold rain drops indiscriminately to the surface, flows down my face, foreign tears. I regret and am shameful of all I’ve done through fears.
Society drones outside my mind but (“The bane of gods and kings. The bitterness of knowing men are free.”) I am inside, lead-heavy. Asphyxiation. It is unaffected by what I choose to do.
My lungs are exploding,
and all red arrows point to You.
I was Wrong and am tainted forever by the (persistent) memory inside me, the afterglow of sin.
Cells respire “in the context” of this oil soaked ant hill, where I was born, will die. The oil and regret constitute my cells, me. We can’t overcome the species and medium we were born as, the TIME.
Who we are or ever could be is defined by the boundaries at TIME of origination:
117 elements in the periodic table,
X years elapsed before birth,
M minutes until death.
The walls of the box closed in
tighter from the pressure of innumerable forces.
We can’t even comprehend love or sin,
much less the effect of our choices.
The rope will pinch tightly
around my throat
only then I’ll be free
from the actions I chose.
06 January 2010
Human Hatpin
for Franny
Trees thrive like eyes on potatoes,
growths,
natural driller rigs sucking out energy and nutrients,
but, somehow, living harmoniously.
Ultimately, we are all parasites.
Am I growing?
Am I changing?
Getting better or worse?
Wiser, stronger?
The critic in my head skews my perspective,
takes away from reality (as that which is),
changes me into this thing that wants something
separate from reality.
The critic wants.
It wants to do something, to be someone
to be somewhere different all the time.
It wants to have an intense epiphany.
Doesn’t know what to say to you when we’re sitting in a diner, drinking coffee at 2 a.m. or 11 a.m.
The critic has many jokes.
I, its vehicle, am empty of words to say them to you.
The parasite sucks life from life, is life.
Emptiness is freedom.
03 Jan 2010
The Dialogue of Our Wandering Minds
Lying,
her hands clasped
nude in the fetal position,
with a countenance apathetic
and heart resigned,
to the man
hurriedly
slipping back
into his soiled peel,
his hair disheveled,
cock still half erect,
heart concealed,
so he does not detect
dissatisfaction, and feels
oblivious
distracted
by prospect of food in the cupboard.
Lightning,
drool oozes into her hair.
On the climax of a steep cliff,
not the first time she’s been there,
but fear is her reason for
and impediment from
the obvious solution.
06 Jan 2010
for Franny
Trees thrive like eyes on potatoes,
growths,
natural driller rigs sucking out energy and nutrients,
but, somehow, living harmoniously.
Ultimately, we are all parasites.
Am I growing?
Am I changing?
Getting better or worse?
Wiser, stronger?
The critic in my head skews my perspective,
takes away from reality (as that which is),
changes me into this thing that wants something
separate from reality.
The critic wants.
It wants to do something, to be someone
to be somewhere different all the time.
It wants to have an intense epiphany.
Doesn’t know what to say to you when we’re sitting in a diner, drinking coffee at 2 a.m. or 11 a.m.
The critic has many jokes.
I, its vehicle, am empty of words to say them to you.
The parasite sucks life from life, is life.
Emptiness is freedom.
03 Jan 2010
The Dialogue of Our Wandering Minds
Lying,
her hands clasped
nude in the fetal position,
with a countenance apathetic
and heart resigned,
to the man
hurriedly
slipping back
into his soiled peel,
his hair disheveled,
cock still half erect,
heart concealed,
so he does not detect
dissatisfaction, and feels
oblivious
distracted
by prospect of food in the cupboard.
Lightning,
drool oozes into her hair.
On the climax of a steep cliff,
not the first time she’s been there,
but fear is her reason for
and impediment from
the obvious solution.
06 Jan 2010
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