Lately I can recall the scent of damp wheat grass,
and smears of red clay on my calves,
at the end of each day when I wandered home
accidentally dirty, and purposefully human;
a child of the earth who found unity, easily.
Bury me back in the moss garden, and carve my name on the stones
where I once crushed berries
and painted my cheeks, as
an adolescent nomad celebrating dirt and singing for
sky, while the cows were my companions and the birds,
my messengers of joy.
Take me back there one day, to rest
in final slumber.
Then, perhaps I can feel the ceaseless wonder
that once I felt when
I brushed my hand against the bark of a tree,
if now this life can no longer give me as much.
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest
art
"We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."
"You have to die a few times before you can really
live."
When I get lost I depend on you
to help me find my way but lately
I can't see because of the weight
of what I'm missing.
Will it ever cease?
For a while your love was enough;
shit, it should still be enough but
my brain’s imbalance
is fucking me over with
constant neediness of something,
like a craving for citrus or salt…
I’ll try anything to make
the need go away
and I already have.
Many work well but not for long,
others work fast but not as strong,
The best work fast and leave no trace,
but ask for more, and more,
and more until without
you just might die,
and with,
you're just getting by,
the deceptive little fuckers
will eat you up in the end,
while you chase the need
and wish you could go back
to where you didn't know
what you know now.
but would it matter?
They say to be partial to only one
is fortunate. I don’t buy it.
I try to replace the one with
combinations of 3 or 4
but shit, they will never do
for me what one did.
I won’t say what one is for me
but you know what one is for you,
and if by chance
your one is more than one
I pray God have mercy on you
because fighting one battle
is battle enough.
Have you ever considered that
to be clean means to live
every day for the rest of your life
with complete knowledge that
you will never, ever, as long as you live
feel as good as you did the first time?
I give in once in a while,
then go cold and sweat for a week.
You know you’re fucked
When the suffering is worth it.
she's desperately
rummaging
for the few remaining shards of modesty—
'cause yeah, they'll bite into her palms
but the heaviness of a reputation
is pounding her flat.
blood throbs in her veins.
it's the only credible evidence she has
that this isn't some
sick
twisted
semi-permanent nightmare—
no, she's not lucky enough to sleep.
the room's a child's diary
left out in the rain
and everything she owns
is soaked in memory
manifested
as salt
and water
and black spider stains on the pillowcase.
and they build webs in her head
and they whisper feed us!
so she cries a little harder to appease them—
after all
their silk is lashed around her wrists
and it's the only type of contact she has left.
my poor cones and rods
are victims of a sensual seclusion
when every hue begs to be seen
with cookie-cutter eyes
vacant as atheist heaven
mindless obedience and the train’s track
figure eight with fingers crossed—
we are putting the plea in “please”
tied crudely to the rails
as the engines
swift as rabbits in heat
decapitate us
and how long our last night lasted
i couldn’t say
before your teeth drew iron blood
a vibrant tongue
crippled crimson
from the moment we unzipped
i was speechless.
what's the point of buying a portrait if you are blind?
nothing i would see is worth my precious time—
just more metal, bad skin, and tired, jealous eyes
senseless sensibility is a cold kettle boiling,
nonsense steam fogs up the jaded glass.
draw a picture with your finger,
smile as it fades to apathy,
all that lovely water turned to gas.
i lick my palms to play pretend with illness,
stay in bed with the quilt kicked off-kilter,
crawling with the brood of the six-legged past;
they are eating the nests of the threatened, bitter future
change the cable channels in my brain,
but only stations two and five are clear,
and eight if a wire coat-hanger antenna
is bent at an angle from my dominant ear
so i can sit, content, and watch the weather
sneaking in exhaust from every orifice
gets me passed out stupid every time;
a coping mechanism,
coated shit between the gears,
and only this pollution left behind.
What was it?
I was nothing, sitting on an ant farm couch.
We were all coming home drunk
In intervals
And taking off our clothes sliding into bed
With our respectives.
I was an ant on a farm,
Digging in lines of people
What will I do when my parents are gone?
You morbid little fuck.
Lucky little me, born. Significant as
An ant on a farm
Or all alone where I'm just as real
As the people who talk to me
At parties or in my mind.
There blow their lost dreams
among tincans and wind
throwing newspaper around. . .
on a stale bed with rosebuds scent
of cheap liquor
and black trash bags plastic
,lays a man himself down.
The dumpster smells strong
but there's a breeze billowing
down the alley at dawn
and the only thing that stays
in the nostrils is cat
but only one can be seen
stalking a rat who is invisible
,to all, but to the ear's audible.
At the bottom of the concrete canyon
between the big buildings of silent sleepers
offering unemphatic zzz's pneumatically
lies a man himself dead
for no one sleeps ,if so, not long
under the neon signs
,lost dreams.
You'll never believe this
but,
I drank from God's flask the other day.
Yeah,
Convinced that it was half full
Of conscientiousness.
Of hope, or passion, or honesty,
or somethingworthgivingashitabout.
For it had once appeared to many,
A beautiful and grand canteen,
Forged of liquid silver.
And as I allowed the contents to inwardly surge,
I realized that it had plunged into the same carnal vessel
From whence it came,
And the lining of my body had been holding the ancient linings of other bodies,
Reincarnate.
Romantic,
If that's the way you wanna slice it.
But
There is a recipe for such rapture,
And it's been written on pages much less holy than the Bible--
On the coffee stained clipboards of chemists
And the meticulous manuscripts of mathematicians.
It's made out of the same shit that everything else is made of:
Out of the same force that makes you float when you sit in the dead sea,
Out of your body's sweat after a hard day's work,
Out of the blood in your veins.
Salt.
All of it, everything, everyone,
Salt.
Dissolved, crystallized, harvested, ingested,
Redissolved, recrystallized, and the cycle repeated.
