you stopped caring about yourself around the same time that
she stopped fighting, which is
to say circa 1977, when president
jimmy carter asked you to turn down your heat, wear
a sweater, and you still trusted that things could change
so you wore two and shut your heat
off. she was no longer the beauty you married circa 1960, which is
to say that she let herself go, which is to
say that you'd never loved her more.

now you're dead and she doesn't even
know it, but here i am getting ahead of myself again
and here you are hiding in the ground. i'm asking you to wake
up and you tell me no for the first time. your eyes stay shut.
now you're dead.

you finally gave up on keeping her home circa
2011, and you institutionalized her, and nothing had ever
hurt more. you stayed home alone. you
went to church. you visited her every day, and you prayed,
and nothing ever changed.

you went to the doctor. you died. you got cancer.
those aren't in the right order but you know
the story by
now. you can sort it
out.

you left me and i never even wrote that thank-you card that i thought about
for years, but i promise, i thought about it. i thought about
you.

here she is alone, here she is
trapped in her mind, here she is forgetting
you while you love her, here you are
six feet under, you silly goose. come home, we miss
you. come home, there's kolbas and solina and anything you
want, just come home already.

After work, we visited Uncle S----. I haven't
seen him in years, and he's not doing well.
He's moved in with R-- and L--- after time in
the hospital for chemo and even rehabilitative
care. He's lost a lot of weight. But what's worse
than the cancer ("everywhere", as M----
described it) is how sad he looked when he told
us about his 52nd anniversary. He gave Aunt
L------ a card and she looked at it for a
moment, then handed it back to him without
a word. I can tell it's rough for him, being
away from his wife - physically and emotionally.
They say she doesn't really communicate
with anyone much. I think it's killing both of
them.

i never wrote you a thank-you
note. i wrote you a eulogy three weeks before
you died. i brought cake but you're dead,
i cried for a week but you're dead.
i'm still crying. you're still dead.

i wonder if she remembers you at all.

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a quaint english archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.





Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills


So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.

It's hard for me to say
But I can't deny it.
It's true;
I nearly died today

I nearly became number 52
And counting.
And I wasn't afraid for me,
I was afraid for you.

I feared ceasing to exist
For the first time in my life.
Because I was not to be forgotten
But missed.

Men will fight for glory lost,
But live forever in holocaust.
Some will find their meaning to life.
Most will die in painful strife.

Pain! Pain! And dark blood stains cover the fields of glory.
Rain! Rain! Men fell like rain fighting on fields of glory.

Now the battle cry is heard.
Some will live, some won’t return.
Charging lines of men will find
That violence marks their end of time.

Pain! Pain! And dark blood stains cover the fields of glory.
Rain! Rain! Men fell like rain and litter the fields of glory.

A father, a son, a brother gone,
Torn away and made a pawn.
Mothers and children left alone,
Left with only empty homes.

Pain! Pain! Men died in vain, all on the fields of glory.
Pain! Pain! Too many were slain to bring to an end this story.

You see the knife in my hand
The blood across my face
Drenching my clothes
The intestines spilled across the floor
I'm guilty officer
I'm the psychopath
Who ripped the stomach open
Bled the corpse dry
Bathed in its blood
I ran barbed-wire through its temple
I played the xylophone on its ribs
I'm guilty officer
Arrest me please
Wait you can't
You're hanging from the ceiling
Hooks running through your chest
Precise enough so you wont die quickly
I'm guilty officer
You can't do anything
Your poor wife died
You watched it unfold
The constant stabbing
The thrusting of my blade
Yes officer
It's her blood I'm drenched in
Your sons intestines
Your daughters temple now apart of my fence
I'm guilty officer
Nothing you can do to stop me
I am fucking death
Now bear witness to your own fate

If what you say is true,
that your soul has died and
your heart has burst into flames,
then when I attend to your rotting being,
you wont be pushing up daisies
but rather, barbed wire and sandpaper.
Your cataclysmic life, as you refer to it,
has come to a jarring halt
like the tires that skidded but
couldn't save Janey when that
driver of drunken proportions
swerved into her path.
All of your compassions and pride have
drowned in the ocean of regret and sadness.
The same water that, on your first date,
she choked on after you made her laugh
so hard, it later spouted from her nose.
Sir, think back to who you were when she still walked this dirt.
Everything you were reflected in how she loved you.
Or, better yet, strangle yourself with the string of curses
she spat at you when she discovered your affair.
Your heir blooms in another woman's garden.

And in that garden lies a grave marker that reads: For Janey