No water tastes sweeter
then that sip in the desert
No touch is finer
then that hand on the shoulder
when encased in loneliness.
No paycheck more abundant
then following employment deprivation.
No buffet more filling
then that first bite in hunger.
No more wonderous serenity
then when the pain
finally goes away
from your mouth
No idea more stimulating
to a mind so hungry
then a poem which catches
the moment so perfectly.
No love more appreciated
then when awash in self judgement
No praise more received
then when lost in condemnation.
No warmth more soothing
then when lost in the snow.
No light so bright
as that first sunlight
when lost in the demons
of one's night.
No sensation so
pure as an open
heart after numbness descends
Compassion in hatred
A laugh when joyless.
A lover's kiss after betrayal
A loving look after the cold white wall
A loving word after tense stone silence.
No embrace more healing
then when you come home to me.
The receding waters after the tusnami
The stillness after the earthquake.
The peace after the warfare.
The spring flowers after the winter
The coolness of fall after the blistering summer's heat.
The wood stove so warm when the house is so cold.
No bed so content
No home so sweet
after being stuck out on the streets.
Without our joys no sorrow
Without our sorrows no joy.
I wonder if as you read this
If you really do remember
Me, one of your close friends
Your date to the dance in November
I met you the Thursday before
My first day at this new school
You were about to be a senior
I thought you were so cool
We didn't really talk much
Until October came around
And it was a kind heart and soul
In you that I found
We talked every night from then on
About almost everything
On love, on loss, on moving on
About challenges life will bring
When I was in a bad time
And didn't feel the need to leave
My house, you told me we could go to the dance
And find a dress with no sleeve
We went shopping and you picked
A gorgeous, sleeveless black dress
Once I put it on, I felt more confident
Since usually I'm in distress
And then we went to the dance that night
People found it funny you were my date
Cause we were both girls but no one cared
There was nothing to hate
We danced all night and you helped me
Whenever it was going bad
But thanks to you, overall
It was a fun time to be had
You got me to do things
I never thought I could
To dance with boys and be myself
I never thought I would
We got lost going home
And ended up in a bad place
But we just asked Geoffrey, your British GPS
As we had a smile on our face
The weeks that have followed
That one crazy night
Have been full of helping others
That's something, alright
You've helped make sure that I don't
Make bad decisions after nine
Showing me that even though I'm single
Everything will be fine
You say I will find someone
And I feel better knowing that
There's someone out there to cherish me
I won't have just a cat
You've helped me to regain confidence
Killed by a person before
And whenever my legs get better
It'll open another door
You give me hope that life will be better
In the form of texts and a smile
To have met someone as wonderful as you
I'm really in denial
You have really changed my life
In the four months you've been here
Helping to make me smile
To fight away my fear
I don't know if you remember
But you're one of my best friends
And I promise I'll be here long after
All of this pain ends
Hi, I'm that clarinetist you met
The short one without a clue
You may not remember me now
But I can't forget you.
I'm a seeker,
that's what the ink blots say.
I look for patterns
in the cracks on the sidewalk.
I read my bible in the dark corners
trying to find a purpose,
hiding my shame.
I look inside trash cans
for left overs
and disregarded secrets.
and I try to find a mystery
in the smiles.
Maybe an untold story
that was never good enough
to tell over a late night dinner.
Like the time you killed
and after all these years
you still feel guilty.
Or the time you put
change inside of a pizza box
before you threw it out
just in case someone rummaging
through the trash found it.
And the irony hurts
because life has a terrible sense of humor.
I hold the crucifix in my left hand
The hand that's been mutilated
Nerve damage done
It rests easy in this hand
peacefully in this hand
"it's not your fault."
"it's not your fault."
Yes it is
Yes it is
I need special radiation to restore my power
It (the radiation) comes from TV
There’s radiation in concrete
I have to wear special shoes
Nobody has any faces anymore
Every time I cross the street
It causes at least two people to explode
People are reading my thoughts
I can tell because they get in their cars and drive away
Once they get five miles away
They can control my mind for
Five out of every twenty-seven seconds
Sometimes they make me scream
Or sometimes fall asleep
When I’m sleeping someone replaces my clothes with new ones that are the same but dirtier
It’s usually the same guy
One guy waits behind the toilets and saves my poo then sneaks up when I’m asleep and puts it back in my Butt
Sometimes he leaves it in the pants that they will put on me that night
I often sleep on the loading bay of the Circuit City between 3:13 and 5:21 a.m.
This is the time when dump-trucks are powerless against mind rays from space
And the dormant TVs
Feed on the evil mind beams
That scream in my ear
I usually can’t tell what they are saying except when they tell me to stomp rats to death and then eat them
One time I ate my toes instead but they grew back and I just had to eat more rats to make up for it
I wish you would leave me alone
Why won’t you let me think?!
I tell my story to the air
I breathe the air and exhale slowly
Savoring my story
Pretending someone cares
But it’s just me
It comes out wrong anyway
I never tell it right
And every single night
I let it slip away
Every morning I awake
Recreate my memories
The wrong priorities
What difference does it make
Cause it’s just me
And it all just sounds so phony
And no one is deceived
There’s no one to believe
I’m never lonely
the moths and the tulips hear
The light flashed across as birds would –
Crushed in a stair of painted flecks.
History writes nothing but famines and burnt flesh,
Closing in on a blurry pile of curtain thread,
Like posts starched white with meandering snow.
The basin lies glazed and porcelain cracks grey
With shadows and real estate fields.
A landlord who is too old for doorbells,
But instead eats only avocados and drinks the juice of smoke –
Who cares for winter? Can you tell? Can you still see the sun in the sky?
Edged and dark nights weigh heavy on a cast-iron bend,
And chapels once filled lay with empty pews, gathering dust.
The laundromats stay open,
And flies lay still in the garage,
While nervous tenders sweep their brooms.
The doors are locked and the dirt floats in the air.
My angel used to laugh, but she don’t laugh anymore,
Fat and satisfied with decay.
Shades down and bees flying around potted plants,
Where the incandescence draws them in
To a room full of wine and grapefruits.
Gold bracelets as worn as an old symphony played over and over.
Ambitious sketches of radio programs
(The moths and the tulips hear -
They always listen in).
Has the sun disappeared from the sky? Is this what we should call night?
It has come down here with us – it leaves us with this coat of smoke.
My angel used to laugh, but she is dead,
And now the only holy thing I see in these streets,
Is the patient bloom of gasoline.
autumn's ailing dream, leaking sap
The old lackluster contractions of mystical and spiritual,
Potentials imagined and reformed and reanimated,
Absolute reactivity singing lightning fire, thunder smoke, and static heat,
Automatic speed, capricious spread, and impulsive attraction,
Creaking with erratic, pathetic responsibility and vicarious trust,
Made what the river withered down into pages of faithful loveliness,
The sandy shores that the river wore tracks in, widening the trail,
Until the cavernous spires became pebbles below the flowing waters –
As desperate, as frantic, and as meaningless as the hunger it entails.
The inhuman, callous intentions of miserable, malevolent beliefs,
Syncopated consciousness faint and delicate and fragile,
Spinning with tenuous gloom, crusty oil, and pious, political clout,
Weighted greed, pitiless reliance, and delirious confidence,
Sparring cowardly from a dark hole, filled with shadows,
Drove the crooked hinges to turn, and now they lie, locked, at night,
The oaken doorways and the stained glass windows stay dirty,
Covered in dust and soot until the collapse of everything –
As forlorn, as empty, and as wintry as the hills of the North.
The dog-eared, leafless branches from cut trees that sit broken on the ground,
Passively deadened as oceans of salt and carnivorous teeth,
Vacant inquisition leading mighty liquid explorations,
Maple’s bleed, autumn’s ailing dream, and dizzy spiraled roots
Leaking sap into the cloying caverns of obscurity,
Break under the burden of cold, and dense leather boots,
The heavy crush of coming snows and ice-covered hide,
Until deep grooves are scoured in the crust of the Earth –
As ruined, as spoiled, and as decayed as the passionate lack of man.
the corpulent rosebushes stirred
As time dragged on I felt the slow meandering of oceanic, shattering vibrations
With flesh flayed and spattered out onto the gravelly pavement
Broken and blistered in the barren hovel that men and women call truth
With the weight of monastic guilt and filthy pretense on my shoulders
I broke the back of madness, for fear, for the fat opening of cuts
That bled, tearing, sutured, stained with bandaged innocence
As the daylight spiked into a heat of pain and flesh and disgust
What is the passing over of this viscous, liquid crutch that holds us
Like children, like adult impulse given name and a destination
At the cold, embittered heart of speech grown loud, or maybe else
The burning ambiguity that helps the cripples on the street shout their lies.
As the withering sun turned its head over onto the septic, selfish horizon
With its arms laid neatly beneath the seething mass of clouds and polluted sky
Airing out whatever pleasant theme the faceted, belligerent populace could bear
To hear, to cry for the bothersome, ponderous, dry gargling
Spat forth into the night, breathing copiously and heavier
Than the pulsating, writhing combines could bear
Than the onerous, apathetic will of the people, of the nations great could bear
I counted ten thousand, intent on meaning more than what they could see
Before their eyes, before their hearts gave into the grudging plod
And there I sat watching the flies consume garbage behind the malls
And behind the temples I watched naked skin flay its own fears into nothingness.
As our vicarious lovers lay weeping in the courts of law and trust
They made hovels into homes and called them theirs as they sat pouting hopeless
Weary and breathless in the cold darkness of lunacy and perjury, and there, nude
Skins to the smog and the cigarette smoke drafting in from every crack
In every window that creaked with the walls, snapping in the windy embrace of cold
Tethered by the limitlessness of love and light they were told were present
Even during their blackest horrors and their most terrible mistaken impulses
Painless and pining for the frosty winter to come faster than the glorious spring
So in the ice of new sprouts they could crash cars and explode in righteous faith
Though their pins poked and their shins snapped between metal and teething bones
They crept along silently through their insane, godly wanderings.
As the pointed, poisonous resin of transience slips carefully between our saintly ribs
And the tips of glass slide precariously into the first layers of tissue
Which our crusty exteriors of posturing have held so tight and delicate and close
This cursory affection that has been seamlessly mastered despite ages of turmoil
Becoming as effortless and useless as chipping stone from stone
Collecting the sharpened pieces in canvas bags and heaving them away
We should drop these sacks into chimneys, over jagged, abysmal cliffs
Build homes below the stacks and cracking boulders, an asylum, labyrinthine
Instead of row upon tortuous row of pre-fabrication and incorporated insatiability
Allow our smoke to gust freely in intricate tangles between the mineral fissures
Only in a place such as this might I feel peace despite the fleeting conditions of life.
As the foreign signs and roadmaps gave everyone their potent direction
Their fragrant possibility, their fragile and tenuous importance
I sat, tearful, milking the anger with which I strode across the boundaries
I sat and stared belligerently at the copulating majority as they bred
Incessantly and without modesty, pleasantly and engorged with joyous freedoms
Mounting their wreaths on certain dates and ignoring the rest of the year
That passes without trace or vitality or significance or longevity of moral thoughts
I crouched under the passive concrete bridge and held my yelling breaths in
And I was patient but for the roaring of automobiles and trailers that buzzed
And rang, and blasted my senses with tremors and asphalt, entombed
In their lacking permanence, I discovered my raining doubts and spilling pleasures.
As my weathered, watery heart decried its pathetic, lonely estate
I strode among blizzards and buildings covered in sheets of fabricated wind
Expanding my contempt and swelling tongue, speaking angers of lightness
And the numbness that held my mouth strictly in the presence of failure
I watched passively as the fires of lust and agony consumed my wearisome body
Singing high halleluiah, singing high harmony, singing sacred sanctimony
And brutal determination that washed into a bleak, starry expanse
Quivering with smoke and sparks and delirious infernal discharge
In the tempest of consummate greed, in the heaving breast of failure
I watched the contest of the complete and competitive oath-takers
Dream of catastrophe and bombs, of exploding cars and towers of envy toppling.
As the corpulent rosebushes stirred in the smog-coated breeze
Washing in from the tranquil sea and merging desperately with effluent waste
The spineless worms towed blissful dirt back and forth above the hill’d plains
Metal containers lifted by metal machines, metal chains, iron-clad, forlorn
And the flagrant, youthful howling of curled-back fathers and mothers and children
Who brought fortune and moonlit ruin to each narrow city street, draped in oil
In the shrines of a deadened, lifeless god, a dreary, worthless, loveless god
These disastrous familial groups vanished frantically into a hole in the floor
While their hallucinating, vicious god gazed down in scorn and tired pride
At most an empty husk, at least a long-lost and circular pattern of imagination
And I pushed and I shoved my way through the crowd to the roof, where I fell too.
As the giant mechanical politicians stir emotional discord and bleat “Pity!”
One hundred thousand citizens or more breed and scrape up wooden ladders
In a misguided attempt to climb higher than their brothers and sisters, graven
At the top of each rung is a mausoleum of clutching hands, separated from arms
And shoulders, and bodies, for the rest of these have fallen down, crippled
Sunken beneath the asphalt, beneath the concrete, beneath the dust and the soil
Sunken beneath the layers of bone, piled high from all those shrunken souls
Who called and who culled their meaning from worthlessness and vacant boxes
Wrapping paper, birthdays, blank celebrations and dinners that devoured their own
Trapped inside with fears of death, fears of dark, fears of living free and living fast
And I parried blow with blow, steaming and incensed, filled with rage and liberty.
As viral, pathogenic beliefs were bought and sold by street vendors, small carts
Colourful lips spoke precious lines and bright secrets that only the shadows knew
Off to the side, off in the corners of the alleyways where drunkards slept, cold
And where all the addicts never went; no coffee, acetaminophen, no pacifying falsehood
No peaceful, ignorant, heavenly comfort or wishful, fictitious promise to satisfy
The anxious ecstasy, the restless frenzy of reassurance at Death’s swift approach
For the graceful passing with which, as it hovered adrift, made cycles of life and time
O, reverent bereavement! O, demented mortality! Make martyrs of these shells
Drown these ashen sailors of distress and entomb these embracing liars in mud
Let the Reaper’s claw sow clarity among these belligerent, sadistic men and women
Whose methods and manners I so despise, whose covetous fingers I would break.
As the pillars of dogged temptation are driven deeply with nails into splendid coils
Of twine, of splinters, and of shavings, I pushed over those drowsy crosses
In favour of stony conception and hollow originality, and laid a formless foundation
To rally and to wrestle my deadly impulse, my ragged sense of purpose, into shape
To ravage my treacherous lack and instead exist in both logic and feeling
Rather than succumb to beaten, worn ideologies or gleaming interpretations
And so hopefully assume an overflowing of significance, far beyond capacity
If it is not too lost for us to regain our clutch on the spirit born in dead languages
Then I would nod my head and raise my brow, spitting at those drunk on perversion
Clenching until my knuckles turn white enough for me to strike, hard
And trembling with the stormy bolts of wrath, as they swirl frantically even now.
As the birds built weaving nests from scattered bits of the frames we left behind
And the isolated ribs, clipped fingers, and polished teeth from the lake’s bottom
Diving below the depths, swirling and grey, to break the surface anew
Sending spirals of ripples to collide, bursting and shifting, disturbing the surface
While howling dogs shook their throats and sent out mad wailing shrieks
Sleek black cats rubbed against the bark of drooping willows, dying slowly
And they too were all skin, all bone, all tiny, blistered tracks left in the dirt
All contorted and convoluted, their bodies bent, withered, blank, and blurred
A deliberate progression towards the valley’s edge where a bright demise awaits
In a capillary trail, a pulmonary divide, and the measured stalk of melancholy
That I caress and nurture, fervently holding an inferno for the end of cheerless days.
West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
what is the consequence of capitalism
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend they still had some ideals!
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
known to many
believed by the few as
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?
our body’s garden such precisely alive
Our body’s garden such precisely alive in the Western morning,
In so how’s way coloured plants raise tall or wide or thin;
Fragmented soil, medicinal today in the fieldgrass grown –
Rediscovery of the roaring raven’s beak and claw,
Corn-plucked casing shells metallic taste, chemical.
Hoarse young poets flying blackwing under cover clouds,
Under dead stars, planetary under the dome of cosmos,
Ringing brass from the tail-feathers plucked not once nor ever,
But twisted into chainhung windcombs that sift the air terrible,
For the breath of the oasis organic to bear fruitfully.
Terraced acres covered in the shadows of birds –
(Known to stand in place among the weeds, known to rest on
Tendrils of grainstalks sticking twig up antennae)
Fountain downpour from the skull of Atmos great,
To quench the thirsty meadows of their urgent eager cultivate.
Pastured stone pathways puzzling, laid and fitted carefully,
While mystery sunlight splays possessed over green country,
In the early living day’s first starborne gift, the luminous break,
The soaring radiant beams housing sacred Spring’s sweet nurture,
Where without barbed petals does Life ceaseless sprout.
Burly conduits streaming night air nourishing through thick trunks
Of bark-branching wood writhing knotted and ponderous;
History’s firescars and curling crustrings shown molting –
Cut and splayed out on beds of needles, beds of pine and grainy loam,
Limbs sawn after felling spindled at the forest’s end, in eternal terminate repose.