The rich will fall,
and the truth with reign.
I feel sorry,
for their diluted,
convoluted,
educated,
inebriated,
meaninglessness
they draw
from the unholy
dollar.
They won't know
what it means
to be real.
They can't know
what it means
to be real.
They chase the imaginary,
a false sense of security,
invested in some paper
and ink.
They forsake the
beauty
and
joy
of existence
for the nothingness of
nothing.
and they will fall.
And cancer will burn a hole in
their lung and it will be
tragic because
the loved ones that
were never there
are not
there now.
And all the king's horses,
and all the king's men,
couldn't put their life,
back together again.
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
I write in public,
to be seen,
I need these preppy girls,
and closeted high schoolers,
and trophy wives,
to see me,
at my laptop,
clicking away.
Because I'm "artistic",
and "deep".
I am sensitive and must
be very beautiful
on the inside,
just like the outside.
That's why I do it.
It's all about the glory.
If only the knew the truth,
the real writing,
the words that smack the
inside of your skull
at 3 AM
when you have to be at
your minimum wage job
at 7.
The lit you need to get out
before the pressure builds up
and your head explodes
in a rainbow of creativity
on the four walls of your
too small
efficiency apartment.
The dark nights that
make you doubt the sun
will appear again
O muse, you cannot be
stifled. I hear your voice
even in my
starched white shirt
and necktie noose,
making lattés
and serving time
until The End.
The End. Times wing'ed
seraphim, the bell
tolling, tolling,
constantly,
Am I doing the right
thing with my life?
Every soul ******* interaction
with the over-privileged,
self-righteous soccer moms,
screams injustice.
My place, here,
is not to work to write,
but write to work.
My place, here,
is to live authentically,
to my own self be true,
and true, to those voices,
who came before,
who had the courage
of their convictions,
and the pounding of
text on the interior
of their cranium,
to write.
Writing is raw,
and obscene, and
beautiful.
Standing naked,
exposed, raw,
ugly
in front of your peers.
wolves.
A vow of poverty
a release of material claims
and a gain of authenticity
Living truly and truly living,
This is why I write.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
I met a kid
in a bar.
I asked him
what's the score?
he laughed and said,
What game?
Life.
Graduating.
Having a little fun.
Then what? I ask.
Seminary.
Why the hell
would you do that?
Sorry padre.
I'm not Catholic.
My bad.
Going to be a missionary.
Spread The Word
to the heathens.
Whose Words?
I wondered.
I ordered another.
What's a preacher
doing in a bar?
Can't be a saint if you
don't live among the lepers.
I like this kid.
I ordered him another.
I was going to be a lawyer,
he said.
Then he got the Call.
Lawyers make more money,
I said.
It's not about the money,
he scoffed.
Amen, I said.
He's telling me
it's not about the money.
It's the women, then, right?
Hahaha. He was getting
a little red in the face.
Not the boys, right? You
said you weren't
Catholic.
Well, I've not found me
the right girl yet,
He said.
Lower your standards,
I said.
He thanked me
for the drinks
and the philosophy
and headed back to
a group of college kids.
I think there may be more
lawyers doing God's work
than preachers.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:39 PM UTC
"...In the young man's bedroom
police found disturbing
poetry, drawings, and writings.
The boy's father said he
knew about these
and encouraged the
boy to stop them."
The television droned on.
A school shooting.
Numbers, irrelevant.
The boy took his own
life along with his
classmate's.
"His father, the model of
manliness, told him to stop
the only way he knew how to
express himself."
said the decrepit octogenarian
to his squat, plump nurse.
"Yes, Mr. Smith. You shouldn't
be watching that stuff...
it gets you all excited then
I have to come in here
and check your pulse,
and heart, and oxygen."
Would hate
to make you get up...
He thought.
"The anger can't be bottled
up forever. It will come out.
It could have come out
in a therapeutic and peaceful
way, but it came out in
a violent and brutal way."
"Yes, Mr. Smith, the world
is a terrible place."
"That's not what I said.
What stands between
a murderer and an Einstein
is the ability to express
oneself. This boy
was taught that his
expression was wrong, therefore
he was wrong."
"The youth are troubled."
"The youth are perfect.
They haven't had the weight
and burden of time ****** on them.
They are the only ones free
from the ******** story
we all buy of the way things
are. They can
express themselves and
change the world, but
we have to stop telling them
they're wrong."
"Oh of course Mr. Smith, the
children are our future..."
Stupid ***** she's not even
listening. She can't wait to
get back to her one
handed novel she's got
at the reception desk.
The man closed his eyes
and dreamed of what could be
if he were young again.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
Shame and guilt are not religions,
but don’t tell the parishioners,
it would be unfair,
to up-heave the stones
that their beliefs rest upon.
Besides, I could never make it
in the working world,
and the altar boys
are so fine.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
This is my town.
Where I’ve worked, studied, hooked up, hung out.
This place that takes and takes,
Narrow people with narrow minds,
This is my town.
This is my town.
Where I’ve loved, where I’ve hated.
Where I came back,
Instead of staying at college, growing.
It closing in on me.
This is my town.
This is my town.
My friends have moved on,
Escaped childhood.
Became adults.
Real adults.
Not the adults that love art, study French,
Not the adults who paint, or sing, or play,
You know, real adults.
This was my town.
This was my town.
I’m moving on.
I’ll give up my town.
I’ll give up my childhood.
But I will never be a real adult,
if that’s what it means to be one.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:35 PM UTC
They’re going to tell you you’re wrong
small, small people
with big agendas
they will tell you you are wrong.
Your shoes, your looks,
your hearts, your desires,
your needs, your car,
your houses.
All wrong.
Perhaps they too were told
they were wrong
The reasons, speculative at best
are inconsequential.
They are going to tell you you’re wrong.
They’re selling you something.
Food, clothes, houses, pleasure, salvation.
They want what you have
money, time, spirit, energy, ***
And their best means
to get their ends
is telling you you’re wrong.
You’re not wrong.
You’re perfect.
You’re right and justified in
your character
your thoughts
your self.
What are they telling you?
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
I’m not going to wait
for you.
I’m happy now.
You’ve reminded me that I can be.
We can leave it
at that
or more.
but
the time is now
or never.
I can’t wait
because
happiness is here and now
always.
For that,
I thank you
but I’m not going to wait.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:33 PM UTC
No one cares
and I mean that
in the nicest way
possible.
People maybe want to
care, or want to
appear to care,
but when it comes
down to it,
everyone's crises
of the moment
trump anything
demanding their
attention beyond
their situation.
Drowning, clawing
and gasping to keep
your head up,
and all you'll
get is a "keep swimming,
good luck"
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:33 PM UTC
I want to be me
but at this moment
right now
I am at a loss for
who
that is.
I'm pulled back,
observing myself
at about 10 feet above.
No high, no low,
just feeling the
moment as it passes.
Not comfortably numb,
Distressfully emotionless.
I want to feel,
because in feeling is
the idea of self.
I am my emotion,
not just my thoughts.
I want me back.
I want to be here now.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:32 PM UTC