Irritable.
A tree worked by weather.
Future growth a clown's myth,
like all recorded men.

The lie.
Pregnant present's daughter.
Boxes bark square questions at
round chemical bonds.

Reflection.
Blind from a glass table.
Solutions with assumptions itch
echoes of ticking time.

The hidden.
Frustration peers permanent.
Sightline from locked rooftop to
rain curled hair styles.

His Nickname Was Justice

He walked down from the mountain
After they had won the war.
His friends sang of machine guns
But his soul stretched out for more.

He dreamed of a dry season
While the blood came raining down.
So he gathered all the white men
And stood up above the crowd.

He said, "You could be the Judge of me,
I'll be your your fool.
Look down upon you softly,
while my people rule."

He said "you could be the judge of me, I'll be your fool." He stood sweating in the sunshine, his muscle was an outline, that could cast a shadow of vengeance across the land. But he said "I will was your feet now, and I will turn the other cheek until we are eye to eye.

His nickname was Justice
Because he walked the line,
And shared among his enemies
The finest South African wine.

His nickname was Justice
Because he rose and stood,
For the wisdom of children
And the gift of womanhood.

He saw his light come shining
From the West down to the East
He said, "Any day now
We all shall be released."

Once you have believed you are the Messiah
There is nowhere else to go but down.

I've been handcuffed to enough hospital
Bed rails, to know this much is likely true.

George Washington died taking his own pulse.
"Tis' well," he said, before shutting his own eyes.

Tolstoy left his life to follow Jesus, and died at
The train station, chased by and chasing ghosts.

Jesus died an artist, nailed to his canvas, hung
In the thirsty sun to cast a shadow on the world.

Imagine the lunatic pride to believe your own pain
Could pay every debt that ever was or would be.

Remember the genius of an artist with the talent
To see history, end it, and set the future ablaze.

I caught you with your dark side peeking past your pleats,
I saw it like a clear sky, when the mist cooks off the streets.
The unfinished irrigation I left drying hard upon your face -
It smells of history.  Kindness is always born of a disgrace.

The internet hides us safe behind crowds of young minds,
A book of faces desiring something proven by the times.
A page to write our names on, photos of our shared birth,
Kindness rising from the street, proving what she's worth.

Candy for our generation is smooth stones of sense of self,
A tumbling togetherness, in natural rivers of joy and wealth.
Mood like sunset destiny sinking among knife blade peeks,
That cut you without warning, and smile while you bleed.

The prisons house the strangers you know from crazy nights,
They don't remember you, they simply dream of better lights.
The half empty charger hungers, and shifts from foot to foot,
Eyes of hope blink for wind.  On the wall the news is good.




"A squirrel dying in front of your house may be more relevant to your interests right now than people dying in Africa."

"People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people - and that social norm is just something that has evolved over time."

                -Mark Zuckerberg

The Divide as it whispers:
"borderline," and calls you
to the throne of denigration,
like a hawk soars towards
a cute quivering corpse.
We all must eat to live.

Loving only to be loved,
your Love is Fear that,
spreads the thighs of Hate,
suspends the golden rule,
and dips the tip of Trust.
Light bends in clear waters.

The border of "neurosis"
and "psychosis" never met
your gentle river eyes, that
twirl like a child's, hugging
the silent shivering creature.
Squeeze tight until it dies.

"Researchers coined the term “borderline” in the first half of this century, when they thought that people who exhibited behaviors we now associate with BPD were on the border between neurosis and psychosis. Although this concept was discarded in the 1970s, the name stuck." - Paul T. Mason, M.S. and Randi Kreger

the head hurts
the eyeballs swell
the vision finds its purchase
on a hairy helpless animal
that quivers on the treble
note of a string.

The music is for us now,
don't you know?

The music is for us
to tremble and pull
inside  ...  deep in the groin
deep in your life
under the pile
above the bird
left of the river
right there where you're looking
under the lies
beneath your attitude
above what is frozen
but under the sun.

Beyond what you heard of,
just in time for the show.

so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your ******* face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.

Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey

it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy.  the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.

a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.

i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."

i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.

A dog broke from her leash and bled out on an unfriendly neighbor's lawn.

An old man masturbated in the rain.

A little girl made a story from the shapes of clouds.

Food rotted.
Water dripped.
Ice Inched.

Electricity prevailed.

What is.
What should be.
What should never be.

All three a lie because "should" is a child's game (we all know this by now)
and "is" is the last twinkle of light
the last taste of a word
another move in the game
ache in the side ... pain in the ***
of the dying.

As they drift off to dream of an "is" just as real
as last night's dreams,
as the tv screen.

The idea of "a life,"
yours his hers,
it is an idea.
Feel a sharp stone in your eye
or a wet rock on your thigh ...
It doesn't "mean" anything until you think about it.

And as soon as you think it,
you think what it could be instead,
what it might be someday,
what it should be ...

That "should" is timeless,
built in to heart and elbows ...
the love you feel for others,
and your need to tear them down.

This is how we build "religion,"
and how we know
we are Animals.

You will burn to ashes,
But the winds will remember
someone just like you
and drag them into the next world.

They say you are crazy
if you do the same things
over and over,
and expect different results.

But sometimes you do
get different results.
They must not pay attention.

Despite it all
There is the Good
and the evil,
Evil and good,
Opposite and the Same.

The evil is to fight against.
The good is to fight for.
So Simple.
So Hard.

Beauty.

Because the cost of a soul is the price of a moment.

Because time had no beginning, but ends at forever, hanging helpless from the corner of the sphere.

Because the light will still find your brain, hidden at dead dark midnight, tickle your eyelids, and dance in a place you don’t dare mention by name.

Because darker is biggest and most beautiful, and the light men stood as the last link in the chain, the whip in the right hand of god.

Because the blood on the meter is a narcotic brew of Pacific, Atlantic, and flaming Arctic waters, set ablaze by giants who lived in the age of wine.

Because the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest rings out once, but is heard in two ways.

Because the wind cries the song of the living.

Because the sun sets and the moon rises.

Because the river water is cool.

Because the cost of a moment is the price of a soul.

Because.

No one knows anything,
if everyone is anything like me.

Memories are riddles with solutions
drowned in lies we used to tell ourselves,
bobbing under and above the surface
of lies we tell ourselves now.

Still, there are things to say,
and I say them like everyone.

"No one knows anything,"
is not one of these things.
Why ruin a sun setting on water
while we struggle to bob along?

The darkness of drowning blankets
shared dreams with held hands.

Somehow the life guard's chair
stands a sturdy right angle in sand.
His paycheck arrives by mail.
He buys his girl a ring.

Tides are predicted, and research
arrives in ships that rarely sink.