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Zombies don’t make news anymore.
Hearing about them eating brains is such a bore.
Filming undead hordes for movies is such a chore.
Zombies don’t make the headlines anymore.

Zombies just eat blood and guts
That is delivered from Braindead food trucks.
Zombies now eat brains from cans
And no zombies movies ever show during the Cannes.

Zombies are just yesterday’s news,
Because everyone’s high on hearing vampires singing the blues.
When you see a zombie, you just shake its hand
Instead of running the other direction as fast as you can.

Zombies don’t get shown on the telly
As they are all perfumed so they are not smelly
So they can grab applications and jobs
Instead of plaguing the city in oversized mobs.

Zombies are now the dominant population
As there is no longer any fascination
About a group of corpses taking college courses.
Zombies just don’t get the six ‘o clock spotlight anymore.

Zombies are now the movie stars
Who now frequent malls, offices, and bars.
Zombies are now a fact of life
As I even know a friend who has zombie kids and a wife.

Zombies are now casually walking
So there is usually no point in talking
About a zombie who got elected city mayor
Who doesn’t promote stalking and terror.

So zombies are not stalking people
So even an op-ed piece is feeble
In getting the people excited about the walking dead.
There are no zombie hate crimes
Because the zombie onslaught times
Are over and done with as six month old bread.
So there’s no point anyway
And it’s illegal anyway
To make your friendly neighborhood zombie
Full of hot .45 lead.

All because zombies don’t make the news anymore.
Jan 2019 · 89
Broken Room, Fixed Photo
I’m shivering and emaciated,
All my ribs poke through my sallow skin.
I open up a broken cardboard box,
In front of the mirror broken into twelve pieces,
Standing between the windows shattered by heavy hail
And resting on a floor threatening to fall apart,
Cursing at me with every creak, board by board.
In this shattered mirror,
I see a *****, dusty background of sharp nails
Punched from out of the ceiling and reaching out with rust.
I see heaps of moth-eaten clothing grasping out of the boxes they’ve tumbled from.
I turn from my reflection and see blurry portraits
Of a girl that I knew, of a girl laying in this broken box.

And from out of this box, I pull out a picture,
Of a girl with pure white, flowing locks
That frame her smooth oval face
I fall in love with her bright, cerulean eyes all over again.
She’s so close to me, yet she’s so far away.
One look at her and my muscles contract in pain
Like I was jabbed in the arms and legs with a thousand darts
Dripped with poison to make my heart burn.

(I just hope she’s happy,
Happier than I am right now.)

In one photograph,
She’s teaching some kids how to finger paint butterflies in a meadow.
She was always a good artist with everything.
This girl mastered the art of sarcasm regarding to society,
On how people hunt animals not for meat, but for pride to stick to their wall.
She mastered the art of kindness,
Where she adopted people born dirt poor in sod houses and *****-covered slums.
This girl is taking care of these kids well, these grinning, cackling kids
Shepherded by this smiling, wise woman.

(She’s taking care of these children better
Than I ever took care of her.)

I flip to another picture,
She’s standing by a sunlit window.
This girl is Amaterasu incarnate
As she raises her arms at the window
For she commanded all the bright energy onto her
And anyone else standing around her,
Including the irises shooting up for her
And the vines tangling around her in love
And the doves perching on her shoulder nudge her neck.
She closes her eyes in peace.

(I sought her sun powers once,
Then I worshipped her as a goddess.
This was all a blasphemy to her
As she burned my flesh to a crisp in her light
And sent me to my private hell.)

I look at her in many poses and smiles in the photo album I found
In this shadow-haunted attic
Where the wind’s hideous shrieks stab deep into my ears.
My dirt-covered fingers soil the pictures of this beautiful, kind woman,
That I knew, that I betrayed, that I antagonized, that I cursed.
A woman who sent me to a place of rotten wood and ash,
Of wishful thinking of reuniting with her,
Of retribution, of reconciliation
Of incessant, insane lust.

(I loved her too much to the point
Where light and dark were no longer woven together.
Both threads of both sides broke apart
And were tied on two opposite sides.
She was in the lighter half,
I was in the darker half.)

We are now separated painfully,
Set side by side,
Person by person.
Dark by light.
Jan 2019 · 392
The Idol on the Square
There stands the Idol on the Square,
Glistening in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.
Its sun does not shine on it because it is important,
The sun shines on it because the Idol is simply there, simply there to bask in it all.
But then come the first tribe of people who walk into the empty square,
Who walk into the Idol’s city looking for company.
All they see is the Idol, a figure firm and masculine
Yet it is also lean and feminine.
All who see the Idol’s seductive stare,
With its crafted eyes gazing like a graceful serpent’s eyes
Believe the Idol to be holy
As it glistens in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.

The first tribe looks above, hungry and hopeful.
They sit down in front of the idol, as they are taken by its chiseled, serpentine form.
Then the second tribe comes in and notices the first tribe eyeing the Idol.
The Idol eyes the newfound fans flocking by the handful.
The second tribe sits down to gather around the Idol and forget their long journey
To wherever they were supposed to be or whatever they were supposed to do.
Then tribe after tribe leers in line and take their time from the wilderness
To bask in the Idol’s wisdom of wasting without worrying,
As it glistens in its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory.

The tribe members sit around the Idol, looking up and demanding peace
From treading arid deserts,
Walking through moist, flesh melting jungles,
And venturing through bone biting arctic winds
And forgetting the larger presence around them
That lead these folk to the danger of this place
And what would lead them away from the Idol.

The tribe members dance around the Idol.
They blend their blistering, bruised bodies close to the Idol’s golden platform,
Against each other in a violent **** of screams, moans, and demands for where they are
In their mortal life and for the realm beyond the weary bone and flesh they inhabited.
They ask constantly of what they can do for the Idol,
All while forgetting about a larger purpose of their own god
And why they were walking around in the wilds in the first place.
Instead, they are entranced by the Idol’s mute music
That rings in their heads, which screams from the closed mouth of the Idol
In its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory

The shriveling tribes bow down to the Idol’s grace without individual care
with their rib cages poking out and their mouths dry with drought.
In their weakness, the tribes goad the Idol
To perform a miracle of strength like or more than their own god,
Or even more than each tribe member can do.
Yet their minds are sinking into a haze of ash
From the fire they burn around the Idol to hopefully bring it to full life
And their skin is black and charred from pouring all the goods and money
Into the ring of fire surrounding the Idol
They give their nourishment to a being built on the basis of needing no sustenance
Except its own and the lives it is stealing from the people around it.

The tribes holler and howl for the Idol to answer their wishes for a safer haven
Than the barren one they are frivolously wasting in now.
They desecrate their individuality with conformist chants used to glorify their god
But instead are used to glorify the Idol with ragged throats.
The Idol still stands, blind, deaf ,and mute
To the tribes’ kisses,
To the tribe’s prayers,
And to the tribes’ outstretched arms grasping for salvation.
The Idol basks in the tribes’ ignorance yet ignores their ignorance
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.

The Idol on the Square
Stands in a pool of starved and dying bodies
Still pleading in weathered whispers,
And still gripping the Idol’s platform with bony fingers.
All these tribes, all these offerings to the vultures
Perching on the tops of buildings, on the lamp posts, and on the city gutters.
They were once followers of their own god,
And of their own destinies,
But they are now the followers of the Idol,
The Idol of Death,
The Idol of Damnation,
The Idol of Starvation,
And the Idol of Lamentation.

They are followers of the Idol on the Square
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.
I crawl out of the wreckage
after talking to myself
about the troubles I am having
with my debt and bills to pay.

I dig myself out
from envisioning  
my headaches taking hold
and threatening to blow my eyeballs out.

(And then I start to realize...)

I am stuck in the middle of nowhere
in a shop run by ghosts
and they won’t let me go free.

I stop envisioning
the woman who stopped talking to me
and I realize that I can’t go anywhere wherever she is.

Then I touch the counter
and I realize how dusty it is
but I don’t see any dust on my fingers

(And then I start to contemplate…)

What if I am not living?
What if I am wasting time
on the things making me dead on the inside?

I wander around this dead auto shop
and see the wrecked metal shell that was my car
and the wrecked driver that was me.

I only see it as a tomb
for a dead shell of a guy
too busy thinking about worrying and too busy thinking about dying
than paying attention to the road.
I am floating around in the mortal realm with no real place to go except to inhabit the bodies of unaware folk who just toil to and fro. I inhabit a pretty-looking woman just to get inside her head but all I keep hearing are musings of how she ought to be dead by slashing her wrists with a kitchen knife to escape from her domestic life and lie ****** on the floor for her husband to see that she was his last great casualty of being a drunken and hot tempered monstrosity. I have to get out of her mentally tormented rhapsody as she stands around looking around for somebody to hold onto. I wish I could hold her too. I walk beside a boy but he doesn’t see me so I get inside his head and find that his mind is filled with poetry about his worn out mother who is passed out and drained in the chair and she never knows where her son is or if he is even there. He writes bright-colored graffiti on those drab gray walls but scrambles to a dark corner whenever a police siren calls. He sells some **** to the local children in those same corners that keep him hidden. It is also the same place where he practices his rhymes about struggling to earn some dimes by selling some death to the innocent so he can live with a dark conscious to lament. This boy is a growing travesty so I leave his tormented rhapsody. I watch him grip the wall and cry and I want to comfort him, but I can’t, no matter how hard I try. I infiltrate into a homeless veteran and probe through his broken mind about his past as a soldier trapped in a fiery jungle with his companions roasted at his side as he hears sinister voices call out for him as he tries to hide in a corpse-ridden hole filled with his shot up compatriots. Now he hides in an alleyway in a country that shuns soldiers but welcomes “Patriots.” All of these people are filled with absolute pain of scratches, gunshots, batterings, and isolation. But the truth is that I want to feel just like I felt before when I walked with these mortals and I want to feel some pain than nothing that makes me feel alive and human again.
Jan 2019 · 137
Broken Buddha
During my meditation session,
I carve myself out of clay
but I can’t help but look in repulsion
because I stab at the disjointed eyes I carved
and I slash at the twisted mouth that looks starved
attached to a misshapen head that cracks apart
because I see I sculpted myself in devastation.  

I feel I failed my meditation session
because I failed to carve out my own self-succession
from a husky and socially awkward loser
to a well-muscled, attractive, and sexually-gifted incubus.  
Instead, I look like something to be rejected by a succubus
and I can only watch the clay crack and fall apart
for my own Broken Buddha was broken since conception.  

Now I don’t wanna wake up from my meditation session
even if I have come to the revelation
that I am broken up inside
and I am haunted by a hideous self-consciousness I can’t hide
for my brokenness in real life shows on the outside.  

I still don’t wanna open my eyes from my meditation session
‘cause I don’t wanna look myself in the mirror
‘cause in this broken temple, I don’t have anything else to fear
but in the temple of real life, I have to be awake day by day
and watch myself literally and emotionally fall apart, day by day.

— The End —