Each holy moment,
flows swiftly into the next
while the Gods make love.

I'm dying, an inch at a time.
Unfortunately for you
It's a journey of a million miles.

I am the eyes above the city.
I can see the businessmen and budding actors, scampering like rats through a forgotten maze, and hear the clacking of their shoes on the concrete.
I am the eyes above suburbia.
I can see the soccer moms and teenagers, drinking when no-one is watching because the stresses of their tiny worlds are too much.
I am the eyes above the countryside.
I can see the creatures of these places wander across a barren world, and I can smell the moonshine they come across at night.
I am the eyes above the world.
I can see the grand illusion, pulled across the mighty sphere of the Earth, and I feel nothing but joy as I abandon this place for another.

Trapped in a nightmare,
Silent screams for somebody.
Best to laugh, not cry.

Daylight rises on a foreign sky,
and night descends within my weary mind.
This ****** jet lag eats away at me,
To Father Time's "*******" I am resigned.

The thick smell of bureaucracy emanates from all,
The jury in the courtroom,
The students in the hall.
Eyes and ears determine,
What only hearts can know,
A gavel banged within our minds,
Closed curtains on the show.
A furnace flickers brightly, into it lives are thrown.
We peck at those we've never met,
Until there's only bone.
Strangers smile warmly,
Although it causes pain.
Books that have no covers,
Belong to the insane.

I often feel an irresistible urge
to shake my head, static
racing across neurons from
chemicals, long gone.
Then comes the gnashing,
grinding teeth, and the
horrible, intrusive thought,
that this will never go away.
But before the thought finishes forming,
the feeling is gone. And I look in the mirror,
and think to myself:
"What the **** have I done?"

It is a special bond,
truly,
when a man tells his friend
the level of dissociation he has reached.
Better still, however,
is the friend who can smile and say,
"Oh. You mean this?" and laugh, already knowing
the secrets you've been struggling to put in words.
But you don't need to.
Because there are some people who need no words,
because they just
know.

I dream of you,
No remedies.
In walls of blue,
Are memories.

Of you and me,
Intertwined.
So carefree.
So ******* blind.

To all the pain,
I'd bring down,
*** and champagne,
Take back their crown.

I'm tired of life,
Without a doubt.
Cut by the knife,
I'm bleeding out.

Panicking,
High in the air,
Scrambling,
But nothing's there.

I cannot fall,
Back into drink,
No alcohol,
I have to think.

About the evil,
I have done.
It seems medieval,
But I can't run.

Tools of torture,
On my brain,
From disorder,
Remove the stain.

I am awful,
This is true.
Drown in offal,
To then break through.

I have learned,
A simple thing.
I can be burned.
I am not king.

"I hate American late stage capitalism," my Spanish roommate says.
But what can I say to that.
He's right; every second spent here is paid for in gold
or in crimson blood.
Reality pulses with stimulation,
but still,
the clock's hand lazily wanders, lethargic, about its face.
This pathetic, white-haired professor,
lectures on coding in the front of the room.
"American's only know how to tell the time by looking at their phones," my roommate says.
But I think to myself, now, computers are the only way we bother telling time anymore. Time has become precise,
But it used to be clumsy, more art than discrete mathematics.
The professor informs the class that we have to pay for the textbook,
and again for the software that will grade our code,
and the class doesn't even blink.
"Class dismissed," says the clock. Ironic, I know.
The blue light of our phones,
the kind that keeps us awake at night,
is turned on as we step outside.
"It's noon," I say, and I hear the echoes of gunshots in schools just like this one,
Where someone got tired of paying in cash.

The moon breaks,
My head aches,
She pulls a gun,
To raise the stakes.
She holds me close,
She turns her nose,
She reaches out,
And time slows.
There is no fear,
Her lips are here,
I kiss her back,
and disappear.
She steps in,
For searing skin,
I cut her off,
it could have been.
But I know dumb and I know love,
I know her and the pain thereof,
We wanted each other for a moment there,
but I can't have another affair.

If I could, learn to do,
How to do things right by you,
I would do about anything.
I might even learn how to love.
If I could, begin to be,
A fraction of the bad you see,
I might do about anything,
But never learn how to love.
If I could, turn and say,
Something that'd make us okay,
I would say about anything,
But first of all I'd say that I love,
You.

In mathematics,
A set of vectors are linearly independent if and only if their null space
is comprised exclusively
by the origin.
The only solution, is 0. Nothing.
There is no real way to describe them, other than, "because,"
And that's as good of anything I suppose.
Because to be linearly independent is a Godhood in of itself;
You cannot be defined in terms of the other vectors in your set,
Bystanders to your mathematically perfect
freedom.

And so, despite every attempt on my part to avoid it,
circumstance has stolen sunny San Diego from me.
A simple life has humbled me with love,
and I am once again confronted with another summer of changes.
Drifting away from a God's body,
I discover the holiest of grails between the ears and eyes.
Soon, I will be uprooted,
and twice the heartbreak, that of loving doubly, will make my soil barren.
I will absolve all my regrets,
knowing I acted righteously, with neither anger nor avarice.
My body is my mind, and I am my-
self. I will master them all.

There isn't a pain,
Which is greater than my own,
When I'm ******* bored.

Love is, fools may say,
As a warm, softened kitten,
Mewing pitifully.
Gods-men may say it is the snake,
Poised venomously in the tree of knowledge,
Tempting gleefully into sin.
Some say it is a peacock,
Strutting high upon its perch,
But running away at the drop of a pin.
I say it is the owl,
Flying above on wings of terror,
And its glowing eyes turn to the grass,
To swoop down and
devour
that
***.

One minute we're walking,
It's a beautifully sunny day.
I can feel her arms already.
Now we're in a cop car,
Bulletproof glass on all sides.
No way out.
This was supposed to be for murderers,
In those ****** crime shows I watch.
Now I'm off to court.
I ****** everything up.

The nuclear winter fell on this place,
This broken desert glen,
And whale bones serve as carcass homes
For the very last of men.
Oil runs like blood,
Across the broken, lifeless dune.
They siphon it from ancient cars,
And howl at the moon.
Corpses rot abandoned,
With an X upon their palm,
Irradiated from the night,
They call the Night of Bombs.
One man who lives forgotten,
On the taste of human skin,
The man exists in all of them,
The evil deep within.

"Be All You Can Be," says the television.
"1800-USA-ARMY."
I almost chose it, the life the TV tells me.
I almost went away,
To be a brother-in-arms.
Now, I'm thinking about being a brother-in-a-frat-house,
it hardly compares, but here I am searching
So I can be happy.
An 8 year plan for self-actualization.
Maslow would laugh; at the Army ad, at me, and at everyone who follows a path they didn't carve into rock with a spoon.

When we are alone,
and our masks crumble,
we are confronted by the mirror.
So close...
you could reach out and touch
your self.
Your sickly reflection
stares back into you, and you are struck by
the confrontation between souls.
Break the mirror, and you will only be left with ****** knuckles.
Break yourself, however, and you will be born anew.

Do you ever look in the mirror,
and see someone you don't recognize?
Perhaps a pimple,
Or swamp-muck,
a beard,
or something of the general sort,
is obstructing your view.
Wipe it away,
use warm water.
Look again,
And you will find yourself reflected,
In pools, the color of your eyes.

Genius is obsessive;
it pulls the self away and directs will into creation.
When I dissolve into the mission,
there is no time for heartbreak.
Only the cold truth of reality,
and the voice within screaming:
"Keep pushing forward."
Then, the voice grows wings,
and it lifts me from pain into pain,
and I smile. I am one with the world,
and suffering is my weapon of mass destruction,
ready to destroy every comfort
until I am born again in fire.

I am so much more,
So much better, and yet, worse,
Than the things I've done.

Certain obligations will remain,
with a backyard reborn in Eden.
I can only hope I can separate
good from ignorance.
Now, in my acceptance of defeat,
I have proven myself better alone,
and stronger,
but with an open heart,
and open mind.

Often I marvel,
At the incredible span
of a single hour.

Monkey banana,
Climbing trees and smoking canna
bis, it's bliss, over the abyss.
Monkey banana,
No pants, just bandanna,
Screaming "ooh ooh aah aah"
from inside my cabana.

I wish I could fix this.
I wish I could alter time and repair the beauty I've broken.
You're still everything I need, and that won't disappear. Never.
I love you. If you need to hear me say it, then you know where to find me.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've done, and I'm sorry I didn't say so sooner.
I just couldn't bear to let you go.
I'm being ripped apart.
And I'm
Not
Getting
Better.
I miss you. I don't know what I am without you in my life, but whatever I am, I don't like it.
If we could speak, I'd make a joke about the play you were in last year.
I wish, more than anything, more than life,
To return to the festival, and leave behind the strife.

There is nothing worse,
Than waking up from a dream,
To see that she's gone.

The world held it's breath,
Summer months of broiling heat.
Then the clouds exhaled.

Run, hide, scream, despair,
Upon us comes an old nightmare.
Terror, weakness, gasp for air,
It's psychological warfare.
In the windows, yellow eyes,
Primal demons from the skies,
Parts of you that you despise,
Blotting out the red sunrise.
Snakes and spiders do kung-fu,
Boiling water raining too.
It's a dream, you're breaking through,
But the things you saw wake up with you.

One, two, three,
Beneath the tree,
Beg forgiveness, your final plea.
Four, five, six,
Breaking the sticks,
Pray to your broken crucifix.
Seven, eight,
Escape your fate,
I'm following you through the gate.
Nine and nine,
The stars align,
Ripping out your ******* spine.

Breath in, breathe out,
Forget all the problems you're thinking about.
Live in the moment, swallow your fears,
Close your eyes and see with your ears.

Oftentimes, you realize, that the shaking of an intangible void, desperate, clinging before it too is lost on an otherworldly transform of otherwise incomprehensible, nightmarish, or null thoughts, buried between the conceptions of self-deliverance and a bone-knuckled release into an endlessly exploding oblivion, or the intangible touch of a thousand tiger's treasuries.

Obey the law, the law of man,
For it's all that makes us divine.
Obey the law, the law of God,
For it gives society spine.
Obey the laws you make yourself,
Or your soul will weigh thousands of tons.
Obey the law imposed on you,
Or be killed by your neighbors with guns.

The dry and broken sun beats down onto my eyes.
I have not had water for days, and it seems I have lost my taste for air.
Once, this place was an ocean.
Before man, or machine.
Before the chimps, and the lizards, and the fish.
There was only water,
The only sign of life on a lifeless planet.
When the earth was silence, the ocean was the source of sound,
The gentle purring of the planetary gears of life.
The waves, they are the only constant.
They were here before.
And I pray that they will be long after.

The Ocean swallows everything,
eventually.
Gentle waves crash with the force of cars colliding,
and thirstily drink away the cliffs.
Beach houses, monuments to the capitalist aspirations of an illusory world, tumble into the surf.
Then, suddenly, the waves stop:
and the ocean swallows itself whole.

An old man walks the earth,
he fears nothing but terrible God.
His cane is beaten, his eyes are blind,
He is nothing but broken and flawed.
His knees are weak and wobbly,
His face was carved with pain.
He comes to a fork in the road,
Beneath the pouring rain.
Each path is equally pleasant,
To eyes and ears alike.
He hears the bustling tavern,
He hears the lightning strike.
His feet are tired of walking,
He knows he won't have long.
He sits down at the fork,
He sees his endless wrongs.
He takes no further paths,
He starts to see the light,
His son takes up his cane and pack,
And steps into the night.

Molotovs explode, windows shatter
But to them, it doesn’t matter.
Their sheltered lives are bliss, while little children die,
They sit in their bubble baths and let out a sigh.
They burn their coal to heat their homes,
While warplanes fly from aerodromes.
They clink their flimsy wine-filled glasses,
While the earth rots in a shell of gases.
They talk of truth, peace and love,
While praying to the skies above.
They ask for good things, for themselves.
While kids, teenagers, join cartels.
They “Save The Seals”, but they are blind,
The thing that needs saving is mankind.
A thousand cry out, but they claim to be powerless.
How would they feel if they were towerless?

When the world bent,
and I was moved to sit for a moment
and weep, for all my sickness,
you were there.
And when the wind howled,
and I heard it shouting my name,
the rain pelted us, but I laughed,
for you were there.
And now, home,
When I need to smile,
I can walk down the stairs,
open the door,
and you'll be there.

One, one,
I am the sun,
One, one,
And the fire from your gun.

Love is of the divine;
it persists where its origin dies,
and it is absolute,
singular,
for it is love.
It can be a short lived romance,
or a moment of affection for a passing stranger,
or a hug from a long lost friend
but love will always find you.
It will whisper your name on the wind,
and it is in the embrace of an incoming wave,
and high above us,
in the clouds,
where a caricatured mouse
waves down to you,
before dissolving back to mist.

Sometimes I am aware
of the bird's music,
but often I forget.
Some unconscious piece
of me
sets it aside in favor
of the roar of engines, and the screams of circuitry.
But I am happiest with
the sound of waves;
Earth's primordial wail of infancy.
And here, now,
I remember.

Long ago,
A pair of cosmic hands clapped
and the lights flickered on. All across the sky,
ever so slowly. But the sky too,
was born, and all the world with it,
for what could be before the light;
it was shone upon the untouched emptiness,
and existence was made absolute.
Still, I think,
it was there before, as a tree
in a deep forest
as it heaves its last
and the hush of its breath is broken
by the tearing of roots.

When I remember the day we met,
I grin. For what could be more valuable
than the man you meet,
and immediately,
flee the occasion for a companionable walk.
The sun shone, and you told me,
"I think all life is beautiful,"
and the remarkable wisdom you breathe
shook the world and sky.
My eyes open, and you are gone,
but I climb out of bed quickly,
inspired by the fire
behind your eyes.

For fire's spirit lurking in the church,
and by the ash beneath you, once alive,
Awakening the warmth within the birch,
chaos herself is driven to survive.
The winds of change bring blues and golds about,
setting sun breaks day and shifts to pink.
The ocean drowning, and I, a drought,
The blackened paper, breathing in the ink.
The mirror warps, and with it time is slowed,
A moment's lifetime screams, deflates, and dies.
Aquatic **** procures the sword, bestowed,
and with it clicks the clockwork toward demise.
I rise, I fall, I move from foot to foot,
The bells will beat the flames, and I, to soot.

Round, frame-less glasses.
To you, I may appear an artist.
But they are merely glass.

The world we live is in is cracked.
It has void where form should be,
And oceans fill the emptiness where it shouldn't.
That's  part of why I tried to leave it behind I think.
The world isn't perfect,
It's actually quite ****.
But it can be perfect with you.
The world we live in is breaking.
Just when you find your bearings,
The labyrinth changes shape,
And you fall screaming into black.
The world isn't perfect.
In fact, it's a ****-show.
But it can be perfect with you.
The world we live in has shattered.
Up is down, left is right, but wrong too.
I can't remember being happy because the world I lived in,
When I could feel happiness, that is,
Is gone. Forever.
This world isn't perfect.
And now it can't be.
But it could've been with you.

In the perpetual pursuit
of planetary pleasures,
a purported supporter of such
paranormal potions must
ponder: is pleasure, in principle,
the peak,
or perhaps is it a journey,
from point O to point P
purposely pouncing to provide
pyromaniacs with plentiful
planks for the pyre.

My poems; who have I been writing to?
Are they just words that I have plastered with meaning,
Pinned against the wall with emotion?
Are they written for the lovers I've known,
Or the ones I never will?
Maybe they belong to the demon I dedicate my sins to...
Or is it to the fact that it doesn't exist?
Are they reflections of my soul, or my mind, or just chemical nonsense smeared across canvas?
I would prefer any of these to the truth.
The truth, the unfortunate truth, is that my poems are love letters to this broken, little world that doesn't check it's mail.

And so now, I know.
When the blood boils,
when the village burns...
It shall resolve itself to the empty.
The taste of crystal still sits,
Kingly, between teeth,
A god's throne.
Part of me would weep,
But I smile still, now knowing
that there is only us.
There is only all of it,
all the world in its shifting
hullabaloo.
And what has been,
will be.