(but we)

good morning from the after life
the 2am program
battered brains and battered fish
take the drug, make the wish

(are still)

good morning from where its sunny all the time
where you are the laugh track
your smile stuck, held up like a hammock in a light wind
no need to forgive when no one has sinned

(followed)

good morning from the place where dogs always catch their tails
russian roulette with the chambers of a loaded heart
and we're happy and we're glowing and we're glad
love what we've got, forget what we had

(by our own shadows)

[ground floor]

not enough to "tell the stones we're gonna make a building",
they need your assistance, your calloused brain, cratered hands,
made keeping pace with rehearsal wakes and misspelled bands
on their own they preach to that choir of dust.

[first floor]

your job, should you deign to move, is carrying them to the site,
to draw blueprints void of red flags,
to throw away the riches and make peace with the rags
to put down the pitchers and escape from the lust.

[second floor]

help should not, can not, will not, be on its way
you will twist and knot your spine until it feels okay;
a tangled web of limbs but what can i say?
the march here is long and gladly unjust.

[third floor]

but the stones have done their job,
fit together like trying to reach God in the clouds,
this is the part where you wave your baton proud,
and enter the home built from the stones that you trust.

[top floor]

here's a wide open space; many outs, many ins,
and they're armed with indifference and your steady heart -
it ends right here, back where you started,
limp on the ground, without reason or rhyme.

[ground floor]

especially not rhyme.

although, incredible, the dogmatic pursuit of absent-mindedness, two left feet up the [redacted]

i would make a remark about how fast the time has gone
but i never looked up
to see it moving

wish upon a
wish upon a
wish upon a moribund eternally pessimistic star

[if i was a poem, dear disinterested reader, i think i would be a fridge poem. not very profound, nor eloquent, and rather insipid; though it's quite funny that i exist in the first place]

Me & Earl & The Dying Light Emblematic Of, Or Perhaps Symptomatic Of, My Interest In Whatever It Is You Have To Say

met a genie on a long road
delivered with the smoke of a cracked kitchen kettle
juggling three wishes
in his drunken monologue
like a blind man juggles bowling pins
and stupidly i used them all
on making the next few tomorrows disappear
                                                                                        and now i'm here
...

anyway how may i take your order?

volte face
pivot away from
the old place
where ***** mirrors
accentuate
cracks in the skin;
too wide or
too thin.

hymns from a chasm
that sits in between
they


and


them.

without turning away
dreams (yours and ours)
will fall limper,
whimper,
simmer under hot sun
as they're hung from the ramparts
gnarled and ragged
like the crest of a defeated army

volte face
pivot away from
the dead space
where bruised silences
accentuated
the cracks in your brain;
too much in
not enough sane.

and you will write a million """Poems"""
and they will be about as useful
as a blind man's reading glasses.

Have you ever liked someone so much you regret meeting them?

the great big metronome in the sky,
as those of a Floydian persuasion are wont to call it,
tick, tick, ticks,
with a switchblade intransigence,
for a docile audience, rows of anesthetized deer...
Mr. Whogivesa and Mrs. ****,
and their son,
with the hyphenated last name,
living the namesake...
"don't talk to strangers?"
why not show them the sleeve,
where one's heart resides...
melodrama,
the most lucrative business move,
(then why are most panhandlers still panhandlers?
i guess it's the luck of the draw)
...takes after his Father most,
that being he always stops short,
that extra step,
much too extra to take,
a voyage in itself...
in his standstill,
where the metronome ticks, ticks, ticks,
and only few deer are left awake,
by the dull-glow of drug,
a voice, between drags of a cigarette:

"kid, skipping stones across a frozen lake,
is not that impressive,
but convincing everyone it is? well..."

no man's land:
a healthy dose of could-be-worse
for the idiot who equates
the quotidian
to the epicenter of a war.

a special place in hell
for people
who ask for advice
that they can toss
over their shoulder
like a dying cigarette:
instant, capricious gratification.
in hindsight, he shouldn't have cared
for what his friends thought.

like me, perfect role model:
as in control as a truck with faulty brakes
as much fun as falling asleep at a wake
as resilient as a fibreglass dream.

sees the situation that awaits
around the corner
in the alley
that pulses with pathetic light.

cowers
runs
cries
says:
"i wish my skin was as thick as my skull"
and immediately, immovably, refuses to change.

let us try brave resolve
till tongues untwisted
doing the ritual whisp
where found its rhythm in the breeze --
cocked back like a hammer
cutting through the silence
was the creaking of an open palm.

would you like to go for a swim?
it is cold and it is dark
but parts of us dispersed
across the eavesdropping tide
makes for a wonderful place to drown.

...

a secret is like a burden,
when it is shared, it is halved.

[https://twitter.com/i/notifications]

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press your forehead on the barrel of hope
put your neck inside the optimist's rope
jump off a bridge, into the warm light below...

...crack your skull on the idea of tomorrow.

Could've just swallowed the ink from a ballpoint pen,
In an attempt to turn my insides blue...

...But instead I thought of you.

In the middle of a crowded room,
full of bad mouths with good hearts,
I ask:

"What's the point of a trigger warning if you're just gonna pull it anyway?"

her:
her golden glowing radiant luscious locks of hair
her beaming blue eyes, crinkling at the sides
her heavy breathing, when we play
her warm embrace, at the end of the day

our quiet walks around the edge of the park
and we talk for hours, though she mostly listens
the way she moves so gracefully, she makes my heart aflutter
and sometimes i try to speak to her, but i can only s-s-stutter

she is so cute when she puts her head on my shoulder
she is so cute when she wants me to hold her
she is so cute; i cannot find a flaw
she is so cute, when she ***** on the floor...

                                                        ...my beautiful golden retriever pup

you are my universe
if my universe is an animal
and that animal is tearing a smaller creature apart with its teeth.

you are my world
if my world is just this room
and the door is constantly locked from the outside.

i cannot tell if this is asbestos or stardust -
- either way, i can't get it out of my eyes.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

high price of admission, that being the innate circumstances wherein his ego germinates and grows into two things at the same time: externally pleasant and internally grotesque.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

long stretch of beach lined with hospital beds, pyres alight to the God of False Flags and Falser Hope, long speeches and poor teachers getting too close to the water.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

difference of opinion - the trickle-down economics of not giving a **** about anyone except one's inner sanctum, from the unrepresented in their little mud huts, to the shadow skulls with buzzing sinuses; Everything, Performing the Dance of the Hearse Driver.

this is the way the world ends
this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but with a

whimper, courtesy of yours truly

saw you in the backyard laughing with strangers
i took a walk about it
i left my doubt in the sand and then i jumped right into the eye
of the storm around it
our future comes fast but it stretches out far and wide
fill the space inside it

it takes a valley inside a valley inside a valley inside a valley inside
to show you my valiant side my valiant side my valiant side my valiant side

and i promise that however it might seem
i'm not staring at you, i'm just sightseeing

you're the knowable world
in an wandering girl
and just shy of taking every corner

these few presidents
wring disaster from decisiveness
like they're squeezing tar from a sponge.

three heads of state
and not a single solution
except the one that dissolves whatever it touches.

                 billy the kid, did what he did and he
                 died. billy the kid, did what he did
                 and he died. billy the kid did what
                 he died. billy the kid did what he
                 did and he died.
                  
                 nothing
                 to
                 help
                 before
                 he
                 *left

more than a few shattered bulbs
for the muse with the bloodied face
and broken nose.

at the end of the rope
i am merry, masochistically, asking him
"spare an original thought?"

and he can
but as soon as he agrees to let me use it
it evaporates

so i go back to punching holes through the drawing board.

/ picked an iris from the garden / took a hacksaw to the petals / when i could have just picked them apart /

\ which garden? \ only one of its kind \ a blemish in the desert, a stubborn breakout of petulant colour \ under schrodinger's sun \ model's smiles so ugly betwixt the natural verdure \ i tell them this \ to save myself from perceived slights \ and she does, indeed, look slight \

/ the word "help" drawn in the sand / the rusting handle of the shovel burning hands / as i hack at stems swaying nonchalant / in the stinging wind /

\ from left \ to right / then left \ then right / before bleeding out on the flat palm of the tool -

\ a wren \ tar-black \ perches on a nearby tree \ shakes the dust off a wing \ and casts a shadow across our little oasis \ before opening its beak to song \ dragging more people into the dark will not help you find the light switch \ and other assorted platitudes \

/ so the model walks out into the desert / i follow / dragging her garden along / it's wrapped around my ankles / oh the irony in losing blood to the vines tightening / dragging across hot sand / and eventually it's all too heavy / so i collapse / breathing in the arid ground / skin turns as red as a bull's nightmare landscape / yet she continues to walk / as if nothing happened / is it the heat that leaves me melting away? / or the guilt? / in any case / i got caught in the trap i set for her / eyes close / and she is leaving...

                                                                ­                   leaving...


                                                    ­                                  leaving...
          
                                                                ­                                   left.

I've seen better days, but God am I jealous of those who have lived them.