Trump's in office
I got no offspring
This world is complex
We all pay offerings
To all my digitals
Who push up often
If all that you see
Is bugs and textures
Reverse that axis
Inside them options
Look for the sky box
This is a structure
This is not the rapture
This is just a sting
We've survived worse things
We were always trifling
We've all been through strife
We're still one nation
All cut by one knife
Blood pacts are ancient
Please take my hand
But respect my space
Look past our faults
The American Race

If I could write a poem
And make every word count
So that when recited
It would make the room stop
Still
Dead
Hushed
Severe
With everyone inside left to ponder on their own lives,

And if I could write a line
That would assault the audience
With all of the dramatic flair
And seriousness born from unforgiving tenacity
As it is experienced at the sight of a grenade
In the hand of a charging madman
With its pin removed,

That would be the bomb, yo.

This started in 9th grade, when I thought words would be my greatest weapon.
I might have used the language in a way demanding of attention.
Not to languish in introversion but to reach a friend was my intention.
But—with every line I typed—my outlet morphed more into introspection.
If my heart and soul is pad and pen, each verse is meta-style confession.
My fingers blister at their job to bleed my inner-thoughts for pulp infection.
Operation tables shall be my grave should fiction fail my self-dissection.
I just really hope that writing something somehow retcons mild depression.
If I feel better at the end, I think I might call these The Smile Sessions.

I'm lying in bed, listening to everything but Good Vibrations
Convinced that happiness can best be found by seeking new locations
So let's drive around for hours and we'll move across the water
Add some music to my ride so I don't even have to bother
Making conversation, or risk admitting I don't know where I want to go
Then confide I think my future sounds even worse than Kokomo
I'm eating all my vegetables, I'm listening to Do It Again
I'm wondering why the hell anyone would ever stop seeing their friends
But all of them are growing, and I can barely write a poem
It's like the surf is up and I'm the one who left his board at home
I'm feeling so alone and I'm scared of what I dream
Every night I see the people leaving and I want to scream
If I want to Howl, and if Allen Ginsberg died of liver cancer,
And if liquor kills the liver but it also is the answer
To the pain that we all feel when we don't make it as a singer
Or a dancer, or a poet . . . (whatever dream you had that lingers)
But that pain is motivation for the greats to push their art
I think that Brian Wilson's smile shows the sorrow in his heart
I ask of liquor, liver, pain and art: which are villains, which are heroes?
In all of time no final words shall strike a more brutal chord than Nero's.
I've been in this town so long, I may never make my escape
It's always fun, fun, fun to dream of seeing this cage break
I don't hate this place—or these people, and I'm not trying to be mean
If anything I love too much, ask any sweet little sixteen
Ask any surfer girl I've ever met, that faux-love that I express
The tricky lie that I obsess over involving any person in a dress
Less like love, more like a buoy when I'm drowning out at sea
Don't let me drown; if you save me, maybe you can help me leave
You see, I'm always quick to bet the house on any person I think might stick
Around. I scream out, "Help me, Rhonda" when I barely even know the chick
If I'm hurting, than I follow her like a purple-hearted goon
To the edges of my town she draws me out like a cartoon
She will draw me with bold lines if thoughts of bigger worlds will make her swoon
And if one night, she says she hopes the rocket ships are coming soon
So she can blast off right away and live on Mercury sometime next June
That night, I guarantee I dream of skies filled with quicksilver moons.

Wouldn't it be nice? Do you want to dance? Something about California girls?
Come to think of it, maybe there are already enough silly love poems in the world.

I think what gets me most at night is knowing everybody cared
Everybody wanted me to go and face the world prepared
And they still do, and they always will; there are so many whom I love
Those friends and family always trying to give me little shoves
While encouragements are nice, I always plug my ears
Because I'm tired, and I'm bitter, and I barely want to be here
I barely want to write, there's just **** else that I can do
I think this word doc is the last thing I have left that is helping me break through
I think I need an intervention.
There's something I want to say but I keep losing my attention.
And I forgot it, but it was important, so—oh, ****, I'm feeling tension
I hope writing this somehow retcons years of terrible depression
If I feel better at the end, I think I might call these The Smile Sessions.

Here
Short verse
Love it srong
Other poems
Are too ******* long

No, I really mean it, the guy's immortal now
He's been like this for years, no one's quite found out how
He's been beaten, stabbed, hung; but he always comes back
We've known this ever since he had that heart attack
Friends and family must still grow old, but not Chad
Chad is now living in his kickass future pad
Although he thinks about his old life every day
Chad gets to play kickass future video games
Plus, he's a celebrity; as you might expect
He's dies in action movies, then collects his check
Other planets love to watch galactic Sean Bean
Most beloved man the universe has ever seen
But he still thinks about the folks he used to know
And mourns, building little people out of space snow
Sometimes he throws parties just to dance with the dead
As all the guests get drunk and shoot him in the head
He calls his alien best friend zxxghiiiiilaaghshhGUHHHHdand
But not even zxxghiiiiilaaghshhGUHHHHdand could understand
The universe is dying, what's that mean for Chad?
This could either be really rad or really bad
"Probably both," he thinks, gathering what he needs
And speeding into space upon his trusted steed
Which is sort of like a dragon and unicorn
Had a space baby in the middle of a storm
Like, there's lightning tattoos on the side of the horse
Plus lightning wings and a horn; and firebreath, of course.
And Chad rode his steed, Harold, across the black sky
Seeking meaning to life and what way he could die
On the edge of a star not known by any maps
There he found a strange house while the skylines collapse
An olden-times cottage, ΚΣ on roof
With a welcome mat reading, "Come in, ya big goof!"
Both Harold and Chad entered just swiftly enough
The only place left not currently blowing up
"Who invites me to shelter? Please, who is my host?"
"The one being in the cosmos that knows the most"
And then, spinning around, perched in a swivel chair
Appeared the Bieber, much to Anderson's despair
And Chad cried out "That's not true! That's impossible!"
"No, I just want to give your leg a quick pull"
Then the being morphed into odd shapes not yet known
"I am the ancient one who see things never shown
I can't tell you your fate after this world is done
But I'll tell you your life was a great deal of fun
To watch from afar, whether to laugh or to cry
And I know that deep down you still wish you could die
Because maybe, just maybe, you'll live there again
In that simpler time that you shared with your friends
I can keep my home safe with the voodoo I do
But I think I would rather give something to you
Just one thing that you need, or one thing that you love
That one precious moment which you are so fond of
I can realize any wish that you contrive"
"I really love that disco song, Staying Alive"
As Bee Gees echoed out across all time and space
Chad danced the boogie as the universe erased

The air is freezing
My throat might bleed
Still I must be leaving
To smoke some ****

A proposal: ADAM
A **** good man
Albeit, an *******
A **** good man
ADAM is sinking
Help ADAM above
RECONSTRUCT ADAM as something you love

~~~

Deconstructing ADAM
A
D
A
M
Find what is wrong and then rip it from him
His lungs filled up all the way with fresh air
When nothing but smoke and tar should be there
He breathes in wind so he might try to fly
Rip out his lungs or sweet ADAM will die

Her cheeks, alive with red wine, will catch eyes.
Sized up/sighed off guys still spy from ringside.
Sideline surfers curse. Analyze their worth.
Turpentine and Turf giving birth to hurt.

Her body is the Earth. Insides, the sky.
Coincide: heaven. Mt. Olympus thighs.
Miles high, priests would die or--least of all--feast.
Bleating sheep cease to be. Lie still, deceased . . .

A little . . . lying still. Shy beast survived.
Rings: still-born. Pacts of love unpacked to die.
Distilled vice, hiked-up skirts and hiccuped "Hi"s.
Crying mind aside, high at hammered time.

Sugary sweet
Look at me baby, I'm butchering meat
Hook up my feet and then sweep
Lay me backwards onto the street
Take your seat and then play me
Oh Baby
You've been using passwords lately

I've still got one picture of you stashed in a locket
But no way to see it without the key (I lost it...)
Plus, I lost; I'm lost and I've lost it
Marooned at a payphone with five cents in my pocket

I don't know who or why will win.
I know I'll probably lose some friends.

Removed from light
Dying on ice
Riding a lion
On king **** tonight

Defiant of crying
Awake without trying
Alive still in spite
Deciding on life

I act like a kid, so call me a kid.
Rebuke me for each sin that I have hid.

I deserve nothing more than your disgust.
Yet somehow I seem to have earned your trust.

You don't have to make yourself smile for me.
I can be quite good at leaving folks be.

I can ignore when my heart picksup pace.
The trick is to look away from your face.

Your laughter I flee. I run from your glance.
If your hair is wet, I haven't a chance.

I turn a year old next September.
Meow, I'm getting bigger.
I think the old man is cooking something, but I can't see him.
He yelled an awful lot at the little girl before he hurried out the door.
He was in such a hurry that he forgot to leave her any money this time.
Something is definitely cooking.
It doesn't smell good.
It must be people food.
The little girl is taking a nap.
Tired thing, she couldn't even make it back to bed.
Face down on the floor, I thought she said she'd never do that?
I suppose the old man had finally convinced her to try it.
Sleep sounds really good right now.
Actually, food sounds really good right now.
Actually, scratching the **** out of some curtains sounds really good right now.
I must find some curtains, there aren't any hanging from the window.
Weren't they there just a second ago?
There's some strange light dancing where they usually would be.
There are strange lights everywhere; is it already New Year's again?
No, it couldn't be.
I turn a year old in September.
I guess I'll just scratch at the carpet a bit, and then I'll find some food.
There might be food in my bowl on the counter, right by where the old man's money would normally be.
What a weird day, even the air tastes strange.
It tastes heavy.
Maybe if the little girl forgot to feed me, I can try filling up on this black air.
Such a good girl!
She remembered to feed me, now I don't have to wake her up.
Yet!
The dancing lights look so pretty from atop the counter.
I'm reminded of looking out the window at night.
So soft . . . so warm . . . I can practically hear music.
These must be what street lights look like up close.
I wonder if any of these lights are a moon?
I hope so, I really like moons.
The little girl always sings a nursery rhyme with a cat, a fiddle and a moon.
I wonder what a fiddle is; maybe I should get one?
Maybe the little girl will get me one for my birthday.
I turn a year old in September, I met the little girl when I was just a week old.
She said I looked cute and innocent, and I had a long life ahead of me.
She said she would make sure I had a better life than her.
Meow, that's really sad.
I would go cheer her up, but it's so warm and I'm getting really sleepy.
Maybe I'll just wait by her until she wakes up.
What a mess!
She must have spilled some of that "wine" stuff on the floor.
Poor dear, she's face down in a pool of the stuff.
I hope she gets a chance to see all the pretty lights.
I lick her cheek before I make my climb and curl up on her back.
She's a really nice girl.
I like her.
She named me Tabitha.
Silly little girl, I'm not a tabby cat.
I have all white fur.
At least, I did.
There are some black spots in my coat meow.

Delight!

A polite specter clasps the borders of my sight.

A slight incline of final flights of fancy forms the falling night.

Fright and fury forging flustered flames to feed The Furnace's Fight.

A foolish fate to sort through all those effing thoughts at night.

Delighted me!

Blessed ever be these visitors I see.

We shall lay together in a twisted manmade canopy.

A shroud of nightly norm invades and shades us blackened worms.

We wrap in squirming ratkings trapped and wriggling with older forms.

We shall raise the heat and torch to ash what flashing scenes reside inside dilated late-night features til each creature meets demise.

Let their burnt remains stay slain imbued into my insane cranium as numbingly I fumble back to scratch the corners of my former eyes,

then realize with--every tear I bare here-delightfully deluded sight.

White light!

Respite.