Excuse me,* sir, your pants are on fire.

Yes, i am talking to you, sir.
This is quite a mess you have made,
you starry-eyed dreamer.
Not that it was perfect in the beginning.

Nothing is.

When my grandfather got old,
he made sure to dress well.
If he was to die on any
given day, he intended to
do it in his Sunday best.
My grandfather died in a
unisex hospital gown.

When i was growing up,
Mom always made sure
i wore clean underwear.
It would be shameful
to die in ***** ones.

Speaking of growing up,
i was raised on Reaganomics.
It doesn't matter which side of
the aisle you stand on these days,
because Reagan defeated communism
through the clever use of money.

When my grandmother was set to pass,
she faced the changing seasons with
poise and dignity.  She was
ready to move on, to reunite with
loved ones lost.
My grandmother died in a
unisex hospital gown.

My best friend, Peter, didn't
put much stock in appearances.
He was funny and sarcastic.
We all loved him like a
brother.  Peter's mom buried
him in brand new Ecko
gear.  He died in boxer
shorts on the floor of a
ramshackle apartment
blue in the face from a
****** overdose.

Thank god none of these
people will ever need healthcare.

Mr. President, sir, i am no
Republican.

i am an American.

You do remember us, don't you?
How silly of me...of course you don't.
You were busy watching your legacy.

i would have watched it better, if
it had been my name
at risk.
My name is all i have.

When Bill Clinton was president,
he lied about getting a
*******.
But we forgave him.
It was just a *******.
It's not like it was our
privacy or healthcare at stake.
Or our economy.

Have you dreamed about any
of those things, sir?
Or just your legacy?

Who knows?
How well do we ever know anyone?

Christmas is right around
the corner, and i and
others have made you
a fine gift, a lovely suit.
It's invisible.
You probably won't notice.

No matter...
one day you will have to
remove your flaming pants.
To try on your new suit.
Or, god forbid, to put on a
unisex hospital gown.

And then you will finally
see your legacy.

The brambles in the emo forest
grow sharper with the passing days.
Three months deeper into the oatmeal
on the heels of the turtle goddess
and i am compelled to ignore the trees.
i have never been crazy about shrubbery,
being that the majority of my experience
has ended badly for the plant.

**** it.
It would appear that my green thumb *****.

My pillow is a poor substitute
for the warmth of sweatpants
or the comfort of your arms,
but i am locked into the devices
of another two year paper binge.
i would greatly prefer to be
static in my global positioning
as long as i can lose myself
swimming into the recesses of
your vibrant blue Oceania.
i want to hand you my eyes
so you can see my fixation on
the perspectives of action
and identify with my analysis
on the frailty of beauty,
intangible though it may be.

When i was weaker,
i appraised the value of
a man to be intrinsically
linked to the relation
between time and pride.
Driving a parallel path
to the stars, there is
only one thought:
Reality is like a dissected
frog: i poke and ****
and pull and poke and
probe and stare and ****
and pull but i still
can't figure out what all
those little tissues do
when they are turned on.

What if i want to taste the fruits of serendipitous fortune
or walk the garden path of chivalric sunshine?

If i could liquefy my soul,
i would pour you honey-laced
shots of my longing so that
when the darkness of the mid-week
slanders me you can touch
the sea spray of a wave
i have sent to wash away
the fears of circular evolution.

i want to build the hearth
where we can light the fire
of roundabout destiny and cook
the flesh from the slaughter
of our angry cows and bulls
so that we can incorporate
our weaknesses into our strengths.

i want to shape a necklace
out of my scar tissue
and wear it loudly so
that you can see the pain
that enables me to feel yours.

i want to finish my marathon
with my bag of bricks
because it is impossible to
truly win without the
burdens of justice and morality.

i've collected the screams
of my travels in a glass jar.
One day when the sun
struggles over the distant
cold horizon, i
plan to exact revenge
on the container and
make a concerted effort
to buy American.

In the hills above the
languishing sticks
i appear to have
dislodged a rock slide.
In my estimation,
the carnage will be
exquisite and swift.
If i survive the
judgement of guilt,
i can visit the friends
already lost to the
perpetual fires of the
sanctioning underbelly.

Why can't i take the
burgeoning petals of the
dark rose and elevate myself
above the sickness i have
seen in the eyes of my
accusers and those who would
trample the silly notions that
are all i have ever owned?

i feel that in the life i have witnessed
there are innate weaknesses in the
system i have supported.

In the instance given,
i have allowed myself
to be collared and
pent up by unspoken
deeds and words.
When my candles flicker
and reform, at least
i will be able to stand up
and clarify the point with
the authority inherently
granted to an elder whom
most ignore or ridicule in
the comfort of a happy living room.

i have seen hints of the futility of
nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs,
prepositions, and conjunctions
because they cannot begin to
express the vertigo i am cursed with
or the gravity that will not allow me to
escape unscathed.

i'm afraid that one day
my ink well will run dry
and my fingers will fuse
together and conspire to
undermine my sanity.

i fear the ticking of
my watch when i can
feel its echo deep inside
the canyons between
my synapses.

i cower and whimper
under the auspices of jest
when my soul is overrun
with desires that cannot
be slaked with water.

i want to detach my
aorta so that i will not
be bothered by the
binding of my skin
to the dry earth.

i need to hum the
melodies of aquatic repose
and bathe my wounded
feet in the streams that
flow to the cliff's edge.

When the time comes
for my foray
into the sublime,
i can fade away into
the arbor mist and
not feel the piercing gaze
i have become accustomed
to during this.

And for so long,
i have fed the horses
and watered the hedges
for everyone,
only to find that
all my livestock
dies within the
fences i have built
to protect the few
things left after
my tornado.

Approaching six full, and
i'm camped outside the
city gates and starving.

i puked when the moon
cycle shifted this time.

i thought that if i
sacrificed fuchsia to the
demon he would mistake
it for acquiescence, but
when the clock struck twelve
my pumpkin only rotted.

Why did you want to see the water?

i'm not going to buy
the dumb tourist act.
You knew the sand
was poisoned.

Nevertheless,
i am 3/5 of a man
when engulfed in
purple madness for
your affection.

the bells have fallen silent,
and i have seen your persuasion,
like an old silent movie.

What of your petty elucidations?
Can you teach me about destiny?
Do you have any watermelons?
If not, why not, or, even better,
who cares?

i don't think you have
seen my rose garden,
the thicket i entered
once to reenter time
and again, lonely and
bleeding, twisting and
turning, with no
right-hand-rule
to guide...

but this isn't your story anymore.

Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.

Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?

Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
     (have you ever touched the rock?)
     (has anyone?)

I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.

I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.

We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.

I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.

It is positively sublime
watching Democrats eat their own.
i thought they only snacked on
Republicans and social inequalities.

Before you start, stop calling
me a Republican.  My God,
man, i have standards.

i love sweet tea, but
the only tea party i endorse
is another Boston Tea Party.
The only contribution i have
for the cause is if i
teabag your mom.

Purely out of respect, you
understand?  Because i
care too much...

Delicious anarchy is upon us.
i have brought popcorn,
enough for us all, enjoy
the show!!

The sun will surely rise
tomorrow.  Probably.

Most of us will still be here.

A ship in a bottle is a useless thing,
encapsulated, isolated.
It is meant to be crewed.

We are each holographic captains
seeking first mates
and yeomen to climb the riggings
and guide us through the storms.
Floating colonies needing founding,
battened hatches guarding dwindling
stores and shielding superstitious
sailors galore.

We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
brave the rough seas and
coral reefs of life and
nature's faith.

Sometimes ships run aground,
the founding of the colony,
and then sandcastles reign supreme.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
learn from their faith in nature.
We must build upon the dunes,
carrying buckets of water and
trust from the sea to inland
shores.  The castle, like the ship,
will one day be reclaimed by the
sea, despite our efforts.
We build them anyway out of hope,
fearing faith, learning trust, while
wishing we were safe in a bottle.

What you think about other
peoples' hair is a trick by
the establishment to keep you
down.  Not all with long
hair are hippies, not every
skinhead is a Neo-****.
An afro doesn't make you
funky, having soul does.

It isn't what is on the
skull that matters, ******,
it is what happens
underneath.

The blank page stares at me
mockingly, an empty wishing well
of impermanent desires, my
thoughts a herd of nomadic
feral cats to be coraled.

It is a mathematical permutation
of the identity matrix, imaginary
numbers and exponents,
fractional divisions with
no order of operations.

Solve me for x, given y,
yield absolute value at
absolute zero as my
function crosses Cartesian boundaries.

     | x |  =   y * (universal truth / personal experience)  ±  squareRoot(-1)

y  =  zero;  go.

Factor in gravity (9.8 meters per second^2),
we have lost cabin pressure.

Please show all work, points will be deducted,
this is a test.

And now a little something for the ladies:

Stop telling men how to be men.
You are never satisfied with the
results of your interference in the
natural order.

Ladies want a man who is sensitive
and attentive to their kaleidoscope
of emotions, who enjoys heart-
warming moments, baby showers,
and shopping malls.  They want
this same man to not be attracted
to men.

Ladies want a man who will do
all of the above, plus be strong
and handsome, a provider, a
nurturer, a protector.  Just as
long as he never gets angry
with her.  And doesn't cheat.

Rapunzel, this man does not exist.

In caveman times, if you had
a man grab your hair, it was
because he was about to club you
unconscious and drag you back
to his real man-cave.

How barbaric...and Freudian ****, eh?

You see, ladies, we don't run the
male N.F.L. locker rooms the
way you run yours.

Men are brutish, vile, roid-raged,
and coarse in competition.
Just the way you like them.

But when you find one that
likes you, you can have a
smattering of those nice things
as well.  Because he likes you.

If you were lucky enough to
find a sensitive devil like
that, i know you wouldn't
do anything stupid to change
his opinion of you.  That
would just be foolish and
self-defeating, wouldn't it?

After all, Women's Lib didn't
teach you to stop being women,
did it?

If you want it all, you have
to take it all, good and
bad.

Just sayin'...

Everything works better in the cold.
The vacuum of space fuels
perfection, zero point
energy yielding limitless.
Orbital and quantum mechanics,
these mysteries of ordered
chaos, the compression of
external combustion that
defies and evades physics,
were solved and forgotten
long ago.

Humans invented time to measure
everything, but now don't
know what the numbers mean.
The Nineveh Number has
lost its purpose, much like
we have lost its meaning.

i am a predator,
preying on my self interests,
allied with wounded
spiritual ninjas,
seeking absolution,
ferreting out truth
and substance;
a live action rat
dragging the world's
biggest piece of stolen cheese.

What are you that is better?

i detoxed myself under this pale sun
     (you stood by and watched the
      unfolding saga all the while
      questioning the meaning of zen)

the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
     (can you recover your own fumbles?)

every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
     (my love for this is a game of solitaire)

i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.

i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
     (i have seen you ignoring me)

in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
     (you will know me by the number of the dead)

i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.

i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.

i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.

Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
     (aren't you proud?)
     (isn't he cute?)

i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
     (what do you know about pain?)

i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe

my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....

i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...

i have run out of things to sacrifice

the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)

staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.

     (enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
     (shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)

i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.

     (When in the heights heaven had not been named)
     (and below, firm ground had not been called...)

i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.

i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.

     (Amaru baur rata)
     (Shagane Ir Imshi)

i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo

     (The Flood swept thereover)
     (His heart was filled with tears)

Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes

Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!

the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards

Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand

Mercury is retrograde,
reducing me to idioms:
life is the Cobra Kai dojo,
and we are the Pilates kids.

So *******, messenger boy.
i can still communicate,

if i need to.

This is your reality, the brave new world;
i just hang out here:
birthed in the Cradle of Elam,
a mourning son of Baal,
smeared and anointed
with the oil from the
***** fingerprints of
countless scores of
sweaty neophytes;
carried, dropped, dented;
brought forth from eons passed,
updated for the 21st century,
gilded Krylon-gold.

This nebulous gift,
made tangible and
whole by blood,
a form fitting sacrifice,
transmogrified kudzu,
rootless, digging
talons' clutch into
our minds' construct,
seeks strength of
conviction, action.

Our ship is now
veering off course.
i must respond in kind.
i will not be led astray.
i will not have my good
intentions commandeered.
i will hijack your purpose,
screaming mutiny,
holding Occam's Razor-knife
to the throat of your jihads.

i issue a fatwa of peace,
as you once did,
before.

i renounce a kingdom of hate,
as you once did,
before.

i seek charity in effort,
as we once did,
before.

Let us rebuild.
Let us move forward.
***** a new Babel,
forsaking the sword.

Let our forks be on roads,
and not on our tongues;
a forging of union,
as we'd once begun:

My sisters, my brothers,
my family,
as one.

In summers past, hot and hazy,
we wandered northern shorelines,
sand whipping salt brine and
vinegar enveloped, marveling that
even the Amish possess swimwear.

I lingered at the taffy shop,
toe-raised peering through smudged
glass and candy bins, spying
both worker and robo-worker
pulling long tough ropes of
salty confection and memory.

Our time on the path is pulled taffy,
event-pummeled, tugged asunder,
reunited bittersweet.

baked boardwalk beneath feet,
cobbled personality planks
stretching taffy of time

In summers past I was there.
In summers present i am there.
In summers beyond we are back
there once again
folded and kneaded
smiling, reunited.

This is the back-end of forever,
yet do not fear;
the dying of the light
is the dawning of the dusk:
a wheel that we spin,
a point that we traverse,
a keeping of a promise,
a memory of a scent,
a vision of disorder,
and the chaos in the calm.
Cower.
Rejoice.
Repeat.
Amen.

i remember vaguely those times,
when solitary leaves drifted
downward, greenish earth tone
children, laughing as they twisted
and curled through the air,
touching nothing and touched by nothing
until finally resting on the floor of
the forest, together at last, forming
loose beds of disbelief only to
lie in stupor for being at the bottom
and not on high where they began.

The wind saves some of them from
their true demise, rustling many
and moving a few back up again
to freedom.  Those chosen few become
the one, traveling together upward
in natural harmony as the lovebirds
of flora that forsake all  but the other.
Such simplistic beauty brings tears to
the eyes to know that it began
with such sadness.

Arthur McKnight was a powerful man and New York was his playground.  Not that he ventured out anymore at night now that he had met Evangeline.  The long days of mind-numbing numbers he crunched managing Wall Street hedge funds had taken their toll on him over the years, but becoming intimate with Evangeline had saved him, had changed him in ways so fundamental that for him she was all that mattered.

     Arthur no longer noticed these subtle differences.  He daydreamed by the dim LCD light of stock tickers, craving the touch that only his woman could bestow upon him.  He had surrendered completely to her bliss.

     These days when he woke to her already gone from his Upper West Side apartment all that was left of her presence was a lipstick kiss on the mirror and a bottle of Sally Hansen Tangerine Orange nailpolish.  The quiet was deafening, but that bottle of Sally Hansen left on the bathroom counter held the promise of Evangeline's return.

     It was just after 7 p.m. when Arthur made it home and he could already sense her.  She was coming.  He strode with purpose to his master suite, spying the black thigh-highs and silky red dress he had laid out for her arrival.  The waiting was unbearable, and Arthur finally broke, needing Evangeline so badly he could smell her perfume, could taste her in his throat.  It was time; no more waiting.

     "You look lovely tonight, Evangeline," Arthur croaked aloud as he pulled the first of the thigh highs onto his shaven legs...

This is my diary
of the world,
a trillion million
copies of the one,
digital diamonds,
faceted and mirrored,
dispersed on binary winds,
encoded, decrypted.

It is the proof of my love,
tangibly viewed,
empty
handed
txt
4
u
(-_-)
now i am forever

hardened
hewn
cut

The birds don't care about the internet.
Their anger is with the ground,
the place where the green goes,
the fields of the hunt and
the roots of the trees.

Their hearts pound in anticipation
of flight into the blue, a
lofting of the body high.

Their cries herald freedom,
the warm sun on soft feathers.
It is their exhilaration breaking forth,
like the promise of soft lips that
by rights are not your own,
tender in the night welcoming you.

i was going to write to you,
the reader, about joy and
its mysteries:  something sacred,
the pins and needles felt
throughout our human-shaped
boxes, the shadow where we
hide our hearts for others to steal.

i long to tell you, dear reader,
if only you can promise to
hold that secret close ...
Can you?  Can you keep this secret?

... (yes)...

So can i.

The coming of the light was disorienting at first, like the shimmer of the surface of the sea when viewed from beneath.  Ossie Mae was swimming up to meet it head on with the fearlessness that only the children of the Great Depression possess.  That stark light called out to her bones.

     Ossie Mae could hear faint sounds of work:  the crinkling of cellophane wrappers, muffled footsteps, and an incessant chatter of beeps nearby.  She broke the water's surface and spied a silhouette moving gracefully around the room's only bed.  The lights' intrusion subsided, and Ossie Mae was able to recognize  hospital scrubs as the silhouette's garment of choice.

     "Am I dead," Ossie Mae ventured feebly.

     "I don't know," the silhouette responded.  "Do you feel dead?"

     "I don't know what dead feels like."

     "Then how do you know you were ever alive?"

     The question hung in the air for a moment while Ossie Mae gathered her wits.  "I don't reckon it matters, does it?  What happened?  Where am I?  What is your name?"  Now the questions flowed like water over the falls.

     "I am Nurse Cassandra.  This is a hospital.  You are here because you fell and broke your hip.  You came in alone...is there anyone you would like me to call for you?  Family?  Friends?"

     Ossie Mae's pupils dilated slightly, as if looking past Nurse Cassandra, searching.  "No.  My husband, Jack, passed away eight years ago.  We never had children and the few friends I have are all in nursing homes or moved away to live with their babies and grand-babies, or to Florida.  It's just me now...," Ossie Mae said, her voice slowly and steadily trailing off.

     Nurse Cassandra, who looked to be a woman in her early fifties, set down the clipboard she had been scanning while Ossie Mae spoke.  She sat down next to Ossie Mae and took her hand.  Ossie Mae thought to herself that for such a young woman, Nurse Cassandra had old eyes.  They were kind and gray, but seemed old and out of place.

     "Is there anything I can do for you, Ossie Mae," Nurse Cassandra asked gently.

     "Well...my daddy was a simple man, and he always told me 'Ossie Mae, you ain't got to know what you want in life, but it sure does help to know what you don't want.'  I sure do miss Daddy...but I reckon what I don't want is to stay in this hospital any longer than I have to.  Could you get me out of here?  Please?  I don't belong here no more."

     "Are you sure?  Really sure that is what you want, Ossie Mae?"

     "Yes'ums.  Yes ma'am."  Flatly.  Definitively.

     "Then of course, Ossie Mae.  I can help you with that."  Nurse Cassandra stood up, reaching into the pocket of her scrubs.  "One escape, coming right up."

     Nurse Cassandra turned to Ossie Mae's I.V. drip, moving quickly with practiced hands, emptying the contents of the syringe into the port on the line.

     And so it came to pass:  Nurse Cassandra, Ossie Mae's Angel of Death, sent her home to Jack and Daddy.

The hounds of fear nip at winter heels,
whelping doubt and baying at the moon.
Cocoon prayers whispered across the fields
of becoming; this dark of the light is
contextually contrasted.  i am little and
young against the ages, something loose
and rattling in the box of reality and
afraid, fleeing the dogs of war.
i write post-it note prophecies and  
crumple them,  building a nest in
the trees, a mother's womb nearer the sky,
for when the sun comes it comes
first to the birds on high.

i am the lyrical terrorist,
     stalking virtual grasslands
     technology fueled efficient
     #winning#unabombereatyourheartout

     IDK how 2 roboto-cize
     spiritual growth.
     YET
     IDGAF bout your FB status
     if you dont respond to mine.
     First.
     #circumcumnavigate

     the sheep are now wolves
     (lobotomized)
     preying on our weaknesses

    BRING ME ANOTHER POWER STRIP!

     See?
     so much 2 say...
     Why?

                        c
               i                   g
           r     the globe      n
               c                   i
                         l

     Word.

My house is surrounded by
Illuminati operatives.
Lizards!  Everywhere i look...

green ones in the grass like
slithery snakes with feet,
brown ones on my porch
running counter-intelligence
on my kitties, tan little
enforcers with an ochre-red
streak of war paint along
their spines.

i know what you are thinking...
but i stopped wearing a
tinfoil hat.  It wasn't
keeping the N.S.A. out of my
emails anyway.

Just yesterday, one of the
lizards' double zero
agents followed me to McDonalds.
i saw him through the windshield,
gripping the wiper blade
with all his might, tail
whipping in the wind like a
whip antenna, broadcasting my
subversive Big Mac purchase.
i don't use Geico insurance,
therefore it was clearly an
Illuminati spy, without question.

Nowhere is safe.
My days are numbered.
They fear what i could expose,
that i would tell others
what i remember about
freedom.

Lauryn Hill is going to jail for not paying her taxes,
a fate that would surely befall us all if caught.

She argued to the judge that since her ancestors
were slaves, our economic system was imposed
on her against her will, invalidating her burden.

Pay your ******* taxes, you ignorant bigot.
When your ancestors started making money,
they started owing taxes.  This is a feature of
society called "equality."

costly lawyer hired
to defend this criminal
strangles cops with tie

House plants are hostages
we take while we rob  
the bank of life for
all the experience notes we
can carry safely away.

We are using the funds
to build our vivarium
homes, microcosms of
the world beyond our walls
where we first glimpsed
the scheme.

The machinery of the world,
greased by blood and sweat,
remains beyond our control
while at large, yet
under our close supervision
we coax submission
out of our captives for
our own enjoyment:

selfish, ambivalently cruel
benefactors, dispensers of
our plants' waters of life.

People of Wal-Mart:
what the **** is wrong with you?
You are reducing our lives
and prices in unison...

Today, in passing, i saw on T.V.
a special report:  a year
after super-storm Sandy, New Jersey
still hasn't gotten its
sand dunes back.

This is news?

It took 5 years for the
Gulf Coast to begin recovering
from Hurricane Opal.
No national headlines about
Okaloosa Island a year later.
It was flat.  It didn't
used to be.

A year after Hurricane  Katrina,
all i heard was that Kanye West
thought President Bush didn't
care about black people.  But
Wal-Mart helped with logistics
deliveries.  Because Bush asked (kind of).
We  basically lost a major city
that time.

Where was our airborne toxic event?
Our 15 minutes post mortem?

Thanks for helping, Wal-Mart.
But this is all your fault.

Because without cheaper stuff,
the People of Wal-Mart
would still be able to think.
They would know that
consumerism is great, but also
that it is an identity crisis.
A buzz in their heads.
Our nation fights wars
for capitalism,
but our soldiers fight
for their lives.

So i will see you on
Black Friday, Wal-Mart.

We are dying here in the
South, we have to save
a penny where ever we can.

And, People of Wal-Mart, don't forget:
No president cares about any individual.
The greater good prevails.
And **** your sand dunes, New Jersey.

Time does not move when watched.
It slinks through the shadows,
preying on our distracted minds,
a subtle movement at the eye's corner.
It is deceitful. Duplicitous.
Dim.
Attached to our hips; Pan's shadow;
unthinking and cruel;
a quantum paradox of certainty,
linked to a count running
silently, sub-consciously.

Assuming, of course, you can count.

What has become of my lost brothers?

Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
     who fled from his blue mural
     to the land of jazz and muffaletas
     only to discover the senselessness of clothes...

Peter, the pine tree apostle,
     who paved the way to indifference
     on a needle point, silently
     prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...

Time Crisis, the first disciple of
     the salt or pepper Antichrist,
     who physically assaulted his mind
     in an attempt to defy gravity,
     finally settling for three
     squares and a cot...

Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
     who, by some accounts, fancied
     urinating in the face of his
     keepers.

All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.

We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.

          (do you want peace?)

We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless

          (I make peace.)

We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).

The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;

          (Come and be free in my sunshine.)

the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name

          (Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
               send them away bleeding and crying.)

We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.

          (Visit my website and see...)

The sun sends us life as a
coherent cohesive beam, unfiltered.

Our science has shown us that
all it takes to rationalize this
is a prism, the rainbows'
gatekeeper, after whose interference
we can see the dichotomy of
each ribbon of color, naked
and categorized like society.

A prism isn't necessary to see
that life is beautiful, any
more than society or our
minds are necessary for us to
instinctively know that light
loses something as it meets
the prism.

The light was too beautiful for
us to comprehend, so we broke
it down to build up walls.

We used the walls to build rooms,
and our minds to bar the doors
and windows.  Society took care
of the rest.

The real breakthrough takes place
when we take all that we
learned and use it to tear
back down that prison
of the light.

i have spent all this weekend
building voodoo dolls
out of belly-button lint,
newspaper clippings, pipe cleaners,
and tufts of my own hair.

They all have names.
The Fearless Lemming.
Odenkirk.
Mr. Tweezles.
Vexorg, the Merciless.
Bob.

Forgive me father, for i have sinned
and i liked it...

Vexorg, true to his name,
slew the Lemming in single combat.
It was...disturbing, at best,
and quite messy.
Mr. Tweezles betrayed his sacred
post as medicine man,
poisoning Vexorg with krokodil.
I thought Odenkirk would
exhibit strength of character,
but he fled in the night
like a *****, most likely
in fear of Bob.
Mr. Tweezles should have paid attention
to that turn of events.
Bob fancied himself an attorney,
and Mr. Tweezles thought
himself clever and indestructible.

i am Dark Helmet,
playing puppet-master
with my dolls,
red-handed
intercepted.

Today's horoscope:
*Fear death by stupidity.

William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery.  Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.

     "Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother.  "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."

     "Yes, they would have," she replied.  "I'm ready if you are.  We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."

     William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag.  "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."

     Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant.  He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for.  The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents.  William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him.  Father had passed a year before either of his parents.  Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way.  Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.

     "All done!  Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said.  William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots.  Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby.  He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave.  Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place.  He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.

     After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own.  Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought.  "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"

     Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."

     "Oh.  I forgot."

Ooooooprah...
it is time for us to
have a little chat:

i have heard you say,
on video, that opposition
to Obama is based on
racism.  Haters gonna hate,
you say.

i disagree.  While surely
there are some who feel
this way, since America
is such a big and diverse
place, i think you have
discounted a much more
appropriate reason for
opposing the O:
incompetence.

If not that, how about lying?

If not that, how about hypocrisy?

There are more, but my space is limited.
Do any of the above do
anything for you, besides
racism?

Keep in mind, Oprah, that as
a percentage of population,
white folks still are the majority.
And you are now filthy
rich, thanks in part to those
same white people, some of whom
dislike the president.

So...being pro-Oprah and anti-Obama
are mutually exclusive?
An awful lot of white folks
helped you get rich, does
that mean to you that they are
race traitors?  Are you trying
not to be?

Race sure does seem really important
to you.  And yet America (even
white America) elected a black man
twice to the presidency.  It wasn't
important to most Americans what
color he was.

They are mad now because they were
duped by an incompetent lawyer.  And
now they know it for sure.

So when you, Oprah, fall back on
race instead of logic, you are
playing your last card of desperation.

It has no merit.  You know that.

In fact, Oprah, to my mind
YOU are the racist.

The only other alternative i see is
that you are ashamed of how
wrong you were supporting him,
and too prideful to admit
it.

But you certainly seem to think
that white America owes you or
the president some debt other
than our money and our
dwindling rights.

Because you think that you both
are superior.

That is called racism, Oprah.
Look it up sometime.

Where the sea meets the sand
is the battle for the land;
a war for territory,
the everlasting story.

The tides that soak the beach
are always slightly out of reach;
Sol chases them away,
but the moon is here to stay.

So plan for the destruction
of man's every construction;
for eaten it will be,
by the hungry sea.

But forever is the sand
that marks our borderland;
eternal it will be,
unlike you and me.

If we were in Hawaii,
we would be on an island.

If i fell off the boat en route,
i would be an island,
floating in the ocean of my life,
carried by the currents, winds,
and storms, unable to bend
the universe to my will,
treading water, fearing
sharks, scanning the horizon
for help.

When i leave my house
and venture out into the
crowds, i always wonder
how so many islands can
exist and there still be
room for the ocean, or is
it just an ocean of islands?

Navigation becomes difficult,
the islands cease movement,
there are fewer ports on
which to call.

Scan the horizon, tread water,
look for help, but
above all else,
watch out for sharks.

My birthday draws near,
my second without you,
and I'm doing fine.
I don't even think about it anymore,
these broken promises or
little mistakes that were big deals.

This symmetry hounds me,
the recycling of my timelines,
but we all know
it is better this way.

And so it is time to break the chains...
I called you up,
nervous but resolute,
and we made the arrangements.

"I'm sorry, I love you, but it's better this way."

And you agreed...no big deal.

Time doesn't heal anything,
but eventually we forget
just how very much things hurt,
and we embrace the amnesia,
carry our yesterdays hidden
on to tomorrow's second chances.

And now I'm seeing your face
in my red beans and rice.
I'm wondering if you will get by,
or if you regret the same things I do,
or if you are eating or can make rent,

but tomorrow comes quick,
and I try to let go of today.

If God has a plan for us all,
then the wise make God the boss.

If the wages of sin is death,
and God gave us free will,
as we were created in his image,
to accomplish his plan as we
see fit, then i am forced
to conclude God doesn't pay
very well.  He is not a
particularly good employer.

Working conditions are terrible.

In point of fact, God is not
our employer, because he doesn't
pay at all.  Is he waiting for
bitcoins to catch on?
Or is he more into
spiritual slavery?

Is it wrong to question this?

It would seem self-evident
that if God gave us free will,
surely he expected us to use
it, even to question him.
If not, maybe God didn't
think it through first.

If our rewards are in the afterlife,
how can we be sure we will
get paid?  No one has
verified any of this.

Is that what faith is, God?

Crossing our fingers?

Depending on you, the God
with a plan, the same plan
that takes from us all that
we love and cherish, just
as he gives us those same
things?

God is an Indian-giver.

We are each his image,
and we broke all of our
treaties with Indians.
Excuse me, Native Americans.
i don't want to offend
anybody,

least of all God.

i speak in whispers of
New American Tragedy:
id seeking ego, beyond
means and dreams.

A spirit as big as the
Western plains, as lofty
as distant clouds gathering,
as crushed as the valleys
and fjords carved by
glaciers ancient and cruel.

Samhain is passed, now in
November we must look
to the solstice, for there
is seemingly little to
praise.  Entropy approaches,
brushing our hair
with tender fingers,

       piano

gently exhaling nothings
in earshot,

       piano
       dolce, dolce
       unghia sul ponticello

easing its canines into jugulars,

       per amore
       per amor nostro
       ci ama treppo per essere solo

laughing.

"A life lived for art is never
a life wasted,"
that's what Macklemore
and Ryan Lewis
told us.

Those of us in recovery
need this to be true.

Those of us?
--all of us--

because we are all artists,
placing pieces of our broken
lives into a mosaic,
a cathedral floor frieze,
something we build
to walk on, a
snapshot of past agonies
and beautiful memories
that lifts us out of
the ***** Earth.

A true artist manufactures
their own hope.

What is today if not a ripple,
the shock of yesterday
bouncing off tomorrow?
Each moment nothing more
than pebbles thrown and sinking?
Our human efforts a shrill
cry in the canyons:

"I want to be free to be me...
to be free to be...
me to be free...
i want to be me...
be free to want...
i want me..."

but it trails off, dies out,
like the ripples in the pond,
the efforts of a stone.

What are these words i pen?
This ink that flows soft
and quickening?
Are they bound to the page,
as i am?
i am a metaphor for nothing,
encompassing everything:
i wring out my
tattered pineal gland
on the daily here,
photons approaching singularity,
crossing over,
destruction, creation, absolution.
Equation.
Scattered, collected,
i am scribbling.
Scrabbled.
Fractalized.
Shivering as i gain coherence,
endothermic inside,
socially exothermic.
Runed.
Indecipherably explained.

After the first sleep comes the second morning,
the realm of meditative calm,
gifts we forgot we left ourselves,
in the time that time forgot,
in the lands we left behind.

In Tibet, the most skilled monks cover
great distances using the mantra
of the Lung Gom, a rhythmic matrix
leap.  i use a car or my
memory to achieve the same.

As a child i captured fireflies from
my grandmother's back yard,
holding them captive in a jar
until they proved themselves,
making me their Gom Jabbar.

Now later along i feel the vibration
of life in my car as i drive.
i have no wish to synchronize
with it.  My rebellious days
are mostly over, or few in number.

My subconsciousness has accepted
my inevitable death.  That is
alignment enough, nature's Gom
Jabbar to my neck, regardless
of what i prove before:

like the fireflies in the jar...
like the death rattle of my car...
like the memories i sought,
struggling against union,
fearing the Gom Jabbar,
mouthing the Lung Gom.

i like my women
like i like my
life:  crazy
as **** and
under siege.

i am not satisfied
until that woman has
to put her drink down
because she needs
her whole body to
hate me.

i won't gamble with
anything except my life.
A real man plays
Russian Roulette by
handing the woman the
one bullet,
and using the other
five himself.
On himself.

it is better odds
of survival for the man.

an ode to J.
poet of great measure
fallen yet climbing
up towards sanity again
truly an artist
seldom was he not a free-thinker
nor ever one of many words
no impressions
just a red door
and don't forget the color blue
for it is the only true color
Van Gogh knew the truth
anything else is just a color
and what better to be obsessed with?
certainly not television (unless it is blue)
except possibly that oh-so-wonderful
vision maker
J. loves that stuff
he lost a little once he found it
     (well, maybe a lot)
still the same old J. though
ever-daring, never-caring
he can take on the world
     (or at least New York)
$50 and a bus ticket
what else could you need?
he met Ginsberg
can you say that?
i didn't think so.
J. the person
he's the man
pretty pictures did he draw
mainly in blue, but still
he does his best work during his Icehouse seizures
quite a sight, a mural so big
too bad its gone
sort of like J.'s mind

Sitting in the circle of confession,
i am unmoved, at inaction,
only minorly involved in the
process of others, an observer
of them and processing me.

          God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things
          i cannot change,
                    (people, places, things)

i am quiet and respectful, knowing
that for some this is all they have,
that i am fortunate,
that we never flirted with disaster,
we openly courted it.

          the courage to change the things i can,
                    (me)

i hear the voices in the distance,
but i can't connect, my mind
wanders, thinking about prehistoric
jewelry in museum cases, broken
pottery shards unearthed with
great effort from ancient graves.

Were these items symbols of broken
promises?  A ring:  till death do
us part...a vase:  i will carry the
water for you...an arrowhead:  
i will protect you.  These things
hold a value that words
cannot ever truly convey.

i don't really understand how it works,
the promises i broke were the ones
i made to myself first, all the
others were incidental and yet
so equally destructive...

my track marks have faded with
disuse, but everything that it was
and i wasn't are now forever
tattooed under my skin, something
that is always only mine to
observe and behold, something
terrible and yet darkly beautiful.

          and the wisdom to know the difference.

i empathize with the lost, but
i do not share.
They would understand, but as
they learn more
i comprehend less,
and i know where that road leads.
So i remember when i should
be listening, and i will keep
what i have earned.

          *Just for today.

My words are translated Aramaic
to your tender divinity,
a slurred expression of
time immemorial.
Satan visited me profusely
under the guise of
mistrodden eloquence.

     (i can't breathe in this.)

There was a time when
constraints defied my
powers like kryptonite,
when my head was lopped
and guarded with gold eyes.

     (i don't like wearing your mask.)
     (Have you seen mine lately?)

Some days distant on the cold
snow banks, laughing
breezily at easy disjuncture
and spending the better part
of this existence trying to
bleed my fingers dry,

     (We are the finest musicians
     you have never heard of.)

a disheartening side project
placed upon a stone altar.

     (Did you know i was an Aztec slave?)

Complacent and supple we have
lined up longingly for our visions,
but i am next, i am the
lamb, the ambrosia-slicked
path to zen.

An ode to you on your birthday, Osiris:

Your example of redefined divinity
gives us pause, a momentary blink
during which you have cleverly
shape-shifted within and without.

     (It was so fast so fluid so sublime...
      Did you see it?
      Were you watching?)

Your lover dutifully collected your members,
reuniting all that could be found,
reforging your manhood minus your manhood.
Do not fear, Osiris.
We will build you a phallus out of
artful decadence and corn husks.

     (It is a testament to our love...
      Did you see it?
      Were you watching?)

Two paths diverged in the woods,
and we bulldozed them into a
highway, didn't we comrades?
That is called progress.
Now the commute to work
is manageable, like our
limited resources.