i am sitting outside,
searching a sunset:
a plant loving light,
gobbling it up through
every pore.
Looking for the pinpoints
of ancient transmission.
i see a bulge...NO...
two, THREE!:
alien fingers pressing
latex event horizon,
mixed palette cornea burned.
     (Just a flashback, a
      cold beach night in
      my memory, feeling
      small in the universe
      again; chain-smoking
      unfiltered cigarettes,
      forcing a process, tasted
      bittersweet on the
      tip of my tongue.)

i hate you, Florida,
but every where is equally
beautiful in the now.
None of it is home.

i don't know what that means...

is it here, where i am
understood, examined?

i am cold, seeking fire:
i need to cut you wide
open, Luke's Tauntaun, and
stuff you full of my words,
replace your white insides
with black and gray ink.

To live.
To BURN.
In the light, the way of forever.

i have no right to have feelings.
i tried to smuggle them past the
checkpoints, metal detectors and such,
but i was foiled, tarred and feathered.
A big ******* chicken.  Awesome.

If i had feelings, i would have no right
to allow them to be hurt.
I am the giver of hurt, not the receiver.
Things are not hurtful to me, for i have asked for them
and knew what i asked.  Happy Days.

i should not discuss feelings i don't have
or hurt i don't feel with anyone,
for any reason, because i have no reason.
i should be grateful to be stoic
and rejoice in the fruits of my labors.

When or if i cry, it is only because
there is something in my eye, a
speck of sand or something like it.
Merely a body's natural cleansing
action, a normal automatic response.

i don't feel alone when i cry.
besides, i chose to be alone, that
is why i walked away in the first place.
Isn't it?

If we can find the proper restraints,
i give the sign:
hold me down and crack my ribs,
tear out the disease in me,
use a microscope (telescope ?) to find my heart,
insert conscience 'A' into slot 'B'.
Peel back my skin and cover
what's left in stained velour,
complete what i have become,
scarred, barren, torn asunder.
i tore the flesh from my bones
for me, nothing more, trying to
destroy eternity, separating
molecules, better living through chemistry
(FOCUS)
There is a seed inside us all.
What will it become, what will it consume?
(FOCUSFOCUSFOCUS)
i feel the disconnect and cry
stretching wounded arms across
a chasm of my own design.
i would tear myself apart for you,
but not for me.

This virtual world still carries weight,
an invisible pond where words echo,
events spiral and ripple,
and we see the masks before the dark.

Evil hides beneath these still waters,
even in the light,
reflected on us all,
but never who we are.

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 spent some time alone with my friends
pondering the glitter of gold
and the clear-fire of night,
paying homage to the china,
by candlelight i dreamed
of shortcomings and how to:

wiping chalkboard, the teacher spins the disc,
while children laugh and throw stones,
their desks more comfortable than
the crucifix they all heard of somewhere.
A shrug and curt nod
as they drift back to longings for recess
or snack-time.
The little girl in the back knows
she has no milk money,
but will gladly trade for some.

That's all they really want

A whistle for the stride
or a poster for the wall.
All the adventurous boys sense this
choosing to pool resources
to achieve a common goal.
They pruned the cattle
and slaughtered the choicest
for their own.
Jealous, tyrannical lovers
thrusting themselves such as,
shamelessly.

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.

Nothing will ever be pure again,
an eternal February of blackened
snow and slush, churning
laundromat for tires of
discontent, cars of pointless lines,
voyages of the spirit in the physical.

We are earth-bound snowflakes,
born to fall and be soiled,
clinging to frail beauty,
praying to an ear-less god for life,
our lives the only thing worth
dying for, taken good or bad.
Kamikaze skydivers, star-crossed
and locked in gravity's tractor beam.
Fearing the hell of melt, craving
the safety of numbers, another
crystal to bond with, a cold
fusion of icy love, gasping;
praying to an ear-less god for death,
our lives the only thing worth
dying for, our deaths the only thing
worth living for, all the same
in the end.
all the same at the end.
all the same,
the end.

i carry my grandfather's
broken heart with me,
his hopes and dreams
realized and lost.

i have sewn my grandmother's
disappointments to my sleeve,
a flair of lace and sorrow,
quilted debonair.

I wield the father's attention,
a span of no great measure,
a weapon of mass distraction,
a net for butterflies chased.

The islands of fire in ceremony,
a festival of misgivings,
i offer up these baubles,
the trinkets, memories from a prince.

The belly of the earth rumbles,
a distant lands' shockwave,
beckoning a rider,
calling for a king.

King Kuameamea rises,
he paddles to ruin:
the crest of the tsunami
mastered, subjugated foolishly.

cat dozes on porch
startled by noisy lizard
rains death from above

Tail-less lizard
run for your life
cat toy

small tree frog
stalked by kitty
leaps to freedom

another tree frog
pushes its luck on my porch
dislodges hairball

Hunting easter eggs in December,
and yet they seek me out instead.

i never find them at my pace;
standing, drunk, outside familiar
bars in the cold, randomly
dialing number combinations
to hear whispers or silences.

Radio wave transmigrations
they are, a look to the
past, a nod to the future,
a moment in stasis
where the keypad blurs,
doubles, focuses, blurs,
and i am lost one more time.

Crackling...

clearly static, the white noise
of separation, the
                    (hidden)
     message
             bro      ke  n
    a
        p
            a
                r
                    t,

perfectly human, but alone.

Let us have a footrace to Scotland...
don't worry, you will probably win.
i am pacing myself.

It doesn't matter which path
either of us take: i know
i was high for the first half of the race.

Am i lost?  Who knows?
But i will find my way.
This is how our stories go.

So hurry up, buttercup.
You might win, and then crowd watch.
but if i lose i will still find the Scotch.

Ever onward we hurtle,
across time and through space.

Lonely mutant animals, joyful
thoughtful, gleefully cruel.
Our pets fling poo and
maul child and elder the same.

We know they underachieve:
We water our gardens with
the souls of our enemies' children.

We twist alphabet knives
betwixt the ribs of the betrothed.
We turn seeing eyes away
and blind eyes towards,
ever onward.

We wander lost in
perfection's labyrinth,
****** pulse of fear
beating beating beating
brains driven fear driving:
ever onward.

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.

The bus stops
on these roads,
plexi-glass shelters,
sit, collecting humans
and rain, wet wanderers
fleeing the sky.

He stares at his feet,
this moment's occupant,
huddled in his surplus camo-
jacket, safe and bearded.

This is my city
     (there are many like it but this one is mine).

They plant baby palms
along these streets; they
unfurl and catch these winds,
soak up the rains, hide

the treatment centers
and meeting rooms,
gutter syringes and
cheap hotels.

It's lovely here in the spring.

Rocketing to the moon,
USS Southbound Phoenix crew
and I, your Major Tom,
depressurized and canonized,
a cannonball of lost trajectory.

Space is the only place
appropriate for my recourse,
tracing invisible vectors across
lonely forlorn skies, dotted
flecks of paint across cold
charred canvas of night.

If god had done more than flicked
dripping fingers of existence, none can tell.

i, Major Tom, dare only to
reach my stubby arms out
of my rusty lifelike cage.
i fear no lack of oxygen
for i am breathless.
i fear no love for i
am heartless now.
The vacuum should fear
me, the hollow flight
suit of Major Tom,
stretching out to embrace
nothing in particular anymore.

Confused seems to be the new grade.
i've brought it home on my report cards
for years and yet
never allowed it to dampen until now.

It would appear to many that i have
lifted a new blank page from the books
and flailed around senselessly, finally
resorting to casually disembarking the
book on an outward passage through
the plate glass window of the 19th
floor apartment.
It doesn't scream on the way down,
primarily due to the complex fact that
it knew in some way or form that
this day would come eventually.

(Across the street, an old man sat
on a park bench, feeding popcorn
and alka-seltzer to the flocks of
pigeons he attracted.  He watched
the book's swan dive and unapologetically
smiled inside: also so disenchanted that
he too gave himself coal in his
stocking labeled "Dreams.")

i don't smile anymore for them;
makes me sad inside, i guess,
because one day we will be old,
carry our canes arthritically and
look for and reminisce about each,
but who knows if together.

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.

It's the imprint that it makes, really.

There is little relation to
the covenants we have sworn
or the gildings of rehashed
sobriety or leftover temple
bricks, baked clay tablets
on which someone records
these scenes, fragments,
scents, and colors.

How can we reap this Zion?

Can it be gathered as wild
sweet strawberries are,
torn away from their source?
Can it be processed electrically?

Can we make money off it?

If so, how many dinars
would you offer?
One?  Two?  Perhaps
a discount for quantity?

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 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.

Another Saturday passes alone,
with my cats;
Caturday Night Fever,
the Disco Eterno
(the informal inferno).

i stared at the phone, willing
it to work, but have
no idea why...

i have an  infernal list of
forgotten lovers from past
lives and lifetimes and at
this junction i am no  more
than Lincoln Logs to their
Lego Fortresses.

Words that i used to own
slip through fingers that
used to hold mine, and
i think to myself that
it is quite peculiar to
know what you don't want
and be mastered by it
so deftly...

shiny armor is nothing more
than proof you are untested,
something too big in the
shoulders that makes it hard
to bear a load.

i pledged no allegiance,
to the United States of Omerica,
only to the Republic,
on whose necks they stand;
no nation, so help me God,
can stay this divided,
if there is to be
liberty and justice for
ALL.

The rain dilutes the sins of  the land,
pandemic baptism and resurrection.
This Earth that once housed Noah
and his Ark, a covenant of life,
the buoyant spring,
cycles like the cylinder of a
revolver, a hedged roulette bet.

When we are cleansed, we achieve
grounding under water, in over
our heads, digging in the mud
for pearls in the scallop and
oyster beds.

The receding of the waters
is our delta moment, fighting
for absolution;  a
mammal under water or a
fish out of water,
there is no difference:

only a burning in our chests,
a yearning for return
to the elements we once knew.

Citizens of America, lend
me your ears and
brains for a moment:

actually, on second thought,
you won't listen.  Keep your
ears.

Now your brains, let me
get a little better than half
of that.  For keepers.

You won't miss it.
A short half is enough
to follow me on Twitter.

140 characters is the max
anyway, and the trend
is to use less.  Down

to an average of only
27 characters in Louisiana.
It's okay, Cajuns, spelling

is hard.  None of us do
it right anymore.  We
don't even call things

by their proper names.
How can we find wisdom
if we continue not calling

a ***** a *****?
Beats me, ask the
President, i guess.

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 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.

i am hollow on the outside for you:
a completed tribulation,
standing grammatically sound,
whispering coos and slurs alike.

Tomorrow, my dear, i will rend
my eyes for you.
Tomorrow, i swear it.

Today is for feasting,
tonight is for laughing,
yesterday is for remembering,
but tomorrow: we die.

We feast as Romans:
gorged, feather tickled,
hedonistic embossed.

We laugh as hyenas:
nugget ******, giggling,
reservation tossed.

We remember as ancients:
eyes blurred, teared,
longingly lost.

But tomorrow, my dear,
we die, together again.

Youth has killed them all,
the lunatic screams,
bemoaning his plight
to all who will ignore.
those who cry for their
mothers at night,
THEY are the madmen,
whimpering and sniveling
'I don't want to be responsible'
only to realize at some point
later in life that no one
gives a **** what they
want just as long as
they keep their mouths
shut and shovel their
**** to keep the system
as one, man!
All this bull about free will
will take them all of nowhere!
The more they try to capture
youth, the older they
will get and the quicker
they will die!
Don't they see it?*

And even though he
warned himself,
he died the same way.

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.

Earth is too tame these days,
too lax in competition.
i only see real men when we
attend the same protest rallies.

Talk stays cheap so that everyone
can afford it on any budget;
fistfighting in public is rude.

i have a genuine concern for the
welfare of my fellow man.
If they don't do well, what
will they have worth taking?

i *** in my backyard so the
dog will know it is MY yard;
my territory is marked;
he swears me fealty proper.

At the top of the food chain
we cull ourselves,
civilized.

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.

On the news I saw a Medal of Honor ceremony,
people I've never met getting awards for wars
that I never fought...

and yet I am still awed, tears in my eyes,
glad they carried themselves bravely forward.

I wonder about America's prisoners of war,
missing and forgotten in foreign lands.
When did they let go of their lives,
those people they loved dear?

Those they loved are prisoners too,
trapped in the cycle, waiting.

I've only ever been a prisoner of the wrong loves,
broken couplings of average Americans,
where I felt the stifling of raw tension,
the piling up of cigarette ashes , the blank
walls of shallow rhetoric which I reject.

I smear my warm ***** on the walls
of that oppression, as any
self-respecting prisoner would,
at the end of the war,
wishing they were home.

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.

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'...

A thousand gods
under the cricket moons
couldn't even save one little bit...
     (salvation is the enemy of
      a violet world)
the same lame-*** gods
that made us educated
and civilized.

Why not a cosmic birdbath
or eternal blissful garden
that happy children frolic
in amongst springy damp
Bermuda grass and Birch
trees that shine like a
trillion flawless diamonds,
almost as beautiful, at dawn
when lightly frosted?

Regardless,
days like these i wake up
full of vigor, dreamy-eyed,
complacent, full of longing,
but still glad our gods
are dead.

At Christmas, i wonder to myself
if i have spent enough money
to prove my love; i am giving of
myself, writing the great American
poem.  You can tell because i have
big dreams and no results.

i celebrate my family ties,
tethered to tradition.
i want to celebrate the solstice
instead because all nature
needs from me is my death,
a promise kept forever...

a memory of everyone's something.

Hark! -
     mine hopes had loftily soared
     at your comely visage, young
     handmaiden, carrying the promise
     of much chivalry and banter upon
     eagles' wings of fortuity!

What goodness the Lord hath
seen fit to imbue on thy
outer trappings most surely
were indeed false, wherefore
thee proved thyself a most
unworthy jouster of conversation.

Dost thee not ken that real world in
which we live, rendering thy speech
thus? But alas...thou dost not.

Lo! -
     that only i could have understood
     what the ******* were saying...

costly lawyer hired
to defend this criminal
strangles cops with tie

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.

i am the ghost of the giant,
haunting these same streets,
invisible in the daylight,
moved on from the world,
yet here in spirit.
All these things i knew
were blooms of the dark
annual flowers, here and gone,
droplets in a river,
bounding over the falls.

Now when i drive the streets
i see the fleeting beauty of
unknown women, laughing,
shopping, smiling for someone.
i remember these simple things,
from afar, invisible,
bounding over the falls.

The fall of Rome is upon us.
I have spied it from my window,
i dare not intrude.

venimus
vidimus
vicimus
(ourselves)

The slaves are in revolt;
the Colliseum burns,
flames tenderly licking
destruction and freedom,
a beacon in the
dark autumn night;
Carthage has embraced
its high sodium diet,
it now seeks equality;
the Senate lies in ruin,
much as it always has,
now bereft of contributors.

Ego autem relictus solus devius,
faciamus nobis effugium.

Come, fair plebian lady,
get in my chariot,
i will 'Billy Ocean' you
all the way
to the end of the world,
because some things never change.

veni
vidi
vici
NOTHING
per memet

ita reliqui,
empty-handed
my new fair plebian in tow.

Roma victa.

Her captor deserves no quarter.
Stupidly cruel and blank,
the executor of silly lies;
the denizen of the dumpster;
the drunken trickster;
the worthless excuse;
the excused human;
the circler of drains;
the drainer of circles;
i see the dark in his eyes...
Why?
Won't?
You.
*******?
DIE.

In the winter i set my heart down,
making note of it in this poem.

It was heavy with ice and frost,
and i was lighter for its loss.

i wanted to pass the note along,
missing you so, to cry out to you:

PLEASE!  I LOVE YOU!!
...but you don't hear me though...

In the approaching spring you called,
and the hollow in my ribs ached;

we spoke different languages through
string-less tin can phones;

i sought out the place where my heart lies,
though i fear it cannot be found:

i had mailed you that treasure map,
and you lost it in translation.

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.

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.