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alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation

wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl

brush
minty hairy pasty headed *******
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches

shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter

breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene

work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune

lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin

work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without *******

dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin

sleep
a felon’s holiday

repeat
i want you to know that this world is a gloriously sad, brilliant, depressing place,
full of people that will make you smile
and cry
and scream
and torment
and rave
and rant
and retaliate
in agony, marching to the beat of self indulgence

you'll hear them say, with conviction
this is good, or this is bad and
if you don't think so than
burn in hell or
******* outright

you just dance on your parapet
all the same

sway your body to the universe
and dribble your soul on the sidewalk
let the world witness glorious blasphemy
a body that's free
a mind that lives in ecstasy

just remember me
i swayed you off to sleep
a father with a small
prophesy
a Columbine flower,
a blazing reddish orange thing,
with heart of yellow,
a clustered tendril thing,
a green stem, impossibly thin,
springing from gray rocks

they
shiver, dance, and bow
to the will of the wind’s
mood

unlike its siblings and cousins
the Columbine
stares downward
earthward

not to the heavens
but hellwards

a lonely band of
rainbow

a tired, knowing flower,
among the forget-me-nots

how like the Columbine
i feel
Look up Columbine flower Alaska, they are beautiful. My writing should not impact your feelings toward Columbines.
There is a certain beauty in it.

The spider-web bridges across
a watery milk chocolate gateway,
churning rust water, as steel ships
glide through the slick like drones.

The metallic twists and turns of
silver pipes crisscross across
roadways and itself, creating
apocalyptic silver castles and causeways
of itself.

The fog and clouds caress
every visual body, a seductive clinging,
like a cheating spouse's tongue.

The hum and clang of forgotten
promises rumble the earth.
And we are afraid.

Perhaps it's not beauty,
maybe, an aesthetic:

Apocalyptic Industrialization
scooping silent, hush baby,
i’m here, hush,
but only in my head

i trip on the piano stool
“god ******” i whisper

gently

i smile, our second genetic
mutation, clumsily fondles my
face in the dark, once, twice,
three times, to be sure,
i’m here

her fingers poke my eyes
tug at what little ****** hair
i have and go limp with dreams
only babies have

it occurs to me; this cruelty of
being left alone,
in blank black darkness,
is falling from a ledge
backwards and slow

she is my earth and i
am her sun, if i am gone
where is she in the vastness
of space and time?

her breath grows deep,
i wonder, what have i done
to you? to myself?

you must be strong,
wise, courageous,
thoughtful, creative, respectful,
kind, generous, forgiving -
a litany of perfect virtues
achievable only sparingly

yet, there is one trait,
one asset i value, almost
beyond ability, grace, and
beauty:

independence.

you can do it
its your responsibility
its your fault
you asked for it
you only have yourself to blame
you should know better
you created this mess,
you clean it up
you said…

a parenthood spent hacksawing
my children from myself -
i wonder what they’ll do to
me?

what is the sun without planets
than a lonely lantern in nothingness?
what is the earth without its life?
gravity without its force?
sunsets without a witness?

what are you without an egg
and a *****?

independent?

i’ll try to remember these cries,
they weren’t for her,
they were for me.
we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold

siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder

we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for

iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were

epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope

we’ve
followed polyester roads
of truth

have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?

the
naked
nitrogen
of our belly buttons?

the
happy
hydrogen
of our eye lids?

the
oxygen of ******?

**** me not
with metals of progress

but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium
teeth

i’ll take the devil of
old

over this
lonely willows shivering in
the holy ether of wind
baubles hang and chime like
honey filling ear
drums

a convulsion of dreams
atonement for the muzzled
fornicator of reality

where men hacksaw
their legends from the
fabric of truth
purger themselves from
pulpits of egocentric
alters

carnivores of praise and
self-adulation

i want the humble salt
of hope, the naked and nervous
courage of overt happiness
and its ambition

i need fertile gardens
growing the seeds of humanities
gentler hearts, loftier ideals

not these amoral molten mouths
spewing ashes for symbols,
selling peepshows to win loyal
martyrs to empty causes,
bleaker ends

dreams are for the willows
i'll shiver no more
chiming only of my vision
suckling the honey of my own
bees

now...
how to walk like thunder?
talk like light?
live like the rivers,
who've drank all the rain?
i dance with this one
until sweat on temples
heart doubles its drum

i dance with this one
swinging, swaying
shooshing, smiling
singing only the lines
i know

mumble the rest

i dance with this one
father's choreography
not quite ready for
broadway

i dance with this one
in lieu of lactating *******
a sing song blue eyed mother
who can only enchant

i dance and jib and jive
and bounce and slide
to dam the rainy river, to
ebb the tide

i dance for you
my ophelia
my daughter of movement
and song
a stew of mortal
affordable gifts,
litter our lives,

tacky raining clouds
dribbling

- no -

its more like
robotic justice

we're
muzzled frantic cherries
chained to the liver
of mass media

- no -

its
hysteria, rumor, intrigue, ******
****

that’ll do...

two hundred thousand years
of this, you’d think we’d know
you reap what you sow

- no -

just clubbed fish
gawking for air
until deathly
first world bar-b-q

wine of cold lonely grapes

life on a pedestal
is sure to topple

maybe we'll eat
apples during the
fall
belligerent eyes beg wholesale
submission, blushing undress

a swanky disillusioned dream
a tacit fleshy mass of need
a fierce card of calculating
want

we’re sturdy old twigs
you and I

curvy ******* of want
are busy straws of dull
cynical fat smoke

our lives murky inventions,
you and I,
sincere but sneaky

let’s not trouble the tides
of our unarmed vessels of
love

let's forget
there is no pen
no keys on the board
no rhymes in the rhythm
to bring my furious apocalyptic
circus of peaches and lizards
cast in copper and cow’s milk
to an end

i’ll tickle the martyrs
make them giggle at
distilled ideology

a bare **** hyena
on a cross of perverted
peppermint dreams
laughing at the stars
of invisible hooligans
and queens

narcotic logic
a saucy prophesy

let’s chew the governor’s gum
dance with the ugly ballerina
of sewage and power
and ***** the democratic
statue of liberty

godless addicts,
storming the streets at dusk,
reptilian vultures
smacking at the chops for
ceremonial wreckage

a colony of despair and
heavy hearts, sniffing blow
from pages of divinity

oh, don’t you know?
that rotten ole bible
buried with your cadaver,
just a rotten floppy book
of lies and wisdom dreams,
flaccid logic in a wilderness
of life

the truth was at the force of
your birth, a shocking ******
into awesome naked existence,
a fat and chunky firecracker of
hope

there are no iron gates
in the sky, waiting to be opened
just for you

just this dangerous soup
of humanity,

you make your mark
not for death, but here
for the living, and the living
after that
the hungry moon possesses a mysterious silver blowtorch
we burn in the neon deliverance of
reflected light

a baffling massacre of comprehension
this universe
that moon

a barbaric balloon billowing, bobbling
suspended, aching above city skylights
an orb filled with the cinders of everyone's
feverish dreams

this night has eaten our sun
in a sauce of stars and churning  
cosmic milk

narcotic planetary stallions
galloping across the black vast
marbled table
of space

my bed a casket, my head an airpot
of dangerous fradulent circuitry and
rusted ginger
our lives twist and turn
ebb and flow

our past
the knuckles of twigs to branches
the snake of a meandering river
creating lakes,
a hand and a reflection of
current state

there was beauty there -
nervous bodies collapsing
on each other, peacetime
handsaws dividing time
like honorary saints

we harpooned chaotic hopes
and dreams, orphaned our logic,
made love in a tree under glittering
moons

if only it was
so poetic

really, just cannibalistic
lonesome ******
looking for an angry fix
vultures aflutter for a carcass

perhaps that was me
not you, no matter

our magnetic climaxes
of mind and flesh only
bloopers of lives just
begun

now
holding my daughters in these
hands, my hands, smugglers of
truth and lies, i hold blind hope,
whisper conspiracies in their ears:

“the only way to win is forgiveness and love,
religion is a man’s fairytale they’d like you to believe,
the apocalypse will be man’s not god's,
politics is a man’s excuse for action,
love is a man’s lie for ***,
poverty is a man’s idea of justice,
war is a deformity of man’s making,
thank god you’re a woman!”

our disfigured past has
changed the genetic genome
of unimportant history, given me voice
and perspective

i can’t be sorry,
for the lies i’ve told,
the love and hate i’ve wrought,
its the greasy yarn of my soul
i weave in a simple shack of promise,
that, they’ll be better than me

i can’t be sorry
spurious tremble of sound
drab smoke, fat smog
just loitering, lingering

where's the golden egg yolk running
down your stubbled chin?
the blue eyed engine of wit?
the brown skinned hurricane of breath?

i want the thundering honey of
your raining words
sparks unwritten
now written

not this slop, these ***** mops
impartial waxen masks feigning dance -
measly, cowardly, snow-less winter of
self-indulged blather

give me the ceaseless maniacal
thrill of your shrill song -
the moaning joy, deranged ****** of dreams
hissing off the wings of dragon flies
darting around a lake of fire and hunger

soak me with the thirsty meaning of
presence, hook me on the soggy saturated
labored meaning of your waves

melt me on the nebulous butter
of your words that orbit and loom
like Jupiter's jagged distant song

i'll wait
for you
you know
they say
just a short time ago
humanity entered
interstellar space
outside the bubble
of our shining sun

few seem to notice
really even care

there's no man or woman
hopping or plunging flags
on distant faraway lands
just a machine, gathering data
and things
intangible
to you or me

i guess that's no surprise
given the way we've treated
this place

crowding it with metals on rubber wheels
coal plants with giant top hats or
explosive mushroom hats made from
radio active rocks and things or
tons of knick knacks molded from
oily wells and burning stacks or
grocer shelves lined with seedless
fruits and other mutant creations or
chemical sandwiches for lunch
and dinner

all the while
marveling at
how far we've come

i hope we find nothing out there
no planet should be treated

like
this
i banged a goldfish

we, both, were paralyzed

in the end

for different reasons
i was baptized after
god had given me
reason and sight,
thought and perspective,

unlike the babes we give
bombastic destiny shortly
after birth

i had a priest
chewed tobacco
spit it in a coca cola can
i stared in disbelief
he handed me a bible
“you tell me where in there
it says I can’t chew”

the me now, wishes the me then,
would’ve handed the book back
and asked;

“why are all the writers men?
do women know nothing of god?”

that priest was defrocked
his wife, mother of five,
found the skin and liquor
of another man alluring

the archdiocese
frowns on these things,
chewing aside

i had a bishop
he ordained me
blessed me subdeacon
i lit his robe on fire,
on accident
he forgave me,

then he disappeared from his post,
according to more blessed folks,
he’d been teaching faith askew,
church dogma was fed to the dogs,
the wine and bread to humans
trying to survive with
dignity

his church name was
bishop innocent
ironic, i know

i dreamed of priestly robes too,
a liturgy to the masses
delivered with rapture and passion
thought i’d turn the tide
make a difference
for god, for good

then god died
in a room of hypocrisy
full of self-important men

what excuses have we conjured?
for war?
for violence?
for power? For
white over black?
white over brown?
white over yellow?
male over female?

other than,
god willed it? god ordained it?
the devil made me do it!
for, isn't the devil
just an angry god?

sure we say…
democracy is under threat,
freedom is under siege,
capitalism is just,
they got what they deserved,
******* will burn,
arabs are killers,
women are weak,
the poor are stupid,
men are strong

what we really mean is -
god wills it

that invisible hand
we slap each-other
around with

a  muppet,
a clown deity
we parade around,
a spiritual lawyer with
hidden fees against your soul

i was baptized after
god had given me
reason and sight,
thought and perspective

it didn’t work out so well
for god
let's lick the cream of our dreams
off each other's faces and *****
and *******
of course!

let's free ourselves from dictums
of proper decorum - the this is right
and proper, the way to sway your hips,
to nod and smile politely,
so nicely

let's say freedom is a key on the piano
and we'll always hit the right tune

but,
let's love
our wives
our children
with cradles for arms
and hammocks for lips

let's rejoice in the spirits
of rolling naked souls
beneath and between
silken cloth

but,
embrace the sanctity of devotion
of love
of family

let's sweat and breath as one,
on one another, as if the planet
and each other are near drowning
     which is true
     in more than one sense

let's smack our chops
and hold our breath
at the **** beauty
of dressing and *******
morning and night
in soft shades of light

and
not forget the threads that
bind us to earth, to one another

let's live and remember
a shadow
with a need
needles me
each day
each hour

until sleep

the shadow is me
on the side of seeing
the gray edges of myself

another drink

smooth the jagged edges
of moonlit realities

i'll be better

tomorrow
dazzling seed
of water and flesh
here are your toes!
hear your wail!

a shock in lopsided time

take your father's paltry
proud, untidy praise,
whisper it to your own reflection
off the river of the universe

yarn an incandescent voyage
beyond the gaudy shores of
humanities crooked beaches

between your ears sloshes
a makeshift promise of meaty
hope

fill your pockets with courage,
climb stupendous trees of ambition
and grin for luck

fill your mouth with laughter,
spit it on pointless hate
and pack a secret love for everyone

fill your skull with warlike wit,
pour it on the ******, the bitter
and stuff your soul with wildflowers

eat these words with
your heart

my hope,
my inspiration,
my child.
oh, my capital J
i wish to love you

wish to relish
with heavy breath
your bumbling
word clippings

as mr. ryles
would say

i'd clean after your
sweaty pen's scribbles

dripping monolithic
red yellow green blue
onto the
black pupil,
white globe
of my eye

but,
blink
your lines go by
i feel no different,
no freer, no lighter
no angrier

just sadder, that such
blather, such
depthless flat
colored words
are mistaken for

poetry

have you not heard,
the brown thrush's song,
while drifting off in your father's
arms?

she sings for you and for me
about the ruby colored dawn,
bursting upon the nest of the earth,
overflowing with joy, with life
for you and for me

i want to love you J
through your words,
i really do

but sentimental odes are not made
with shapeless rocks for words, nor
butter knives for tools

sharpen your wits
****** your words
i wait to love you
through your words
have we strayed far from art?
Oh, Marvell?
Oh, Donne?
Oh, Jonson? And
sometime Wyatt?

forgive these modern
fornicating gluttonous
whirl of words.

pastoral shepherds are dead,
old friends

sultry sweet snatches
to sing of and dampen your quill,
mossy memories

those pining poets deflowering tulips
with their multi-lingual similes,
have been shot for their vague
caresses

mowers now grip their
flaccid scythes,
loitering near the iron
gates of life

forgotten and rotten are
their hot July desires

no.

no need to complain in
metered rhyme, just
give it to me straight
and hard

i'll take it all the same
an edited version of an older poem of mine
men
(white men)
(a few women)
(white women)
- oh my -

sit atop this teetering thing
called
america
called
freedom
called
(democracy)
- oh my -

blind in their mirror
of privilege
of history
of status
(of reality)
- oh my -

they
turn no cheek and cast
an ignorant bitter stone

"they take your jobs"
"they hate our freedoms"
"they are manipulators,
lairs,
murderers,
rapists,
extremists"
(terrorists)­
- oh my -

all are equated,
summed into a
logarithm of
shallow truth

"Make America Great Again"

what of the west's,
of america's
variables to this equation?

economic hegemony?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

assassinated leaders?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

moralistic edicts of right and wrong?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

policies to extract foreign resources and wealth?
no variable
no matter
no history
no reason

- oh my -

was it not john
a disciple of jesus
the son of god
a god
who blesses america
who said

"If anyone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen."

was it not paul
the apostle of jesus
the son of god
a god
who blesses america
who said

"Do you suppose, O man—you who judge those who practice such things and yet do them yourself—that you will escape the judgment of God? Or do you presume on the riches of his kindness and forbearance and patience, not knowing that God's kindness is meant to lead you to repentance?"

- oh my -

hypocrisy is an acidic suicidal pill
your brother is cast in the likeness of
god

like you

a
human

a being of
fault of
merit of
sin of
good of
tribulation of
suffering of
worth

fear is an old testament to retribution
love is a new testament to reconciliation

america is the new world
(not the old)
- oh my -
an empty head and heart and bumming ego
will twit and and twirl truth with abbreviated character

"Everything about me is a made up lie. She lied, they lie. Don't trust them. VERY ***** sad anti-Americans. I am America."

what have we wrought?
what water have we sapped from this stone of democracy?
of conciliation?
of compromise?

a jocular twisting gnashing of teeth and buttered lips
a helium balloon of hair and fornicating words
of bluster and smoke

a man's grabbed the **** of liberty
jeering in her face, "big things, big things
are in store for you..."

Here I am,
I am liberty about to be
******
i go through this daily plot
waking, working, trudging
first world ease, office walls
wheeled chairs

afternoon run
tupperware lunch
dinner the night before

home again, dinner
dishes again,
play again,
daughter picks up
new phrases, new looks
vegetable strainer toy
"umbrella," she says

i see those eyes, my wife's
and i wonder

what is this place?
these walls, these roads,
those sitka pines and shrinking
glaciers?

how 'm i supposed to be a father
with all these things stretching out
vaster than reason, than comprehension

those talking heads, ranting this or that
liberty's *****, freedom's snatched,
the world warms, the world cools

Filipinos scream in the face  of angry
winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly
gestures at a colorful map, powerful
he says, historic
he says

more dripping mouthes,
government want guns now,
more money to ****** our phones
to send unmanned drones

our president's muhammad,
or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest
a genius or incompetent
everyone knows

just back home
a tiny algae grows and foams
thrashing in the autumn water
brown oxygen choking life
never found on our shores before
kills fish,

i imagine so much more

i hold my daughter in my lap
reading mother goose,
run my hand through her
thin smooth hair,
sometimes afraid
of what she'll see and hear
with her mother's eyes
and her father's ears
read it in the leaves of grass
withering as the time goes
marching past

we've sung of ourselves,
total selves, man and woman one,
******* plumes of white cloudy
dreams into the holy skies,
total consummation,
writhing pleasure lips,
part smile, part begging,
total self-adulation

but,
the grass withers my old friend
those fields, tepid pools of oil
our skies, churning ebbs of burning progress

a civil war roils,
just beyond our yard
remnants of it tumbling within the square boxes
we worship for their divertive power

no longer brothers and fathers
north and south, pounding powder death

but,
mothers killing mothers,
fathers murdering their unborn
sons and daughters

a generation of human flesh
eats the soil of the earth,
drinks the blood of its rivers,
plunges its arms deep within
the arteries of the land pulling
forth trinkets and black milk
to feed our steel cattle
to ***** towering mirrors of our
false power and prestige and progress
and prowess of mind and prudence of judgment

no, no, no! lies of a blathering ***** unhinged,
we scream at our total selves, man and woman one,
this is not the song i intended to sing
our way of life,
under attack
I described the brutality
you are with me
I would have to do more
rise to meet it
before dawn
full speed all day

Sleep did not come easily.
the grief, the heroism
raced toward the flames
a figure silhouetted
breathing heavily

it was one of ours
The first of a series of found poems from *Decision Points* by George W. Bush
her calm, soothing voice.
my indignant response.

after-dinner drink
B&B;, Benedictine
martinis before
beers with
a habitual personality.

I was running
my system of the poisons.
bourbon by myself
becoming my god

how to reflect better his will...
the nature of temptation
the love of earthly pleasures
the love of god
summon the will

freshness
faded
temptation
drink
intense
my body
craved

I ran harder
longer, my body
screaming

momentum on my side
my convictions took shape
the strength of love, the
power of faith, and the
truth

I am the first son
"...you've arrived,"
he said with a smile
"I can throw it to you..."
The second poem in a series of found poems from *Decision Points* By George W. Bush.
human life, the humanity
of unborn babies
all our lives in this early
state

moral difference

die naturally,
proactively ending
sanctioning destruction
to save life, dangerous
territory

moral distinction

aborting for direct benefit
aborting for vague and indirect
purpose

saving lives
the cost of destroying
noble ends do not justify
any means

great promise
great peril
great care

I pray
we wait for the
Amen
The third of found poems from *Decision Points* by George W. Bush.
listen
i know you mean well

your
executive decisions
touching base with
the team, to take a deep dive
to analyze risks and best practices

simply
a sexless donkey mask
decoded to mean;
“i haven’t the slightest idea,
what you mean”

we’re all primates here
no need for practical lyrical
assassinations

i know
you never think;
***** in your court,
you’ve got cycles,
or getting down and *****
is your gig

but here’s the thing Alice  -
you’ve gotta go down the
rabbit hole

more than metaphorically

gotta use that big skull
lugging around that 50 pound
brain of yours

you know
connect the dots
ducks in a row
on the same page
that kinda ****

and for
due diligence
i’d like to say -
leaders do more than
point

i love monkeys
but they do more than
that

pretending to know
what the **** you throw
smells like

is
worse than eating
the ****
you shat
I have a young one
and an old one
they are four and nine
respectively

one night, the young one
expressed her love for me
with her hands

the first was for her mother
her arms stretched obtusely,
for me, they were acute

she was honest

I cried.

the older one
brought me water

We went to sleep.
Run
Run
little tike,
kite thread,
strung out
pulling hands, body, fear
into sky, clouds, air,

beyond

chicken skin chill
wind shiver cold
fear

stop! mama! scream

little older now,
kites, dreams, birds, feathers
flights, mountain crags
song, soar

mama, now, screams
rolling, plywood floor
no kite, big hand man
grab, spit, roar

tears heave breath
face, mama hands
cry, side, no more
said to floor

metal fireplace
hot, don't touch,
arrow poke fire,
heavy hurt stick
**** big hand man
make mama scream
stop thumping body
slap, flesh, red burn

heavy arrow stick
fall down, thump
face, floor

big hand man
take, this or that
hot scrap belly
bone, angry kite
throw living-room
bed, heavy hands
burn bones, dreams
eyes

morning light
mama scoops
legs, arms, teddy

"we're getting out alright"

*subject matter partially stolen from http://hellopoetry.com/-peachy/
rip my hair and skin
scalp me down to my river mind,
innards of rot and process

take your hollow **** of words
bury them in my very own
valley of salt and waste

let's say,
"words are words,"
with purpose and shallow bravery

they
mean this or that
and that is that
of course!

this is this and the other thing
what a lovely ring

sure to rhyme
break the lines
here and there

a bold poet
with a neautered tongue and pen
a cold box, where chaotic sloppy life
should tumble forth with joyful hot moans,
explosions of spit fury finger breaking body snatching war hunger defeat suffocating three ton wool blanket thrown over our mouthes stifling the bitter gut gargling screams of drone death baby mother buried way down under by the son father stalking blind with tears and rage and poverty
skin not black but brown, religious garb for the crown
hypocrisy will be sure to follow him about

Yet, here we are, a small empty hall, short not grand
Yet, even here an echo back of our dim shallow fancies
words that skip on the surface of meaning and power

mothers grieve shouting at the earth, holding their
******* to the moon, while fathers eat the dry bleached
sand we've left behind in valleys of salt and waste
the din of proofed blood
faded

many nights ago

"i'ma part-time drunk
needa be half cocked
before sleep spreads her
arms and legs."

laying here, a cello rubs
low somber tunes
invisibly

my lovers thighs, her breath
her soft intoxicating flesh
gone

another muse toys in my
darkness, keeps the wheels
turning to the low somber
rub of an invisible cello
No longer let our voices fall to a whispering
march of death. Jam your baritones and
inflections through songs for a god gone
dead

Make the earth shudder under your footsteps
as you let the wind take the pages like
a flickering flame

Make your presence known through the howling
sleet and rain - scream in the faces of distorted
kings, spit on their robes and **** in their eyes

Cast your fury like the waves and witness the smoke
of god vanish in the shadow of a cat, feast upon the
words that wither like the grass

Smear the self indulgent prophets in sweat and mud,
drown the child of the Euphrates and **** on his
holy stone

Go horse in your burning wrath, ******* wretched
Isaiah, suffocate him in the wallowing tears of Job,
let the blood of your hatred flow like wine

Drink of your consummate supplication steeped
in rage and disgust.

Let it sustain you to shake the pillars
and columns of his temple to the ground

Dictate your commands and bask in the boundless
power your existence brings to bear upon the weak
and know you and the fake god you hate

are one.

*This is an old one from my depreciated poetry blog found here: http://www.letthewords.blogspot.com/
The United States on many levels is a messy affair. Often this plays towards its strengths - a heterogeneous glob of skin colors, backgrounds, opinions, personalities, and characters over the past 240 years has helped shape a cultural, political and economic haphazard semi-benevolent, oft-belligerent empire not seen on this planet before its creation.

We would be idiotic to think that these past two centuries, and nearly a half, have been without some outstanding contradictions. We could pornagraphicly chart how glorious words from the Declaration of Independence have been ******, again and again, including “all men are created equal” and how people have the right to “throw off such Government[s], and to provide new Guards for their future security” when such governments do not serve the will of the people.

We could start with how a great portion of the founding fathers were slave holders, then we could move onto less touchy subjects like most were rich and all were white (and had penises). Sure, we could write that stuff off - you know - the times, the course of history, blah, blah, blah. And all that is true. America has had its Frederick Douglass, its Martin Luther King, its Sacagawea, and Chief what's-his-name, along with all those famous Latinos and Asians they teach us about in grade school we remember so well.

But then, we turn towards those other two hundred odd years where the United States’ culture and politics hung black men and women from trees like strange fruit or burned them alive atop hateful lumber, committed genocide against Native Americans and buffalos with guns and blankets, while also overtly and covertly murdered and overthrew leaders and regimes in Latin America, Asia and the Middle East for resources, power, and influence. Then there was that whole thing where we herded Japanese people into pig pens before we massacred somewhere around 200,000 of them on some island in the pacific with big bombs we had immigrants create for us. To be fair, they started it.

We could write that stuff off - you know - the times, the course of history, blah, blah, blah. And that’s true.

Lean in a bit more and you’ll smell a bit more sweaty *******. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps kinda stuff.  Just like how the current President started off with nothing but a multimillion dollar loan from his daddy to kick off his economic empire. Just like how anyone can succeed in America as long as you work hard, which is why minorities in this country control a majority of multinational corporations, hold a majority in both the Senate and House of Representatives and why every white kid in America grows up aspiring to be either Black or Latino because their parents say “it's for the best.” Just like how America has the best health care, that’s why America has the lowest infant mortality rate and the healthiest people who never ****** each other with 2nd Amendment guns or commit suicide after killing their families or classmates.

Are you writing this down? I am.

Perhaps we could turn to ourselves (I’ll play the overly judgmental overlord who doesn’t give a **** about your feelings or my own personal hypocrisy) ready? How about the shallow puddle of desire we hold in our hands that we mindlessly scroll through and tap and caress and coddle and cling to like an obsessed sociopath? That thing that connects us but deletes us from the here and now? That thing that traps us into a circle of impersonations of ourselves?

Hold your head just this way, smile just like that, clench the jaw just so, a little less cleavage, a little more flex and tuck, bribe the kid for a smile  and - SELFIE! I am a happy, successful, wealthy, witty, charming, sassy, badass ******* genius party hound, bound for success and glory and please like this post or photo or confession or rant or meaningless comment about my mundane life. I need to stay connected.

Let’s drop the phone. I’m still the overlording hypocrite. How about we talk about the polished mirror we strap to our heads by leather, stick, and string and leave dangling before our every step and twinkling eye? We ***** and moan about the drive to work, the long flight, the uppity moronic ******* at the office. On the other side of the mirror a drone strike just killed a mother’s son. Did you vote, do you care? We bemoan the ****** pay and mindless work we’re given in a corporate service driven economy lorded over by overpaid ******. Move the mirror and look in the distance, a dictator just mass murdered his own people. We wallow in self-pity, no one sees our potential, our worth. At the stoplight downtown, hold the gaze of your fellow American asking for a buck - what’s he worth? What’s yours and why?

Okay, how about this? We stroke the ***** and ***** of our own deflated morality by inflating the stupidity of others. Mr. Jones lost his job and slept with a woman not his wife - oh, my. Mrs. Jones chopped off his ****, how unladylike - oh, my. This might be where we avoid the mirror we’ve strapped to our heads by stick and string. I’d never do that, never done anything like it. He deserves what he got and she’s off to the psych ward for sure. Yet, we guzzle down the *** of lurid stories steeped in “other” people's faults. We’re all in the **** video now, and everyone’s acting *****.

Let’s not pretend anymore. Humanity is America and America is messy and often ugly. But there, in the chaos, gleams an oxymoronic hope to do better. To be better. I am as small as my mistakes and shortcomings but as towering as my dreams and ideals. We cannot change or erase our past stupidity, but we can be so much more tomorrow. I want to be an empire of hope, a mountain of kindness, a river of acceptance, a field of peace. A good father to my daughters, a loving partner to my wife. A man that lives.

Let's not write that future off as blah, blah, blah.
I feel like a slow flying
bumble bee
staring at huge expanse of prairie
without a single flower
We are walking toward Mendenhall Glacier,
it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit, or so,
there is an inch of dry sandy snow
atop the lake's frozen face,
it creaks under our feet, like a wooden boat.

the sky is blank-blue
the sun is washing the snow, ice, and mountains
in blinding white and shadows

our Ophelia has questions about the ice.

"what will happen when the ice is gone?"
I dig my brain, inside myself,
I don't really know.

my instinct is toward the material,
the tangible, like my wife:

"we won't be able to see the glacier
from here anymore."

Ophelia turns this for a beat,
"Does the ice get smaller?"
"yep"

It does.
Where does it go?
It melts.
Where does it go?
It flows in rivers to lakes and the ocean.

I churn inside myself
how much does a 7 year old need to know?
how much do I actually know?

the sun bleaches the colors of the world,
the ancient ice glows an ethereal blue,
the mountains tower their power.

I think of the end,
of all of this,
to all of this.

Later,
we eat
a hamburger and French fries.
it’s a Lincoln penny love,
a Washington dollar,
an Eisenhower dime,
or is it a Roosevelt?
a Jackson twenty,

‘what’s money?’

its the scratch, the dough,
some cheddar
fifty cent, hell bent,
greenbacks,
smackeroonies, baby

‘daddy?’

a buck darlin’,
a Hamilton,
a ***,
some Franklins,
a hole in your pocket

‘in my pocket?’

a deuce, some beans,
some jingling nickels,
rocks in the bank,
a stack in the kitchen

‘daddy, tell the truth’

its a diplomatic swindler,
an accidental cruelty
manufactured in holy casinos
called capitalism

‘I don’t know those words’

its a carrot that puts down riots,

fights, I mean,
a fortress of glitter and cyanide
we fight for and within through lonely
comas of obedience

‘let’s talk about something else’

its the mint that grew
in the temple of Juno,
goddess and protector of
the Roman state

‘I like mint’

me too

‘is money mint?’

money is minted,
so, kinda

‘but you can’t eat money
like mint
and you can't make tea’

that’s very true...
I live in a trailer park,
beyond a decade now.

I suppose outside of here,
they're called "mobile" parks.
Here, they're trailer parks.

There is a trailer hitch,
but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere,
no-how.

Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular,
with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this ****" tiredness.

Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat ****:
dilapidation,
all common traits to the TP kingdom.

These are rhomboids with a forceful will
to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels,
propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams.

Modifications and additions have been nailed, and *******,
and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable.
An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an
improvement.

These improvements make the mobile into a trailer,
flirting with that trophy ***** ******* called home.

No disrespect.

Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can,
home ****. They'll take you for all your
worth. And smile. And so will you.

Real people **** and make love here.
They die of cancer,
go through pregnancy,
pick their nose,
do math homework,
*******,
write poetry,
*******,
do ****,
mow lawns,
hold children hostage,
make coffee,
help their neighbors,
go to vote,
make art,
***** their neighbors,
dream.

They slide their backs down the walls
of their homes in bouts of sorrow,
turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks
and despair. Heaving out their regrets
in spit and snot and fury.

They all live here.
And so do I.
your poetry is the
timid surgeon's
blade

your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****

parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs

when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire

not your stiff ******* advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion

when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity

not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism

when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence

not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow
*******

ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should
words
are
sacred salty plush
******
mean
divine.

they escape me.
they elude me.
these innocent, cosmically
granular,

words.

i’d lick the noble chalk
off the board of
Bukowski and Hughes,
Whitman and Sexton,
Ginsberg and Wilde,
for the privilege to
spit

life comes with its bitter calendar,
shackling you to a bloodsucking propagandist, always asking for your time

you take your pills of coal and lime -
a father, a worker, a man, a lover -
a tyrant over a narrow scope of existence
called you

and you live
and we live
and i live

a paralysis of carbon and function
together,

a baffling empire of fire and ankle socks,
destined for a hearse that someone else will pay for

before we eat the dirt
we wear these perverted hats
that say

i’m this
they’re that
and you’re…

a writer
i’ll never be

— The End —