spread your arms and embrace the world
and give love to it whole
your arms, not your weapons!
too late, I guess we have gone defcon
five, and hell is full of good intentions
so must heaven be full of bad ones
does it matter what was meant
if one does not think really long-term
beyond the grandchildren and tomorrow
beyond running from pain seeking pleasure
and you spread your arms further and
only mean well
but now your arms are choking them too there
as the love is not understood,
as the defense becomes aggression
so the elders justify the rules
seniles and youthful through
such bloodthirsty youth that must hide a resentment
that perhaps had only missed
real warm loving arms around them too

a writer is not only what he writes
but also what he keeps to himself
taste acquired
perhaps on long walks on the beach
its a conquered skill
and a beautiful savoring
of a fine diet
that reminds him
of the body he needs
judge them not for their drafts
also not just their hits
judge them for what's attempted
despite the pressure of the ink
and that inner critic
echoing voices of family meets
the escaping of their self
shall feed the escape of others
may they meet on a lovely sunset
making love to the imagination
that could only become free
from light, carbohydrates, liquid metals

you can absolutely make art
with guns in a war
with death all around
as mosquitos that **** seeds
whisper in your ears loudly
those that don't understand
the sick allure of war
in old men and young boys
will never discover
how to stop war
from taking dreams away
from so many men
art, like war, is subjective
is it an existential enemy
or targeted propaganda
are we flanking the right side
or is this a wild goose chase
in attempting to make it a science
the predictability becomes dangerous
thus you need the refinement
of the human instinct
condensed
filtered
to that drop of sweat
and adrenaline thrill
as the finger hovers over the trigger
or the eye waits for corner movements
that decide if an immortal piece
can come from a commander's
death wish

the first time I heard the ice cream van
it was a Tuesday, if I recall
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
Never have I seen anybody walk up to it
but the ** still comes
after work
weekends
spring, and autumn and in winter
people slide in their bikes and break necks
but ice cream guaranteed just downstairs
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
was it a psyops? is he on commission?
can he put me out of my misery?
the siren echoes too much
even if I hadn't had lunch
by the time I arrive down
he's already off to a different town
it's too much, too loud
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
the vans echo through the neighborhoods
a cacophony of melting sugary water
it's all a bother
and now I crave the ice-cream
but I will not reward the siren.
I'll walk fifteen minutes
to the Willys circus.

no sane person sits alone
hours at a time
writing their innermost thoughts;
writers are by definition—
insane.
hell, we pay others
(the psychiatrists and therapists)
to listen to our innermost thoughts
and even they can't handle
more than an hour at a time.
but those that handle it
(by definition—insane)
those, we call readers.
while the common soul,
surrounded by their kind,
lives purely in experience—
processes, moves on, forgets.
(by definition—sane)
the writers and the readers,
both insane,
are the minority amongst the masses.
such insanity,
(beautiful, creative, artistic, unique)
of such rarity,
stands out more
precisely as it contrasts
with the sanity
of such commonality.
should the insanity
become the norm
then would the sanity
be praised
immortalized
sought
desired
should the machines liberate us
for the pursuits of all arts
then we could say
(in the most trivial of ways)
no sane person sits with others
hours at a time
enjoying the present moment
they would be by definition—
insane.

a balanced breakfast begins
with a fresh glass of anxiety
and a bowl of helplessness
which you eat with a piece of dread
and the food pyramid is a lie
and the diet gurus scream
in self-serving ads in your screen
at the end of the day
or in this case the beginning
the balanced breakfast will be
what you haven't digested before
and it will feed you for a while more
just as it fed you that first time
when you starved and needed that
but diets never last
and neither should this
balanced breakfast

just another **** engineer
both literal and metaphoric
hyperbole of the word.
**** was the topic
**** was the medium
the process and the outcome
the feeling and execution
the raw gut punch
and the lingering inner filth.
everyone thinks they know ****
until **** knows you—
that's when you're truly
swallowed
chewed
and spat out.
all for nothing
'cause **** is its own end
no higher meaning
no profound vision
no ******* revelation.
just another job
in ****
about ****
another way to survive
another routine
with its soul-killing moments
and those fleeting glimpses
of grace in our
worthless existence.
everything could be
depressing or poetic
depending on the day's mood
and **** was no exception—
perhaps
it was the rule.