Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Their eyes give them away
Hunted and lost
Squinting against the light
Witnessing the desolation
Of a thousand distinct emotions
And if this is not the worst thing in the world
Surely it must seem that way
From the look in their eyes

The sound of flesh beating flesh
Cuts through the silence in this room
Soft exclamations of bittersweet resignation
Whispering extracted lies
In a thousand tongues of fire
I know it's not the worst thing in the world
Sometimes it seems that way
When I hear the desperation in your voice

Lie now, in fertile fields
Soft, misty wet with rain
Swat bees in clover
Exquisite sensation
Of my every thought
Melting in the brutal heat
Of the difference between
How things are and how they seem
Sep 2015 · 325
a look in the mirror
the wrinkles around my eyes
seem deeper now than they were
the last time i looked
steep, soft valleys
too often lately
flooded by saltwater
chiseled in skin
by experienced hands
I died in bed
On a cold December evening in 1977
Screaming hatred for my father
Muffled by a goose down pillow
Damp with hot tears
Seventeen spoiled years
Was there even a Christmas in '77?
I got the coffee table bible
My mother left for me
(She got one for my brother too)
The good old arcane King James Version
With concordances and maps
And incredibly realistic engravings of
The heroes and saints of Christian history
Abraham with his knife to Isaac's neck
Jacob's ladder, wrestling with God
David slings a stone, throws it at the giant
Through Saul God made David king
Jonah surfing the whales back.
Then there were all the portraits of Jesus
There had to be a hundred of them
I liked the one where he was walking on the water
And he bore the stripes with such dignity and integrity
The stations of the cross
The portrait that showed him lying down on the crossbar
As a brutal Roman warrior used a sledgehammer to drive nails through his tender hands and feet
He seemed so out of place between the two wicked sinners he was sandwiched in between
With their laughing and obscene mocking
I'm sure my mom hoped we would make ourselves part of that family
In some way or another
But I was listening to the Clash and the *** Pistols
I could have paid closer attention to what my father was going through
If I didn't have so much coming down on me
**** falling from on high burying me
In even more misery
The process caused me to distrust love
It caused me to write off joy as fleeting, difident emotion
I died in that bed
It could have been '75
But somehow hope had grown
In the midst of uncomfortable confusion
It could have been '76
Might as well hold out for the Bicentennial
Those were the days
I turned seventeen
And that number took on special meaning
17 in '77
Dad had a few nervous breakdowns
He put his fist through the wall
He insisted,"My nerves are shot my nerves are shot
$100 do this for me
You re the only she will listen to"
But I'll take the cash and the car keys
Why does it still feel like you were doing it to me
Off to O.K.C.
Have a little talk
About what I have no memory
But NEVER mentioning the hope
That you would come back
Despite daddy's tear-filled begging
Why?
I don't feel too guilty
It was all relative to how I'd been treated the year before
When I came home I was condemned
By a man who'd gotten out of the habit of saying "I love you"
So I felt justified
Screaming "I HATE YOU!!!"
Deep into my poor pillow

It would be easy to say I didn't truly hate him
In December of '77 I genuinely did
Almost 40 years down the road
I know it's the powers that I despised
It was circumstances dancing so clumsily
Caught up in the inevitable vortex that
Tears things apart with ease
But fumbles when trying to replace and rearrange what's left
Few there are who can survive
I wasn't one
I died in bed
Empty inside
Brain drained
Still as the motionless mattress
I'll never love again
Years will teach me the foolish blasphemy
Of cursing my father
And when they buried him in the ground
I sensed he knew
How to play the scape goat
It wasn't him I really hated
But he bore that burden until I figured it out
Long before they lowered him down
I knew my love for him was eternal
That he would carry it with him wherever he went
And if I didn't die in bed that day
A good part of me did
Of this I'm certain
I won't say "the best part"
I still have strengths
But I'm always wondering
The kind of man I would be
With one less bible in the house
And my mother playing Farkle with me
Aug 2015 · 471
Post Punk
Slowly a sense of purpose returns
And hovers just out of reach
Shrouded in the darkness of this womb
Encrypted and encoded to the point
I may never decipher the meaning
So that my destiny is to invent new ways
Of keeping the disappointment from being devastating
Like it was the last time
And the time before that
And the time before that
And especially the time before that
To live on the hope of love in the next life
Knowing full well any love I experience
Given or taken
Is sheilded and corrupt
Through no fault of my own
It was purged along with my youth
By circumstances
Beyond my control
I remember a time
When I used to cuss like a sailor
No one could hold me back
Least of all you, my pretty little doll
I never saw you flinch
Though my profanity was loud and obnoxious

These days you ride with me, still mighty sweet
But you've curbed my expression
By the hateful disappointed looks you give me
If I dare utter an offensive word
And I have to ask
Did you grow a stronger set of morals since the good old days of yore?

Maybe I did, you reply
All I can think of to respond is
Well, doll face, you can **** me running
But this horrid language is branded on my brain
And I don't see how I'm ever gonna purge myself of it
You say Its easy, just find other words to use
That's fine and dandy but all the other words I have to use are worse than the ones you get so offended by
I'll curb it some but I can't guarantee I won't let a ripe one slip now and again
She said Well that's fine and acceptable to me
But don't go expecting I'll tolerate it well
Cuz I won't
You're a grown man

Of course I'm a grown man
That's why I'm allowed to talk that way
She said Grown men DON'T talk that way
That's what I'm trying to tell you
If you had any maturity about ya you wouldn't find the need to use that language
I say well I'll be ******* if you didn't just place it all in perspective
Thank ya dear, for enlightenin' me
Even were it ever so minuscule

I love ya baby more than my own
Personal freedom of expression
You're too good to your man for him to discount your feelings and emotions
I'm gonna wash my mouth out with soap
One last time
And I am going to join well-mannered clean-speaking civilized society
All my cussing will be just between me and God
Cuz He ain't told me to stop yet
I'm pretty sure He thinks those words are funny
Don't worry, God, I won't tell my sweet honey pie
If she found out she'd probably die
Jul 2015 · 4.8k
An Apology of Sorts
Didn't it sound a lot like something
He said a long time ago?
Now it makes sense
Dripping from honey lips

I lowered the box into the ground
Empty but only I knew as much
Nothing to see, nothing to touch
My own heart was buried deeper down

Looking up I saw you shed a tear
For all I was laying to rest
Was to you a memory blessed
A short respite, the re-emergence of fear

Or maybe I had it wrong
You could have known all along
I could have been the one deceived
Or maybe I only thought you believed

Step back
She sings the Mantra
Let her finish
Before we continue

Hare Krishna ¥ Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna ¥ Rama Rama
Hare Rama ¥ Hare Rama
Rama Rama ¥ Krishna Krishna

I could tell you reasons for what I've done
Before the passion flamed
I dreamed her naked, unashamed
Innocent as the day was young

I thought it was love that drove me on
Even when the snake bared it's fangs
Injected it's venom of change
Convinced my compassion was strong

Now I know that it can't be forgiven
The arrows pierce you from behind
Weaker still your weakened mind
And contaminate your imagination

Stole a page from God's playbook
I'm sorry, my old friend, that you fell
But I have ****** myself to hell
Just one page was all it took

this end is for me even more than it is for you
the fog in the forest is still sickly thick
and you can't see the forest for the trees
I dragged it out for too long
but I know your ignorance is blissful and I don't blame you
I'd do the same thing if I were in your shoes

It was my own guilt that stopped me cold
Made me think twice of what I'd done
I know you'd just soon it go on and on
(And on and on)
But seeing you so often demeaned is getting so very old

•••••••••••••

Cry when you hear the song
Crying is often the best thing to do
Break down for an hour, in the back of your mind
Know it gets better when the grieving is through
Don't take anything she said for granted
She felt she had good advice
But you gotta let it work
Learn how to pray
Build a fortress around your mind
Evict the rogue voices

"This is rebirth
The hardest word
Held under water
This is death
I'm out of breath
Held under water"
           - Dustin Carpenter
            "Held Under Water"
             (big sleep., 1988)
Jul 2015 · 410
Spirit Transient
In that moment
I forgot
This is all illusion
Everything became too real
So solid to sense and feel
These entrances became a necessity
To touch and taste, to smell, to see
To hear the winds of infinity
That blow from deep inside of me
I felt as if I'd fallen
Back into the dull routine
Back into the same old scene
From out of a peaceful dream
Into another long day
Nightfall seemed so far away
I dream of sleep
Big and deep
Eternity
I follow the mantra
My heart is open to truth
For a moment I forgot
Peace reminded me
Jul 2015 · 296
Undeleted
I write poems before I fall asleep
I post them on the Internet
I let their existence guide my dreams
Then delete them when I wake

Obviously this is not one of those poems
Jun 2015 · 372
Episode
As the missiles speed to their target
A sense of panic sets in and takes hold
Where are the cameras?
They've captured almost all of me
Now I'd better give them the rest before it's too late
(What are you doing? Put your pants back on)
The weight of fear slams me to the mat
Bathed by a strange rust tinted hue
Desperately screaming incoherent repentance
Held down by strong arms I feel the bee sting my leg
Within seconds I've given up
Paul McCartney lyrics fill my head
As I walk through the gates of heaven
Where absence of time insures I won't remember a thing
When I wake up
Jun 2015 · 632
I Were Exist Indefinite
For years I danced with spiders
On moldy windowsills
Tripping the night fantastic
Neon rainbows glowing
In dark winter skies
Our island suspended
No center, no linear
Endlessly fascinated by geographical shapes
Intersecting, diverging, refracting
Emerging, spiraling out like an insane Mandelbrot
My dreams were selfish
Worth staying up for
Jun 2015 · 407
Epiphany
I guess I'm not a very likable person
I tend to be condescending without even realizing it
You really have to try to earn my consideration
You gotta prove you have half a brain
Because I'm convinced most people are idiots
Even if I'm right
I'm still kind of an ******* for thinking that way
It's not as if I'm Stephen Hawking
Jun 2015 · 411
Throwaway
Some unfashionable fear
Repels me from the blinding light of
The moment
Knowing full well that to bask in that glow
Brings the only peace I'm destined to know
My flesh sinning against the Spirit in the conviction
That it isn't enough
Grasping ahold of all I've come to hate
With one hand
With the other all I thought I loved
All that is before me
All that is within me
It all belongs to the moment
Even as I belong to the moment
Though my stubborn will won't admit it
One constant in my unremarkable life
The infinite ringing of tinnitus
Ignored by methods learned so long ago
I could not remember to teach them to you
Certainly not fail safe methods
With age it seems harder not to listen
And lament as it gets louder
Slowly, slowly, barely perceptibly
Louder
As through a screen I listen to things
From the dullest congressional hearing
To the most exquisite music
Of Gustav Mahler and Sigur Rós
I know there will come a day
I will not be able to dissect the intricacies of a randomly chosen Mahler symphony
Or appreciate the perfect bliss
Of Jónsi channeling angels
Breaking barriers, cerebral and ethereal
How will I remember this divine sound
When tinnitus masks the music of the spheres?
Will my memory ability do it justice?
Soon, oh graceful Lord, soon the curse will overshadow the blessing
And I will have to stand condemned of it being my own fault
It makes me want to cry when I say
I'll miss all music
For music has been the most trusted and reliable friend I've ever known
Sacrificed for what? Persistent ringing
But who knows, perhaps the tinnitus
Is to keep me from hearing the voices that accompany schizophrenia
Perhaps that's the sacrifice, the trade-off
Godsent music the price to keep insanity at bay
I must not think that way
Though my years are getting shorter
And tinnitus will surely claim my hearing sooner rather than later
I can't let myself feel guilty
For basking in the sonic waves of comfort
For playing Riceboy Sleeps again
Listening for the million musical noises
Floating around in the atmosphere like fire flies on a dark, humid summer night
There are recordings of ghosts on the record
I'm no para psychologist and I don't even believe in ghosts
But I swear I hear their mournful cries
Pianos in empty rooms
Simple melodies picked out by no hand at all
Sounds that cannot be identified
Pin ***** starlight shines pencil thin bright light beams
That show the moths and dustmites hanging from the air
Riceboy Sleeps you can wear like a cool coat or hide beneath like a sheet waiting for Answer Man to come get you
Stalling, stalling to keep you here until the absolute last minute
Something so strong that even tinnitus can never fail to steal it's otherworldly beauty
And though it's true I would choose Mahler over Sigur Rós and Jónsi/Alex
To be stuck on that desert island with
It's only because I think his symphonies would be better tools against boredom, so complex and intricate they are
I could live 50 more years and still not have heard what waits in his symphonies
Jónsi's voice is carved on my heart
I take it with me everywhere I go
I will never lose it
It is indeed part of me, even as it grows in it's mythology
Jónsi will be with me always
Even through the gates and down streets of gold
Mahler, though, will take a long, long time to work his way into my memory banks
Though he my not totally succeed I know
I'll get more than enough
And the desert island experience
Was only made tolerable by those 9 symphonies either in the Claudio Abaddo versions or the Muchael Tilson-Thomas cycle
So I keep 'em both
And in similar ways my tinnitus is staved off by
Message For Bears
Immanu El
Stafraenn Hakon
Yeasayer
Jean Sibelius
Gregor Samsa
...there are many others
   Stand against tinnitus
   Pray a miracle from God
   To point out
   Unrecognized silence
Written under the influence of Jónsi & Alex's superb album "Riceboy Sleeps", an album that I cannot recommend highly enough
There is an exquisite melancholy that comes
When basking in the revelation that
I was never as good as I thought I was
With a good number of years stuffed between
Halcyon days
and
The dull-edged moment
Jun 2015 · 373
on dying
Who waits for me
At the end of the road
With arms wide open
For me to throw myself into
And disappear?
Whose gift is eternity?
Will I be given the chance to see you
Growing and slowly filling
My field of vision
With the beauty of permanence?
Or will you sneak up from behind
To strike me down with mercy?
Such a blessing to know you'll be there
To take me from the present suffering.
An even greater blessing to forget you altogether.
Jun 2015 · 484
In Defense of the 66 Books
This may come as some surprise
To the way you despise and the knives in your eyes
I got respect to the highest degree
For the three in in one, the Holy Trinity
And I hear mean folk, insatiable
Dragging down our Revelation bible
NIV or dead old King James I doth salute ya
These copious onion skin pages contain the secrets of the universe
Hidden from those who think they know what they're looking for
Revealed to the man of simple trust
Given to the man who understands the way of grace
That bible condemns judging
And all hypocrisy
Truth be told there's not a soul
Least of which you and me
Whose even a fraction prepared to
Speak from on that Rock
All you got, baby, all you've  ever had is
Talk talk talk
Think on it a little while
Your mind will draw the same
Conclusion I reluctantly have carried in my brain

The bible is a singularity
It's powers beyond measuring
Like it's author it works in mysterious ways
To amaze the dull and confound the proud
It can bring whole cities down
It's the battle map of the philosopher/warriors mind
Stained with the blood of mere men and a King
To whom all will bow down
Each and all will bow down
Be we in our own particular spheres of understanding and/or ignorance
Our knees will hit the ground
And we'll gladly acknowledge Truth has been made known to all

A couple thousand onion skin pages with script so tiny an old man's got to squint
66 books that changed millions of lives
Fought a few wars, it's true, expected
Each on the side of the right whether you realized it or not. Each battle a jigsaw puzzle piece in a verse that reads ALL THINGS WORK TOGETHER FOR GOOD FOR THOSE WHO LOVE THE LORD AND WHO ARE CALLED ACCORDING TO HIS PURPOSE!

Monks in the day would memorize the entire bible
I never knew how they could do it
I'm sure I never will
But if God helped me write those 66 books in my heart and mind completely
Where I would not forget 'em
Nay, they'd be working on me the whole time
I'm sure my remaining years would
Make up for the frivolous disbelief
That has haunted my young adulthood
It would be a blessing that I would fain cast aside when my Lord Jesus puts His arm around my shoulder and escorts me cross to the other side

It's hard to read the bible
Because it shows me what I am
Boastful of my own good works
But still such a sinful man
Through lines of wisdom
And the love of a Savior
I recognize the reality of the supernatural
The abode of the infinite God
Of countless Names
In the Bible Yahwah and Yashua
But they are just the same
The process is to accept
The progressive retardation
Wrought by chemicals
A necessary adjustment
Reevaluating meaning
Value and worth
There comes a point when realization dawns
The point where intellects breaks down to the base line of ignorance
Where attachment is severed
The process takes everything away from you
But not before draining it dry of anything worth having
And so the grandest theft
Becomes
The most glorious gift
Of nothing
(This is not easy to understand or comprehend,
It is the  chemicals patient handiwork that allows eyes to see
To see and ears to hear
To hear
Without their scientifically regulated tutelage there are very very few methods that work in the 21st century that give them that side car joy ride straight the ribbon of BEING into to prayer closet of Nievana
Those of us who aren't willing to give up the things we attach to
The very things through which we define our selves, our souls, our minds, our hearts and our spirits
Drop them, move on a live without
When you realize you are living without, drip dmsomething else
It is the most difficult thing in the world
Yet by the end of the pilgrimage it has become too easy
Happiness is with nothing
Nothing is a clean slate for your imagination to create upon
This is heaven - wants nothing to do with the world
Process of chemicals and lack of sleep
It's a good thing
Though they who follow the path  will be laughed at and scorned
By people who will never understand them
White trash bad *** and Rhoads scholar on the same page
"How can they live if not like us?"
You keep living, it's your calling
We are called to the realm of the supernatural
Where we will create our own heavens
Songs, stories,books , interactive movies we may never die
But if we do we know what we left behind
I wii not find I difficult to close my eyes
Having created in such a grand scale
Albeit with chemicals and ignorance guiding my way
May 2015 · 1.5k
Radio Ouija
Time was you could turn on the radio
And the first song you heard would contain
A message to you directly from God
He'd tell you what was happening in your life
Sometimes He'd tell you what to do about it
Always a surprise, good to hear from Him
But not always what you'd want to hear
A lot of it depended upon the radio station you chose
These days fewer people listen to the radio
Opting for streaming music or perhaps internet or satellite radio
The last two sometimes seem to work in a pinch
But it's just not the same, I don't know why
Yahweh just seems to like good old fashioned terrestrial radio
Probably makes His voice clearer on the AM band than FM
Not that He doesn't respect progress
He's got a nostalgic streak in him, that's all
And some really poor people can only afford a cheap AM radio
So there you go
Practically any song can drip with profound meaning
If you use the radio like a Ouija board
Try it sometime
It could change your life
Even for the better
Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them

CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.

It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!
Things that worry me
Is my vision steadily deteriorating?
I look at the iPhone screen in the dark with my glasses off
Is that enough?
Or must I factor in the harsh light from my lap top screen
And the screen on my Kindle HD-X
I will even on occasion watch the television screen
And a movie once every two or three months
But all those I wear my glasses for
It's mainly the iPhone at night I am concerned about
Like I'm doing right now

Let me tell you the truth
My cynicism has evolved into a meaner beast
There aren't too many people I want to get to know past "thanks for the money
God bless" and if you think I really care if God blesses you why then you haven't been paying attention
I can't seem to muster up a smidgen of compassion for anyone
It's been so long since I felt that special kind of affection for anyone
And though it's true that people are typically getting dumber much faster than they're wising up
I'd say it's a wonder we worry about it at all
Or is it all in my head?
Is the Ambien invading entire sections of my brain, one by one, the ones not totally massacred and eradicated by the last ten years onslaught with marijuana of various properties and potencies
I suppose I should level a fare share of the blame on the Great Communicator THC
BUT I'm not a lost cause
Not yet
Not today, I made it through the day
Tomorrow isn't quaranteed

And as far as you know
I'm just the quiet guy in the market
Not a word for anyone he runs into
Nope
Not a word
Thank God for the self -checkout
I may ***** you, it's true
But I'm harmless
Unless attacked
Then I'm a ******* raging inferno
Blessed with precision
I will drag you into my hell
And you will know what it's like to be me
Walking cloud nine in the pits of Sheol
May 2015 · 366
Commencement
Is there anything more boring
On this God forsaken planet
Than sitting through the graduation ceremony of a distant niece you have never, not even once in your life, spoken to?
Her parents are ultra-conservative evangelical Republicans who get all serious when Ted Cruz's name is mentioned
But I only know this via social media lurking
God knows I've done my best to avoid speaking to them as well
But a married man
One who honors his vows
Will do things for his wife that he would normally consider intolerable
It's not a sign of weakness, on the contrary
It makes him a stronger person
But it ****** sure ain't easy
The hours between 6:30-8:30 on this lovely Monday evening when the weather is conducive to a million enjoyable activities
I will be stuck on my ***
In a huge church the school has rented for it's capacity
Praying I don't accidentally pass gas
May 2015 · 542
Thorazine
The Thorazine cocktail is a mean and nasty drink
Chemical sludge, black as hell's deepest dungeon
Enriched with the power of Mighty Thor's hammer
To smash your fragile brain pan and leave your senses numb
Belly up to the bar, boys
Jack Daniels is a school boy writing fifty time I must not
Jim Beam is a bully but he only picks on weaker spirits
80 proof ain't a ******* thang
Thorazine puts them all to shame
Explore new dimensions of bitterness
The Thorazine cocktail is a wrecking ball
You never develop a feel for it
No, it always tastes like half baked death
And smells a pungent metallic drift
Dead animals on the highway, rotting in the sun
Knock 'er back, Jack, drink it to the dregs
The dude in white thinks it's funny when you beg
You plead to take it away, how it's ******* with your head
You can't even remember what any of the voices said
You must be well, Old Jacky boy, don't need it anymore
Then again these things are weird, you can never be too sure
The dude with the cups seems to think it's not time
To kick it cold turkey, the order's been signed
So you might as well resign yourself
To the sledgehammer's blow this fine summer's eve
And shuffle away like a zombie
Hey look, that old John Huston movie about the Bible is on the television in the day room
It's just getting started, the creation scene like outtakes from the last ten minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey
Isn't that a coincidence?
Doesn't that make a lot of sense?
Jack, you might as well be tripping on Owsley's personal stash
...or is it too late?
Who set you on this path to hell?
The same ones telling you "turn around"
Weren't they saying there's no turning back?
They'd have you believe it's much easier
Getting used to the idea of being ******
But you've seen the world from a different point of view
The truth is a misunderstood paradox
Being as far from the Eternal as you can possibly be
You swing the spiral to become closer than you ever were
Where the reality of I
Is neither blessed nor condemned
Caught in the short circuit
Where acceptance and rejection
Elicit the same response
Joy and sorrow
Indistinguishable
In the vast difference between what I wanted to be and what I am
The temptation is to count missed opportunities
To what extraterrestrial province has my Muse flown?
My legacy has been the evolution of an unhealthy obsession with death
A defiant ******* when plenty of years buffered from consequence
Getting used to the fear
Never forget the times I was high on potent hydro and paranoia kicked in
I thought I'd be dead on the ground in a matter of moments
Those times I wondered what the hell was wrong with me in courting the Reaper
Slippery medications knocked me down, metaphorically and some of the fear
Is replaced by numbness and a desire to leave
Take me in my sleep, o Eternal One, just don't let me wake up
Alas I keep waking up
And it comes down to giving up everything I have and know
Totally submerged in amnesia
In hopes that what comes after will be better in it's unique way
No brain to process senses so you might as view them as the wave of the past
I'd pay for mental telepathy and full reign of an active imagination I helped create in this life
So in the chasm between what I hoped to be and what I am
The potential for hope, even miracles stockpiling and inventorying blessings
They have their own expectations
All too rarely amused but **** 'em
In that chasm life still conducts business
Handshakes are still exchanged
There's no reason to give up hope
In that vacuous cave death and joy do a dance, ambition sings a number with missed chances
Like me Charlie
Have you got a bowl of that hydro and a light?
I need the big reminder
Coming soon
Love sonnets to a young Linda Blair
May 2015 · 669
...and I did
I hear…I will…I do not understand, if you are speaking through me won’t you please make your presence known. If not, kindly show me to the door. Jolly rancher, jolly Rodger…Every rose has it’s burden, a shifting stone takes in all it has coming. A stitch to throw in a ditch saves just three under a dozen. Come in and care. Come in and make yourself at home. Come in here and cough up a phlegm-ball. Rest your weary head on my tombstone.

There’s a reason for all the things I do. Do you want to know what it is? One thing, and ONLY one thing: Pepto-Bismol. **** gets things done. That’s my excuse, pardon me, sir, if you don’t get it, you won’t get it you won’t NEVER *** it down in yer soul where it needs to be.

Never so young as you were that day. What a show. What a show. Pretty maids all in a row, fit to a one with tight trusses emblazoned. BUTNER BUTNER BUTNER! Three cheers for Butner. One big long cheer with corresponding slutty ***** dancing routine thrown in for free. From your friends in Butner.

They ate that right up. Didn’t even have to spoon feed ‘em. They’z musta bin reeeel hungery. Sure thought mine was special.

And it was.

Take my pick, that’s the schtick. Maybe the doll in the unwashed dreadlocks? Maybe the gal with the go-hero pout. Maybe the one with the sad dropping eyelids? Maybe the ***** with the genital itch. Maybe the ***** with the venereal sore. Maybe the **** with the cellulite ****.

Or maybe the tiny, mousy mouse of a sprite, never had love look her in the eye, that stuff only makes a man wonder why. Hair shorn short and shut out the lights or you will never see that incredible aura and glow she dwells in like a bubble. She’s the one to choose. She’s the one, you can’t lose, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, how can I make it more plain? You’re gonna get wet if it rains and I haven’t got time for the pain, Strange Woman. MY woman.

Make some plans for a one night stand I’m a dope smokin’ man and I sure get around and my life revolves around Strange Strange Women. Strange customs. Strange habits. Strange ideas of just exactly how incredibly Strange they actually are. I’ve got mine, now you go get yours. We’re hookin’ up at the dance.

Dilly dance, dance of the week, American Bandstand dance and you didn’t like the words but it’s got a good beat so you give it an 85. You could dance to it.

Such was my hope. Twas to be my destiny, if luck stayed tucked in my pocket I was fittin’ to be gittin’ my share o’ what I got comin’…

…and I did.
You
Were so much more interesting when I thought Bela Lugosi was your uncle
And though the tales of summers spent in the company of Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. were not true
You had me goin', man
You really had me goin'
Until eventually you drifted your way and I shifted mine
You pimped Kiss while I paraded the *** Pistols
You never told me those stories were lies
Then again I never told you that I thought they were ******* either
I can't help but wonder two things
1.) Do you think I'm so naive as to still believe you were related to Lugosi, Karloff, Chaney Jr. (and MORE!)?
and
2.) What if Bela Lugosi really was your uncle?
No matter, we never could have remained friends
I can't stand obsessive Kiss fans
Learn to love the smell of the stench
Then close your eyes and realize
That what you see
Is all there will ever be
Embrace the silence
The hardest thing to do
Everything that stands around you
Is meaningless
Impermanence reigns
Like it or not
Civilizations are spawned to crumble
Doomed to disappear
The grandest dream a mere vapor
Mist evaporating in mid-air
Absorb this wisdom
Let it permeate your intellect
See the devil in the details
And know that you were never truly a part of it
This cesspool you've subconsciously ignored
Your whole life
Is not your home
You are forever
May 2015 · 282
for no one
who can save you now?
there's no more room in here
the rat won't stop growing
and you keep feeding it
and you keep begging us to feed it
but we are what you make us
so somehow or another we will keep it fed
either in your heart or in your head
disgusting vermin
you should have killed it when you could
who knows what that would have meant
but you're addicted to it's company now
it has **** on your masterpiece
How thick the glass between you and the ground
From what heights the fall
How far the way down
How many times have I seen you
Pressing your body up against that slick slab of water and sand
Looking down
Looking out
Looking up
What do you see outside this confining ward
Where the doors never lead to the outside
There is a room on the end
With a pay phone
If you know someone who'll accept collect charges
You can sing to them
Tell them they aborted our first child
That you saw them carrying the body through
The waiting room
Or maybe it wasn't the body at all
I'm still convinced of the abortion
Someone around here knows
The ones who are crying all the time
The one with souls
Not the ones arranging table chairs in a row
Telling us it's an airplane like we're going home
I never understood what that was all about
Still I made that trip
Knowing nothing more than
How thick the glass
Thick enough to keep from breaking as I
Ran into it
Tall, such heights, 4 stories to be exact
A long fall, far enough to break every bone in your body
Bust open your head and spill your thoughts to the cement
How many times that was my goal

But the ******* glass was too thick
May 2015 · 357
A Lie
I lie alone
I was once afraid
To die alone
I don't know where that fear has gone
I guess I've been alone too long
That's a lie
May 2015 · 1.2k
Feast of Fowl
I am essentially not from around here
My values are worthless in these parts
There is no strength in ethics tying us to our lies
Individually
You listen to Wagner' operas
And contemplate eating a bird
If you silk on board with the
KC Masterpiece
And you can share well
You can come
Sneak out the back door
To the kitchen
For the BBQ chicken
I never ate it before
Not being a chicken eater
But the BBQ is delicious
And it's callin' my name:
Jimbo! Jimbo!
Can you hear it?
Jimbo
Every time I look up
Into the black ocean of night
I expect to see a falling star
Inevitably
The only ones whose light reaches my eye
Are fixed and fated
To remain eons after I've gone
That should be wonder enough
But I love a falling star

She guided my hand to the right spot
Said "This is how it's done"
I said "This is all there is?"
"Isn't this enough?"
"I thought it would be so different"
"It isn't"
"You're like a stranger to me now"
"Run your finger down the side"
"Your skin is dry and unfamiliar"
"Kiss me on the lips"
"Your tongue is like a withered flesh-prune"
"That Meat Loaf song is so romantic"
"I never bargained this with you"
"Aren't you the lucky one"
"Inside your mouth is like a desert"
"Keep your hand out of my pants"
"Oh, I really don't know what it was doing down there, as I'm not interested"
"Is it past midnight yet?"
"Long ago, this lesson has gone on too long"
"I'll let you love me tomorrow"
"By then it will be too late"
Follow your thoughts to a garden of ideas
That grow on green trees, ripe for the picking
Sweet cleansing rain falls from velveteen skies
Each drop a word, every word a bomb
Turn to see the look on your face
And you're gone
Off to some other ridiculous place

Caught up with you, no easy feat that
Almost got lost in translation
Thank God you're a thief
I'd be wandering aloud, alone in the woods
Without those touchstones
To set me back on course
Fields of neon wheat and poppy seed
Another shadow world
Hidden behind curtains
A poor man's veil

This house is alive
The wood, the mortar
It moves, inhales, exhales
It dances with the wind that blows
From the southwest
A breeze that breathes
Some semblance of life into it's architecture
Something for the old ghosts to dream about
It's over my head

They've chosen and called elders
To propagate unreality
Men who have believed a lie for so long
They can convince it is the truth
A subtle manipulation of the obvious
It's not a game to them
Deluded kid
How does the steel feel
Tightly biting your blistered wrists
Were you prodded or pushed
To your hard, lonely bed for the night
With the only amenities being down time and
A mirror in which you may contemplate how far you've fallen
These ***** walls are reserved for fools who confuse
And exalt their own pithy ideals of love
Over and above the real thing
Easy as that is to do
You've really done it this time
So you'd better guard your heart
Though it's almost turned into ******
Hear me
When they open that door
And tell you it's time to leave
Turn your nose to the south
Take measured steps and follow it
Into the badlands of Mexico
Don't turn back, no, not even once
For if you return
I will stretch your death out so long you'll beg me
For swifter justice
Deluded kid, your game is up
Remember this week as the most mischievous of your life
And as days in which you made the biggest mistakes of your life
Mistakes that will eventually cost you your life
Deluded kid, soon you will be enlightened
Deluded no more
Apr 2015 · 873
A Degree of Sympathy
Dysfunctional kid
Someday I will be able to forgive you
For the lies concocted to terrorize
It's easy to see you've lost your way
Your first experience of love
The sharp ***** of a viper's fangs
The stinging heat of venom
Ushered through ******-tainted blood
By the pumping of a stubborn beating heart
Through it's chambers and on to your brain
This is where you lost touch with reality
You've hurt the ones I love
So even though I sympathize with your plight
(Reality so often a slippery *****)
I can't forgive you
Stupid kid
Apr 2015 · 703
Betrayed by Mathematics
I had the right to tell the delusional kid
"You don't know what love is"
I could see it plain as day
I said it full well knowing
I hadn't a clue myself
Does anyone?
Because it changes
It grows or decays
Depending on what who knows?
It is or it isn't
According to whom if it's not returned?
Maybe there you have it
Love is given, returned only if it's real
But that delusional kid
Who thought love was collapsing his world
He wouldn't have known his own face in the mirror
So shadowed it was by hope
Naivete brought him down, not love
Hope is a pale substitute after so long
Apr 2015 · 333
Navigating the Free Fall
Dreamed I was floating in space
The past a single memory I chose to let slip by
The future a yawning abyss bottomless and dark
I could not have told you at what point I jumped
In
I sacrificed sensation for the chance to disappear
In hopes the noticed absence would bring some sort of peace
To my own mind
And the lives of those I left behind
Apr 2015 · 406
Sleeping Arrangements
I won't delete this one
I promise
To do my best
My love's sleeping in the other room
No baseless arguments
This King size bed hurts her back
And my snoring doesn't help
She can't tolerate the music I have to
Listen to in order to fall asleep.
It keeps my mind from wandering off
Gives the Ambien a chance to hit the pineal bullseye
I miss her, though.
There is much to be said for the pleasures of simply being with a loved one
Listening to the rhythm of her breathing
Watch her body rise and fall
Scoot over an hug on her, hold her in your arms
Those times we're losing
And I'm not sure how much we're getting back
It seems a lot to sacrifice even if it is for health benefits
For in those times I'm reminded
How dear you are and how much
I love you

Instead I command this room alone
I wriggle my way into pajamas of darkness
I try not to think about the future
It offers no guarantees that it will even come
Frightens me to not know
And I think of friends I'm not talking to
I assess the reasons for my non-communication
Some, I feel, are legitimate and real
But I wonder if they're even aware
Of what they are
Of why I can't see them
I'm convinced they could care less
But what do I know?

In the meantime
I have to be satisfied with small chunks of time
Days, hours, minutes, even seconds
These are increments I have faith
I can navigate
I can do it on my own in the blanket of darkness
As long as I can tell she still loves me in there
Real love that honors vows
Love that is defined by those vows
So what if her back hurts and the other bed makes it better
There's your reason
As long as she knows
I'm a creature of short time
That I have reasons for avoiding people
And that they are usually pretty good ones if you stop to think about it
Apr 2015 · 877
Fear the Conjuror
The powerless gods
Whose names I have not counted worthy of remembrance
March like high school bullies
Neither I nor they
Understand the reason for their swagger
Some dumb determination to enlighten me, may be?
A cause, a campaign
A small favor
Willingly performed for the Conjurer

Who steals from the Dream World
Who makes enemies in the Real World
Because he will not share his loot
He labels and tags and stores the treasure
Describes it all to anyone with ears to hear
Quite eloquently
With an air of pomp and mystery

Listen. He brags that his coffers are full
So much more than he needs
So much more than he wants
Still he hoards

He's convinced the dogs
That he has more to give them
Than flowery words
(As words he worships)
They believe him
Though it was not his intent to convert
As it is not his intent to keep his word
So more fool them
They look like bunglers, trolls, monsters
Rounded up into a posse
I would laugh at them if not for the fact
That I'm the one they are coming for

Before the next five minutes are over
They will have twisted my arm behind my back
Spat in my face
Kicked my legs out from under me
Held my head in their hands
Pinched my nose shut
Stuck their fingers in my mouth
Pulled it, stretched it, as far as it goes
Then, when my screams cease
They will speak to me for the very first time

"FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will laugh to watch you
Sink into his vat of language
The jewels he's plundered."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will confuse you
He will dig forks in the road
To throw you from your cherished path.
He will brand you
With pentagrams
He will tattoo a goat's head on your back
Worst of all, he will convince you
That they mean something."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He desires to pick your brain
Hoping to pluck
A slither of flattery to fuel his narcissism
He will become very angry when he finds out
That you've never heard of him
Perhaps you have never heard of him
But you know him

"You know him well
You've even seen him
Though it was not his true face you beheld
He roams the land
Behind a smiling cartoon clown mask
That hides a blank stare of greed
Derision, scorn, contempt, lies, pettiness,
Dishonesty, depravity, perversity
And the insatiable lust he has for validation
Respect and Recognition
They have twisted his visage
Into stone and ***** crystal
Ugly diamond
The sight from which even he recoils
A reflection that pulls at his intestines
And pours ice cold fear down his naked back
So we say FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"Because he knows you're looking for an enemy

"He is possessed of demons
One in particular
But he willingly let it in
Shared communion with it
Offered it a bed for rest
A home, a host
Gave it a book of Crowley and said, 'Occupy yourself'."

"A demon?"

"Yes, and a powerful one
It is a testament to the Conjurer's will and power
That the demon dwells complacent
Content to let the Conjurer study it
To take notice of it's wickedness
(For he delights in wickedness)
To search for ****** in it's black heart
(For he knows that there is a murderer in his own)
To dig through the egg shell surface
Hoping to find a germ, a genesis, or just a reason for it's evil
(As he is convinced he has many legitimate reasons
For the evil embedded into his soul)
The demon understands death, toys with it
Laughs at it, wishes it on all people
The Conjuror laughs with the demon
And this makes the demon laugh even harder
For it knows that the Conjuror has no understanding
Of death
Past the idea
All he has done is flirt
With an ugly girl at the prom
Made it the realm of heroes, his role models
Idols that don't talk back
Held high it's banner
Dreamed of mausoleums and tombs
'At last, something I can embrace'
Fool

"He let this demon be his teacher
And learned much
About
The powers of darkness
The father of lies
The hierarchy of celestial beings
All the arcane symbolism (tossed out the window by science)
Esoterica
Black-robed men carrying candles in the dark
Their teachings ancient, their lessons unheeded, unwanted
Diluted through millenniums
Cracked and drained of any power or
Purpose they might have one day possessed
Robbed of relevance
Outdated curiousities
A good scary movie to watch on Sunday afternoons after church
Morbid fascinations
Spooky dry-ice rituals
That once scared the **** out of him

"His demon goads and teases him
'You can resurrect it", the demon croaks
'You can close your eyes
Make believe it's all real
And just as long as you stay in your hidey-hole
With eyes closed you can call it your own
Posess it
Give it power in your own mind
But keep this thought nestled in the back of your mind:
It's all YOURS.
No one else wants it.'"

There is logic, I think, in what these giants say.

"The Conjurer will drag you into his heart core
And there he will take back the book of Crowley
From his demon familiar
And together they will beat you down with it
Pulverize your skull
Crack open your head
The book of Crowley
Is a very heavy book
Good for pummeling
If not for much else."

And with these words
Power given to brute gods
Transferred to the meek
They will soon learn wisdom
To see the Conjurer as he really is
To realize he has nothing they need or
Want
Prepare themselves
To rip out his soul
To cast out his demon
And to burn that ******* book of Crowley
September 2009
from Bipolar Confessional
Apr 2015 · 768
53
53
Within these same walls
I watched years
Too long taken for granted
Become precious
Once tedious
They fly by me now
Like swift birds
Heading south for the winter

Fifty-three years you'd think
I could feel something by now
Such omnipresent guilt
Poisons my heart
And numbs everything
Feeds upon itself
Distorting

Perhaps I've been breathing the same air for too long
Trusting the wrong mirrors
Believing every word
Apr 2015 · 554
Bombs of Atonement
By the time the nuclear bombs blast
Peppering the terrain in every corner of the world
We'll be so weary of the world
We'll bow before the flash bulb shock
And thank the Holy Law of Physics
For delivering us from it
A place where compassion requires too many limits
Where looking out for number one reveals
Number one is a right *******
No better than number two
Who won't be satisfied until he's number one
We've seen too much with our eyes
Too many times shown the weakness in our values
Trust no one, least of all yourself
It's only the grace of wonder
That keeps us from slaying each other outright
So it can't come soon enough
Christen AWACs the new Enola Gay
And load them with enough warheads to take out the coasts (for starters)
Give this cursed species a good dose of radiation
After the flood
God said he would never again annihilate man
So the task has been turned over to us
Those of us who love truth and justice
In their undiluted form
To wipe the Tarmac clean
Set back and wait for the poison rays to tear us up from the inside out
O, to be the last man standing
The one who gets to say
"Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Amen"...and then fall to the ground
Exhaling the last breath of God
The singularity the last thing in his field of vision
None of it mattered
None of it meant a ******* thing
Apr 2015 · 343
dark cloud
dark cloud settling in the too-calm skies
bringing dreaded clarity to half-closed eyes
sticking like a shroud to a dead man's bones
bugs and worms crawling under upended stones
travelling countless miles down the spirit highway
you can feel it when it hits, don't know how long it's gonna stay
takes away the smile you thought you earned by being free
replaces is it with concern, worry and insecurity
all things must pass, it's true that's what they say
but this dark cloud don't look to me like it's ever goin' away
I'm gonna motivate my love tractor
From the east coast to the west
Feel it's horsepower beneath my ***
The scorching heat from the exhausts
Blistering my legs
Throwing back rock and gravel
Scattering anything in my way
I want to see the ocean before I die
I want to stop at the Grand Canyon on the way
And a dozen greasy spoons
And a dozen more biker bars
It all leads my ***** *** to the beach
Might as well be the Ganges
Baptise me in that great body of water
I love huge bodies of water
Lakes, rivers, seas...but never seen the ocean
I could make it on a Harley
Overcome my fear
Do it by myself
Biker clubs are insane
They're where I need to be
I've been listening to Steppenwolf
All my life
Get that hog out on the road
The highway and the hog is all that exists
It's another of those "becoming One" situations
I can handle it
Stay on the state highways
Avoid interstates
Maybe I should start getting high again every day
Smoking **** at least 3 times a day
Why don't I think that would still make  me happy?
But it's cut into my short term memory
It's been cruel and even driven me to my knees
I have a healthy fear of what it's capable of
But if I could ride a Harley cross country
Surely I could handle doing it high as a kite
Biker girls, sorry to break your hearts
I got a respectable old lady who won't sit on the seat of a Harley
We have discussed parameters
But the sum total is you won't be getting what you want
That doesn't mean you might not get something and something valuable and life-changing at that
It's all at my discretion
Because biker girls sweep me off my feet
And the "look but you better not touch" rule is a little too strict
Especially when we make it to the ocean
Our naked bodies like a school of shark in shallow Pacific liquid
Just a **** or two before jumping in the water
Feel in good, like singing with John Kaye
******* the pusher man
My Harley-Davidson's caked with mud and sea salt, dripping gooey red dirt
Watch over 'em for me
Cuz we gonna be here for awhile
No lie. I wanna be a biker and I wanna ride to the beach.
Apr 2015 · 355
Love For Taking
I don't know how to express love
During the times when I can feel it
Most of the time seems an emptiness undefined
Embracing theologies that excuse my flaw
Learning the lessons, love is not always a feeling
Except when it is
Curled up in my gut like a child in the womb
I hold it tightly, tightly in
Can't let people see the look I get on my face
Or god forbid some tears
But your books on the night stand
As they are yours and yours alone
I have such love for them
And realize, looking at them, that I have even more, stronger love buried inside me
But it rarely comes out
And it makes me physically I'll
Beingi it so deprived in my.heart
I love my wife
I don't know what I'd do without her
But she doesn't know the half of it
She can't extract it, stuck so firmly to my skeleton
It's where it must be for now
New emotions mixed with old
Ancient love leftover from the day
Mom left us behind
She left us to lions and life that way
Many years he
Help us become less aquatinted
Ain't it f'ed up?
About 35 years and seven miles to cross
Leaden lump of love and betrayal
Keeps me where I am
I have love in my heart
But it's tainted
It's bashful and too embarrassed
Some gone bad, for sure, neglected
Like bad food it makes me sick
I've got to find the right person to give it to
Even if it is a god
I can't live with it in here anymore
Takers please
Apr 2015 · 456
Buffer
Sleep
Delete
Wash away waking life
A fraction of the day
Compressed and forgotten
Tossed away willingly
Not governed by time
Rendered powerless
Unconcerned and unattached
Free and floating falling into infinity
Gravity does not exist in this realm
Of ******* vertigo
A pillow for my head damp with tears
Is dry when I wake
Gather ‘round, warriors. This is your time.

This is your time to shine. It’s your day in the sun. It’s one-of-a-kind, o ye cheaters of death, but this is, nevertheless, your finest hour.

You found a home in war. You entered into a contract with bad company and gave up the rights to your body, your mind, everything but your mortal soul. They took advantage of the circumstance and you wound up deep in a bunk hole, hiding behind the tenuous wall of a manure pile. Bullets whizzed by your ears, fear possessed your frames like a demon taunted by the Lord. Death swooped in to put it’s fear into you, but you all laughed in his face and spat in his eye, turned your back on him without saying goodbye. Perhaps “See ya later” would have been appropriate. 

But no matter, husky gladiators. It is time to rest from your battle. It’s time to put away your swords and scabbards, your spears and your slings. Your automatic machine guns and your hand grenades. Your potent strains of anthrax and your agent orange. Surrender your arms, troglodytes. Cast them to the ground below. Consider the clatter they all make as they fall to the pavement. Take it in, breathe it all in, make it yours…

…for it IS yours.

Sorry, we didn’t get around to telling you. It was always yours, we just figured you would find it out on your own if you wanted it bad enough. No, I would agree: that is NOT fair. And I would also say this to you, “Fairness is a relative concept. When you consider the value we placed on you actually knowing this as a fact…well, I think it should be pretty ****** obvious. Don’t be a *****, you give all servicemen a bad name when you do that, you know?”

But enough of the self esteem-building fodder all, that is not why I have gathered ye here to-day. Nay, not even close. I have brought you all here together because I wanted to be the first to tell you. You’re all going home. That’s right, you’re homeward bound. Soon you’ll be able to pack your **** and take a southbound train to ride. You’ve lost your minds killing innocent civilians, you’ve struggled to keep your eyes open most nights, as staying awake meant staying alive. But you’re going home! Warm nights tucked between clean linen sheets. Soft goose down pillows to bore your heads into. The smell of coffee in the morning, bacon and eggs if you’re lucky. The prospect of another day that won’t be defined by the number of lives you’ve ended between sunrise and sunset.

The journey home will be a victorious one, indeed. You shall see it from the comfort of a first class seat on the most expensive airliner we can afford! A small bottle of gin or whiskey is only a few feet away and all you have to do to get one is ask the attendant. If you ask nicely I don’t doubt she might let you have more of those little bottles than administrative policy usually allows. But she sees it in your eyes…you’re a grizzled soldier. You’re still warm to the touch from the heat of battle. You know this. This is who you are, it’s what we made you. And she will sense this. It will drive her mad with desire. Her knees will quiver, she’ll blush, she’ll radiate ****** charm…but all you’ll be able to think of is that Vietnamese farmer with the plaid shirt. 

A ***** plaid shirt. Dripping with dark, brown mud, he smiled at you from beneath the brim of a straw hat that looked as if it had seen many better years. A smear in the drying clay was on the right side of his face where he’d wiped sweat. His lips were dry and cracked and his nose was a little runny. 

The buttons on that plaid shirt were the cute mother-of-pearl finish jobs, the kind that snap shut real easy. How many men would have noticed that? How many of the sharpest minds in the known universe would have missed how his left boot didn’t quite seem to match the right. But you caught it right away and you stored it into that immense data bank that is your United States Marine Corps certified brain. 

If only you could forget it, though. Right men? I see a few tears in a few eyes. I know I’m on the right track here, so if you still think I’m not talking to YOU, I have an invitation right here in my back pocket that will entitle the man to whom I give it a 6 month stint in the back of a mess peeling spuds. You don’t want that, now, do ye? What? No takers? I thought not.

But where was I? Oh, HOME, that’s what I was on about. You all have very nice homes, no doubt, and I’d bet there’s not a single one of you who isn’t just itchin’ to get back to ‘em. Is it the one you grew up in? Is it one you just bought? No matter, when you leave this place it will either be in a body bag or on the better side of Uncle Sam, who looks after all of those fine men and women who have risked life and limb in his service.

So what’s it going to be, worms? Death? He calls often here, and don’t think I don’t know that his is the song of the siren to many a worn out Spartan. But faileth not, loyal comrades. 

Will it be insanity? Will the wage of life and death struggle prove to be nothing more than a tug-of-war between lucidity and madness? Yer going home, grunt, why should it matter? Either one’s better than lying face down in a pool of your own guts. Don’t worry about it, just get on the plane. Baby, it’s your ticket to ride.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I stepped onto the tarmac with a firm determination to forget the last 2 years. Maybe even the last 15. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just tired of looking for an answer. I’ve listened for the still, small voice of reason and wisdom, but it seems to have stayed behind in the battlefield. Probably where it belongs. 


The night was cloudy and the stars shone like pinpricks in a dark black veil that covered the most brilliant light…ha, I almost said “life”…I may not have been too far wrong there. I wanted to cut the cord of gravity, float through however many miles it might take to reach one of the punctured holes. Then I would tear the fabric and crawl into the other side. Disappear into the brilliant aura.

Only a dream, only a wish. I drug my weary frame from the bustling airport to the highway. An old two-lane road, dangerous after dark. It doesn’t bother me. It’s purpose is to facilitate the traversing of distance from one point to another. I could care less about where it could lead me. I only knew that I would not turn back no matter where I wound up, so I stuck out my thumb and waited for someone to give me a ride.

Does anybody stop to give rides to strangers anymore? I wouldn’t. It’s not something I condone. In fact, I have only done it once in my life, when I was just a kid, before seeing “Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer”. After watching that seminal film I resolved to never, ever pick up hitch-hikers again. I wasn’t going to help anybody on the side of the road, either. **** being a “good Samaritan” if it means getting my brains blown clear out of my skull, flung to the side of the road like rotten fruit. 

Despite all of this I still had my hand stretched out, thumb in the universal position that signifies the need of transportation for the “down-on-his-luck” traveler. I remember asking myself what could be more pathetic. I was reduced, by circumstances beyond my control, to hitching or hoping that someone might be clueless enough to pick me up.

Yet, that is exactly what happened.

A hookah smoking caterpillar sat behind the wheel, and he seemed glad to do a small kindness to me. He could tell I was a veteran of psychic wars. He felt obligated, I was sure.

“Hop in, friend,” he said. “I can see that you’re a little down on your luck. I been there ma’self a time ‘er two. Just throw yer pack in the back seat and climb up here with me.”

I wasn’t shocked in the least that a hookah smoking caterpillar was driving a GMC Jimmy east on Route 66. It did, however, give me quite a shock to think that he would pull over and offer me a ride. I am no fool.

“Off we go,” I said to him. 


The road was a long one that took us out of the state. As we crossed the line the caterpillar turned the radio up real loud and started singing along to a Journey song they were playing on the classic rock station.

“Ooooh, wheel in the sky keeps on turning,” he wailed. “I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!!!”

I turned to him. “You have a very distinct grasp of Steve Perry’s vocal mannerisms. Have you ever sang professionally?”

“Oh no, not me. I could never go onstage in front of a lot of people and sing. I just don’t have it in me.”

“Well, you aren’t afraid to sing in front of me. What’s the difference between one stranger and a hundred strangers?”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that at all,” he repeated. “I had a friend who used to play and sing in a lot of the bars on the circuit between California and New Orleans. It was a job to him, you know? He told me about a lot of the stuff that goes on in those places. He told me how one time he was singing a Roy Orbison song when some pool-shooting loser throws the cue ball right at him. Beaned him on the forehead, BOP! Had to hurt. Said the bruise swelled up so bad directly afterwards that people started calling him “the Elephant Man”. I was a beginner in the days when he regaled me with these anecdotes and mister, I’ll tell you, he put the fear of God in me. I was so terrified of getting conked in the head with a pool ball that I never pursued the craft.”

I felt a tinge of sympathy for his plight. “I’m sorry to hear that. I bet you would have been a star if you’d gone for it. Bigger than Steve Perry, even.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I don’t feel cheated or like I’ve missed anything essential to my happiness. As long as I’ve got wheels, my hookah and something to put in it, I am a happy caterpillar. Remember that: I am merely a caterpillar.”

“I will do that, but you’re a caterpillar who could kick Steve Perry’s *** any day of the week!”

“Wheel in the sky keeps on turning!”

“**** straight…I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow!” 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The caterpillar held the wheel steady and kept on truckin’. He sang along with every single classic rock song that came on the radio. From Kansas to Boston to “Sweet Home Chicago” he knew them all and, to be perfectly honest, he did a **** good job. He belted ‘em out like Springsteen, he crooned like Bryan Ferry, he croaked like Joe Cocker, he wailed like Janis Joplin, he screamed like that dude from Slayer. No two ways about it. This hookah smoking caterpillar had serious talent. 

I was curious. “So, mister, what to do you do for a living?”

“My friend, I am a mortician. I deal with death every single day. I do a job that most folks would find distasteful and not a little disturbing. And yet I love my job. I do, oh yes, I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the whole world.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said. “How does a man get a start in a field like yours?”

“It’s not too hard, really,” he replied. “You come with me, I’ll make you an apprentice. You lookin’ for work?”

“No, sir. I can’t say that I am right now. Still got a little cache stashed away from military days.” I made a gesture with my hand that signified that I was grateful for the offer, but would have to pass. “Maybe one of these days I might change my mind. I think I could handle it. I’m not squeamish. No, not at all.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could handle it. I can tell by the way you look straight ahead, you don’t look back, you’ve got a grip on everything in this world and you think there’s nothing that could ever shake your foundations, whether it be from the east wind or the west. The north or the south. Do I read you correctly?”

“I reckon you do. I’ve had a hard run most of my days. Experience has taught me one lesson, but it taught me good and well: Nothing is as you really think it is, and it could all be gone tomorrow. ”
Sins of the Fathers
Encoded in the DNA
Of the sons
Guilt and disability
Whose fault is it, really?
During the times we see
The goodness of the world
It goes by so fast
The long dark nights
We recognize ennui
And cling to melancholy
It seems never to end
I'm sorry, son
If it hadn't have been this
It would have been something else
Of this I'm positive
But I know the feeling well
So I say again
Please forgive me
Surely there was fire in that place
Long dragon tongues of flame
Tasting everything in sight
Leaving it burning cinders
Incredible heat wafted from
The prophet
Sweat bullets dripped then burst
Covering his face
Blanketing his broad shoulders
With salt liquid warmth
Every eye in the arena
Trained on him
No, they could not look away
They'd sold their souls
Happy with the bargain
Even if not quite
A fair exchange  
He sang of proving one's devotion
Jethro Tull sings Aretha Franklin
The sweat made it work
And the flying tongues of fire
That set upon the heads of
Everyone in the building
Forced them to speak Hopelandic
So everyone could understand
So no one understood
But the prophet
Who sang songs of desolation
Songs of depression
Songs of dislocation and isolation
Heavy weights to bear
And not a dry eye in the house
Smoke rose through those windows
Firemen never came
Crowley paid lackies to keep the doors
Locked from the outside
So
The prophets demise
Buried in several feet of ash and soot
His last words:
"So Be It"
Hundreds upon hundreds of his
Disciples
Mouths stuffed with debris
The tongues of fire ascended
When the last pulse tapered off into stillness
Suzi Quatro didn't break a sweat
Heavy axe slung laying 'gainst her shin
Bruised but hidden by spandex
Old men and dogs in the audience
Leering, craving different meats
Suzi doesn't notice
Fonzie's still a few years down the road
Suzi's got credentials
Winkler ain't weakened them yet
And with those credentials
She's gonna rock
She's gonna make 'em forget about
The prophet
And all the heavy **** he was always
Layin' on 'em
She said "Watch me play bass guitar"
And whipped out 50 classic bass riffs in a row
The people who had followed her in
Seemed impressed
But not nearly as amazed as they were
By the sight of countless tongues of flame
Descending upon their congregation
The end result being
Remarkably similar to the incident with
Flaming tongues and the prophet
What it all means
Nobody knows
Best not to interrupt good rock and roll shows
Mar 2015 · 392
For Joy of Sleep & Dreams
Sleep and dreams
Make everything bearable
This is my favorite part of the day
When the room is dark
And my bed is soft
I wrestle a few memories
From the clutches of a forsaken antipsychotic
Let them float for awhile
Hoping for more eventually
I can feel the fated-to-be-forgotten
Psychedelic glow of the Ambien
Kicking in
Who knows how long these trips last
None of it remembered in the morning
I love the way it pulls no punches
Sleep and apple juice
For dream making
Such thick darkness
Buffers sound
But I hear what I can hear
On the journey
And it sounds good
My whole life in 3333 songs
With a few notable gaps
The result of artists who won't allow
Their music to be streamed
They can't hold out forever
Soon enough the soundtrack to my life
Culminated in this room
Will be complete
Wired
I can pump it in non-stop
To remind me of who I was
Of who I am
But for now I have all I need
Time loses it's grip
Space forgets it's place
I sink
I float
I sight-see
Works of art no one will ever see/experience
Colors unfamiliar
Landscapes untethered by gravity
Roger Dean meets Salvador Dali
Meets Pink Floyd meets Sigur Ros
Until we  reach that place that is not wrapped up in time or space
Meet the gas giant goddess
Responsible
Recline in her ***** unaware
For a few hours of peaceful integration
I renounce all occult knowledge
Procured over the years
It has warped my thoughts
It has too often taken my eye off of the prize
Mar 2015 · 384
Distance/Blessing
Let distance be a blessing
Priceless as any grand discovery
We might have made together
Likely misunderstood
Anyway

Let this be the last dance
Never again fated to gaze
At our father's nakedness
I repent of that first glance
While you stand and stare

You would not stand to see me
Dress my disabilities in wizard's robes
Or craft clay pigeons from my less than honorable traits
To worship and adore from afar
I cannot stand to see you do such things either
As you are
For Kerri Juree
Next page