our president is
waging Thumb Wars

pressing the button
another pinball appears

he pulls back the spring
and hits send

watching the vociferous orb
encapsulated with incorrigibility
ricochet across the continents

the hemispheres
the stratospheres

across every neighborhood
and nation

bing bing boing

the barricades throb
and eyes light up
as the points
begin to rack up

1
2
3
4

he    got-ta    new-high    score

wow

such big thumbs
for such tiny hands

Our love is
like a polaroid
picture. We let

Time and Chemicals
do their work. Yet

my love,
the picture was
taken long
ago.

To Poems Lost,

To you who sat on paper drenched
behind the shower curtain,
for I could not get the shampoo
and the soap out fast enough--
dry towels lingering in their mocking silence.

To Poems Lost,

To you who sat unbuckled
in the passenger seat
with the window rolled down,

your flowery head
sticking out catching the cool breeze
in the evening sky,

I, suddenly aware of dangers imminent,
reached with one hand to
hastily buckle you in

and alas--
I lunged,
hoping to pin you
to the upholstery;

you leaned farther and farther
out the window, 'til the current
grasped you by the throat
and ****** you into the night air--
away into oblivion.

I cursed and moan'd,
jabbing and grasping hopelessly at the space
that once entertained your angelic presence.

To Poems Lost,**

Peeking slowly into my consciousness
mistaken for silly dreams,
I awoke in bed--dripping a cold sweat,
breathing heavily.

I laughed abruptly, lightly,
trusting my mind to remember your fleeting ghosts,
moments of serendipitous ecstasy,
a mild epiphany;

so I dared myself not to reach for my pencil
sitting eagerly atop my bedside dresser,
where the concerned blank page pleaded  
with my muddied conscience.

Tired eyes had just as soon closed shut,
and I awaited you as my bedfellow yet again
to wake me up timely in dawn's breach of night.

And alas--
I woke up,
finding the covers next to me ruffled,
but the body that had authored such vexations
appearing to have slipped into the void.

Had you followed my childhood fears under the bed?
Did you fall with a thud to the stifling carpet,
where protruding claws raked you into the hungry abyss?
I squelch'd the urge to hang my head over the bedside and seek you.

In light's breach of slumber,
before the lids of my eyes peel'd back,
did you leap out into the Lovely
to be whisked away into the brisk morning air?

Either way, you are gone,
so I curse and moan,
clutching the lonely bed-sheets
that once wrapt your transient spirit.

I still wait, eagerly,
for your return,
my lovelies.

To the starry eyes who wink in the night,
lurking over empty solitary roads--
groaning pleas locked in impalpable shackles.

I unsteadily balance fear and prayer--juggling them
over each bony knuckle protruding
from ghostly white skin.

As I anxiously pull the wheel,
spry eyes dance between the hungry road
and the speedometer...

I fear the patient embers waiting to ignite in the darkness--
shall the chariot of fire roar from the gates of Hell tonight?
(I feel the weight of earth's calamity and Man's eternal sinful nature

amass atop my vessel,
sagging through the invisible tier,
mashing me farther and farther
beneath the wheel--
til I'm grounded meat within the gritty boulevard.)

And the embers snicker and flicker in the shadows of the endless night;
they prey on my fear like red-eyed vultures perched on scraggly branches--hunched, crooked spindly necks
crane menacingly into my windowpane.

But you, oh winking eyes of innocence who silently approaches me,
dragging across the gravel path on ****** knees--you like the presence of God in the burning bush, and I the meek shepherd in the wilderness!

Your urgent warning comes to me,
eclipsed within a single gesture--
in the brief moment the road swallows you up in darkness
as you shyly close your humble eyes in sincerity.

(The embers they know not of your betrayal,
with your back erected sternly towards them.)

In that instant I hid my face from you
and removed my sandals to stand atop holy ground.

Darkness soon broke, as your eyes again opened,
and in its radiance, an irrevocable axiom:

It is when a person walks at night that they stumble,
for they have no light.

It was then that I saw the light;
and in doing so I weaved the vitriolic embers--
those desperately seeking my spark to their ignite.

I am
A captive of this home
This burden of solitude
Mine to carry, alone.
I crave
The sunshine upon my skin
Not its touch from the looking glass
A glimpse of the life I miss.
I lie
Upon this bed of persistent woes
With blankets wrapped like a spider's net
I am to never know the cold.
I see
The seasons change from my windowsill
As my life passes I feel loss
Am I to never know free will?
I cry
Because the doors are all unlocked
The windows are all open
But my mind can't escape this box.

My friends and I
are forlorn fabrics
haphazardly stitched into a quilt.

Comprised of different textures and fabrics,
frayed at the ends,
rejected pieces meant for the trash,
not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes.

My friends and I
fit like a puzzle
consisting of pieces from various other puzzles--
found under coffee tables,
between couch cushions,
tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins--
forming a collage of something
disoriented and ambiguous.

Crammed together,
smashing our appendages,
leaving crooked gaps,
wrinkled, torn, ****** up,
but feeling better here
than in our small contribution
to the bland image of our factory's design.

My friends and I,
outcasts, rejects, punks,
convening in the junkyard heap
where we dance and laugh among trash
that makes us feel clean.
Pure when we're filthy.

Quilts and puzzles,
to instill and befuddle;
****** treasures.

For Aleš, who reads pacifist novels during wartime

I

For the Millennials:
Victims of opportunity,
Saviors of humanity.

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

We, the Confounded Chiliads,
are the electrified pulsating
offspring of the digital age:
Serendipitous,
enigmatic
vagabonds of the modern world.

Standing juxtaposed between
two centuries,
two generations:
Redeemers of the new millennium.

We’ve read the writings on the wall,
for they have been by our own hand.
Blood dripping down the fluorescent page,
the endless scroll that consumes our gaze.

Gaping holes in our hands and feet,
screaming telephone poles pin us to the magnetic current.

We are trapped but we are not alone.

With every word we bleed,
with every eye to our flesh,
our cries are drowned in the digital void.

We have been washed away by alluded idiosyncrasies,
never unanimous nor harmonious;
feeling our fingers tie into knots,
mangled, finagled, wringing, hovering like a
Ouija board over menacing letters.

We close our eyes and feel them
burning within our skull.

So many voices, so many bodies,
pouring into our thoughts;
endless rainfall
drowning the long coveted silence.

So desperate for the parting
of ***** storm clouds,

for a sign from heaven
to pierce through the ceaseless night,

to cast its lovely gaze upon us
like a father’s warm and gentle hand,
lifting up downcast faces.

We toil in our anguish,
suffering information overload;
a whole race of individuals
accumulating into a massive “I told you so.”

Every wish, every genius mind,
every glance into the future,
every crystal ball rubbed,
Electric Eye awakened

as the dream sighs into existence;
the blending of fact and fiction
in the prophesies of Fathers Orwell and Huxley:
maddened forlorn oracles of modernity.

As we cross the rivers of Babylon
to find ourselves swimming in
the Fountain of Youth
we escape dripping, exhausted;
aching bodies shivering.
They drape expensive towels around us,
breathing warmly on our exasperated shells
of humanity.

Our mortal vessels no longer capable of
carrying our fragile identities,
we leap out of their torpid mouths
exposing the gelatinous crustacean.

Amorphous brain matter
sponge-like, soaking up
the sweat of our plunder and plight—
Clinging desperately as our liberators

pry us off the wet earth
like barnacles off a ship’s keel,
wringing us out
over the supper bowl:
the thin soup of mortal consciousness.

Feeling our voices and vices,
virtues and virulence,
mingling together;
meshing into one.

The hive mind descends upon us,
protruding a gaping straw
from its abdominous being;
sticking it into the electric ocean,
proceeds to **** life up into its
wrinkly, sickly tightened mouth.

Past the gleeful tongue,
down the throat;
tumbling over each other aimlessly
in the darkness—
limitless potentialities.

Directionless;
ambiguous
voices in the dark:
cavernous, mindless cacophony.

Echoes bouncing off
the windows of my soul,
I tumbled into the darkness
lost, and afraid.

“The world is yours!”

I never feel my feet stop moving.

Our nightmarish episode of consumption concludes,
leaving us moaning, naked, confused in the depths:
Haunting spirits wandering these novel dwellings
built on the backs of the olden brutes
and the barbarous archetypic minds of the Marxist prophets.

In this world of post-civilization,
we are post-human(e) in our efforts;
unable to gain a foothold in the foundation—
more quicksand than earth and stone.

Our seeds were thrown to the weeds and the crows.

II

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

I glance at the others: gangly gangrenous guiles!
Feasting on each other, never growing any stronger;
clawing out each other’s eyes, spitting in their mouths,
screaming utterances most foul in their ears.
Climbing over each other in the obscurity, unseen.  

I want them to take my eyes.
I want them to take my ears.
I want them to take my voice.
I want them to squelch the flame
that burns within my cadaverous chest.

Surrendering any chance of agency;
if there were hands to bite,
I couldn’t see.
I hear the voices shouting,
but I can’t cut through the discord.

What if I hold my breath?
But I know that won’t last.
Feeling my lips turn purple,
the kick drum in my chest:

furious relentless crescendo
pace quickening mind’s racing
all the sins in the world
rotting in my soul inescapable
pounding at the door
clock ticking through the floor
lungs shrivel can’t take anymore—

Exhale.

Panting, hands on my knees,
ears perk up to the sound of malicious snickering.
I lift my gaze up to an eclipse of the moon,
so ghastly in fresh blemishes plaguing its majesty.

Squinting,
I see smiling faces,
eyes full of mocking laughter,
belonging to snide children
anxiously peering into the crowded fishbowl.

They watch us squirm without water,
dancing in aching bodies,
craving the touch of something cool,
and refreshing.

They dangle hope and promise like
lifeless puppets encircling
an infant’s crib.

I watch them tie onto simple strings:
wealth, and
power, and
love, and
belonging.

Reaching higher, and higher,
straining formless muscles,
feeling weakness overcome
creeping up like a tired conscience
climbing over the golden crest
atop the transparent foothills
encased in the nicotine screen skyline.

It hangs its head low
on its hands and knees,
lifting up a weary voice
so familiar and ignored.

A final sigh ringing in the ears of a generation:
A cough, and then a final weak sputter:
“I Told You So.”

III

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

Anchored to the next big thing
sitting below deceptive still waters
murky mysterious
loathesome beast
peeking an eye out to catch us peering
over the edge of the docks
a glimpse at the promised eternity
immortality
delusion of grandeur
our eyes to the shore
nostalgia preserved
in the retellings of folklore
childhoods never forgotten
for fear of being lost in the present
and the forthcoming future
always a step away
how can we move on
when we’re busy cutting off our legs
to be eye level with our inner child
more like an exoskeleton
more exposed than our need
to grow
we sit huddled in our bemired despair
grinning sheepishly exposing our sin
crying out to the gargantuan
overlord of childlike fantasy
wielding our innocence
like a button-eyed ragdoll gluttonous treasure keeper
playing with fire in the alchemist’s den
so close to our material wealth
with the flames roaring lapping at our heels
feeling the dock begin to break from dry land
from the weight of our inflated consciences/consciousness
following the fangs of the snake to our parents
on the shore
with one hand sweating on the television remote
strangling in its grasp
they have no choice
but to squeeze the pump
harder and faster
legs of flesh and bone
break and give way
we begin to drift from the shore
pulling closer to the murky behemoth
that lurks under the perpetual offing
in the empty horizon we cry our broken hearts
into its cosmic bowels
feeling ourselves being sifted through
the hungry machinery of death
eyes luminous we shield our faces
from its rapturous gaze
fearful of the pillar of salt
that will stand in our place
but we look back
we take our hand off the plow
with ***** and Gomorrah at our backs
we peer through the electric eye
the sands of time
pouring through the hourglass
that spits us into the depths
of eternal strife.

IV

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!

Tw­entynothing in the classrooms!
Twentynothing in the workforce!
Twentynothing in the bathrooms!
Twentynothing in our parents' wars!

Twentynothing in the golden streets!
Twentynothing in the broken homes!
Twentynothing in the dusty libraries!
Twentynothing in the TV's drone!

Twentynothing in the Promised Land!
Twentynothing in the songs we sing!
Twentynothing in the secret plans!
Twentynothing in freedom ring!

Twentynothing in hands over hearts!
Twentynothing in our love in bed!
Twentynothing in the obscure route’s start!
Twentynothing in the lies we've read!

Twentynothing in the lives we fear!
Twentynothing in the scholar’s debt!
Twentynothing in our guns held dear!
Twentynothing in the tables set!

Twentynothing in the colors of skin!
Twentynothing in the reality show!
Twentynothing in the losses and win!
Twentynothing in the nightmares below!

Twentynothing in the kisses we hide!
Twentynothing in the I O U’s!
Twentynothing in the chanting of pride!
Twentynothing in the love you too’s!

Twentynothing in the hope we give!
Twentynothing in the dread they moan!
Twentynothing in the time we live!
Twentynothing in the chance we own!

Muse-less, useless, Twentynothing!

In the post-modern world aimless!

We, the Confounded Chiliads:
We are dangerous,
We are longing,
We are hopeful,
We are broken,
We are serendipitous—
We are eternal.

We Are Twentynothing.

…and that’s **** well something.

I've never read
                                                            ­                  the same poem twice.

                 Laying in bed,
                                                     words shift in my mind.
                                                           ­         
                                                       ­                                    You hear they've said
lightning don't strike twice.

We're two lonely streetlights
sharing this worn, broken road
watching the tired city crawl home
beneath our fading gaze.

We ache beneath these starry nights
collecting dew on our flesh like a coat
our breath shuddering, lost in the foggy moat
longing in the dreamy haze.

She opted for verdant grass
scintillating and dewy
in the offset of an afternoon
thunderstorm

as opposed to the tepid
red brick pathway
damp and sanguine

sauntering in her black flip flops
blades of grass reach over
her soles and glaze
her milky toes

the bell sounds the hour
six o’clock
i’m late for class

Like the spectral sensation
                                of invisible waves
                                        swelling against the body in bed--

                                                          ­       so do your lips
                                                 still wash over mine.

what an eerie night
                               where wind whistles through the
                                                                           trees
                                   whose branches snare
                                                         and
                                                 snarl in the moonlight.

On the living room couch,
I asked my phone a verbal question:
"What is an albatross?"

And before it could answer,
my father began his reply
from the kitchen counter--

To be cut short by my phone who had finished thinking,
the screen flashing a series of definitions for "albatross"
and reading them aloud to me.

My father stopped, and looked at me forlornly.

I daren't look back--
And the sound of a heart breaking,
whether mine or his,
and the silence it engulfed,
was hidden under the blanket of the contraption's monotone voice.

A little more humanity was lost today,
and my father yet again was faced with the reality that
even if he had all the answers,
as he had in my inquisitive childhood--

No one was left to ask him the questions.

Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—

with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,

the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly      reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans

shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
          angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth

mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.

Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—

waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.

Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,

                 [[punk]]
at heart.

Words are soporific
From the indelible tongue
That dances like fire
The night has begun.
But truth is like venom
The fire proves too bold
Burned skin exposes flesh
The sin that we hold.

Pleasing primordial instincts: to blame
Odious constructed mores, or simply
Raptures dwelling within?
Numbing sensations cry out to
Omnipresent nicotine screens;
Gargoyles perch on the ridges
Retching earthly filth and heavenly blessings
Across my fragile conscience.
Paradox in the words I speak,
Harboring images I dare not peek; perpetually ashamed by
Yearnings to please the body and punish the mind.

Soliloquy.
Entertaining
Ramblings.
Encapsulated
Nuptials
Disclosi­ng
Immortality
Present
In between
Temporary
Youth.