I’m in the same place as all of yous, but I’m absent minded and got misanthropic contempt, like anthropomorphic deer by the highway watching Cadillac surgery. But deep cardiac compassion, all you idiots are inside of me, lashing out with lively love. Scorns used to scar, but now I smile. **** the struggle you’re on, and put your shoes on the final platform. It’s not truth mama, it’s death. Have you tried it? Me either, we’re both among breathers. Now, tell me about your facts in expressions unconditioned by human history. Tell me about those bats on your shoulders that babble obscenities like Black Beard’s parrot, named ******. He speaks not of this century, so his “*****” are now children’s songs, sung around plastic bonfires, trying to roast electrical socket covers. To no avail.  

Born human mightiest
Socially slighted and far-sighted
Let’s bash through hierarchy
I said bash
you P.C. crusader
cold as a computer
slaughtering the people’s good language
in the name of removing something savage
instead of asserting a new image
A true sign of the artist
but I’m no artist

I'm on a social networking site on the internet,
What is the internet?
Forgive me for my ignorance 18th century friends,
It's a connection of machines that can share information.
Yes, and that "social networking site"
is part of the connection of machines
to try and make people feel less lonely.

It does feel strange sometimes when I'm on there.
And then the possession inside the machine says;
"but without me you wouldn't know this music, this picture, this place, this girl."
And now, for the first time, I am not subdued.
For the first time, I answer back, but what things would I know without you?

What forests would I have walked through? What people would I have met?
What noises would I have heard?
O the less trivial things I would have learned.
What streets would I have crossed (both in this layer of reality, in metaphor and metaphysical)
What girl's eyes would be staring towards mine, instead of those of a camera's.

I've got to talk about the internet
I've got to talk about the facebook^tm
(though in a year it will be gone)

It feels all so inauthentic
so I indulge in the scary technology
but then omit it from my memories
when I see your pics online
I write about them like they are authentic
genuine photographs I have yellowing
in an album in the attic
I don't have an attic either

Some things change
and some things take longer
You say he’s always the same
well one day he’ll die
and won’t say a thing
Was he quiet all his life?
Well he didn’t look like bones
Now he’s eating worms
Somethings change and somethings take longer
Take long steps
and you won’t notice the footprints, getting
larger or smaller
A limp in his walk
His back starts to arch
a new way
except it’s always been empty
Always full of change
no matter how sharp you are
you will be forgotten
All the books about you
burned by a tyrant
All the progress made
is dead
Some things change
and somethings take longer
Put them together
and every thing is empty
Everything is empty.

No vices, no difference
I have some things to do tomorrow,
I think I’ll just take the wagon
I’m just waiting for something to happen
to help me make up my mind
I always imagine tragic
someone dies and they’re so close
I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls,
but I don’t even want to write their names
for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel
or maybe we’re all just an election away from
anarchic warring states,
where I must defend my beans and cucumbers
from slugs and marauders
If we hold it together, red China could invade
so would I rather be a prisoner or dead?
Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl,
where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice,
because the love will be enormous
Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull,
but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue
Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains,
and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles
If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west
bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay
Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave,
and I guess the pay is better anyway
My mind is made up
it’s not something real
It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people
their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem
they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress
they even separate the sick people
I closed my eyes to see what was real,
and saw nothing
There is no waiting room at all

And it comes with some pain the the bullies from our childhood were a result of social Darwinism,
at least in the sense of the state, where capitalism reigns and the most ruthless and powerful win all the freedom.

Us cowards were too scared of violence to do anything about it. The teachers barred us from bullying, and with emotion they punished bullies, when they could be caught. Punish the bullies so they will develop the slavish obedience not to harm their peers, so in the future they will merely quietly compete up the ladder and sigh at the impossibility of their ladder extending past their bully bosses. If you want to have real freedom and fortune in this life, I hope you never stopped being a bullying child. I, like most children, bought the obedience and swallowed it like morning pills. In rows I sat, I pledged to red white and blue, and while the bullies slapped our heads, we kept our retaliation to unified grumbling, yet in a school there is no strength in numbers, besides the strength of harmonizing our slavish sighs. It’s just like at work under our bully bosses. The strength of the individual is denied in a school, so we can work like a cog, working hard at our shape to fit best into the machine.

The bully notices the competition early on and acts hard, swift, and originally. For this is how wars are won. But us slaves have our way of converting the bully, we have numbers on our side, yet little strength. Out of weakness we tell the bully that they are an ill shaped cog, and they will never be able to help the machine if they keep their powerful aggression. Conversion to slaves may occur, or a half convert is created who is too deluded with their new illness, so they can do little physical harm to anyone anymore.

And all without a drop of blood. We go to work secretly competing with each other, in order to buy the system’s validity at the end of the week. And we rip each other‘s teeth out in our dreams

Long day indentured college
do they give me land when I'm done?
I just wanna lay near the flickering warm television
like the olde days
Stop, I say
it’s all ****. T.V. does not console
old days are through
already 8 O’ clock
O clock, zero clock
why’d I do nothing yet?
he shouts back in olde English binary that
I’ve only been home for an hour
I don’t know how to loot time like a lawyer’s tie tier
He pit pats after the one in the pricier suit to make sure he’s comfy, all ways
Like a tea cup dog, he’s slightly enamored to serve a taller person
The rich man feeds him emerald colored paper
a treat at sundown,
and that wily servant still finds hours to ***** his wife,
push his boy on the swings, and play a game of basketball.
I don’t know what’s coddle comfort anymore
“good.” says the gray bearded one atop the devil’s mountain horns
The great beast is boastfully clever,
but he can’t tell there’s a bhikhu camping out on his horns
his eyes roll upward, but he can’t see past his forehead.
The old one laughs

I’m in bed thinking of escape plans. When I close my eyes, I cash out endless people in my lines. In dreams I hold dear my own: girl, passion, and life direction. I wake up for seconds and doze off, like reality’s just a short nightmare. Time to get back to my cashin’. It’s not about cash or fashion. It’s about sitting alone, being real with yourself, and seeing your dreams are too far away to help. I spend my days trying to control clock hands. Slow or fast, I make them dance. But still, I haven’t left this place. I’m about to leave a pine cone on my bed, and walk through the woods until I get to the other end. And if in 20 minutes I’m in a farmer’s field, I’ll keep pulling that peel to find a place that escaped this pretentious human race.