Step 1) Speak any language you want.
Helpful Tip: When men die, it doesn't matter what language they speak because all screams sound the same.

Step 2) Worship any god you please.
Helpful Tip: When men die, it doesn't matter what god supported them because all men fall the same.

Step 3) Pull the trigger.

Step 4) Win the war.

Step 5) Lose your soul.

Step 6) Let time pass you by.

Step 7) Forget the lessons history taught you.

Step 8) Repeat.

and the little white girls walk in
with their school sweats on,
smilin' all precious innocent like
with hair that never goes awry.

and the dictionary is tellin’ me
words ive been using for years
never really existed, and then
i look’d up existential crisis.

and the cold wind turns tan’d
skin pale as blood recedes to
more important portions of a
body preferenc’d warmer times.

and the words i have to say
i want to erase without a second
notion, but i cannot for fear of
loss of thoughts not yet conceived.

and the knowledge of having been a
mystic misplaced, once recess’d
to a span of  sleeping lives
allow’d to be found incarnate.

“ . . and even if, crazed, he ends up
by losing the understanding of his visions,
at least he has seen them!”
content’d the loss of action to thought.

every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,

this moment.

to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.

constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.

all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.

threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,

returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.

sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.

you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.

it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,

thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.

the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,

and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.

to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.

our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,

each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,

each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,

the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.

to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,

there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,

water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,

everyone,
and everything
dies.

our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:

death is the ever present condition.

if I should sleep with a lady called death
get another man with firmer lips
to take your new mouth in his teeth
(hips pumping pleasure into hips).

Seeing how the limp huddling string
of your smile over his body squirms
kissingly, I will bring you  every spring
handfuls of little normal worms.

Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs,
phrase the immense weapon of your hair.
Understanding why his eye laughs,
I will bring you every year

something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.