The humdrum of machines. A missed cycle, a bad bearing, a bent fan blade.
It makes a music like no one would believe. The electric hum of powerlines and transformers. The clanks and jeers of a crowded bar, the cheers of an arena.

The construction on your neighbors houses while you set in humble shame. Jackhammers, swinging hammers. Little handlebar bicycle rings from the children you never had.

Sometimes, you want to say **** it, and burn the world down. Then you remember, some people aren't unhappy. It's not your place to sabotage their trampoline. Sometimes you're just who you are, and no one else, and nothing else matters.

Sometimes you're you. The rest of the times you're just trying to be.

a thin arrow icon pointing to the right
an icon representing a tear-off calendar 7
an icon representing a machine cog
an ellipsis icon an exclamation point inside a circle
an icon representing a folder with a plus sign
a menu icon with three horizontal lines
an icon representing a door key an icon representing a padlock
a large play icon a plus sign icon a record series icon
an icon representing two lines crossing in an x shape
an arrow looping back to the left
an icon representing a magnifying glass
an icon representing an admission ticket
an icon representing a trash can
a wrench icon
a thin arrow icon

"So much for playing it cool."
As he rolls down the stairs into the street, ****** his pants, and pukes in the gutter.
"What is a gutter? Seems like the whole world these days."

Sometimes,
when you see the wall,
you slam on the gas.

Life was easier
When my biggest problem was
Just going hungry

I'm not here to tell you anything you don't know, or show you anything you can't imagine. Not to expand your consciousness or "blow your mind."
( in the parlance of our time. )

I don't even know why I'm here, at all, at this place or on this planet, or in this existence.
( if that's what it really is. )

I'm not here to know the answer or spread the word, to think too hard, work too hard. But to follow my heart and fully embrace the passions it leads me to.
( a bundle of nerves that seem to have a mind of their own. )

When the world feels as if it's crushing in upon your chest, down upon your shoulders, turning deep within your stomach ... a ridiculous thing like a heart can give you the power to get up and push it back.
Thank you for filling mine up.

The low impact tremors of the trucks and trains and machinery of the city rumble through the day, long into the latest hour.

The reverberations of what we've done stretch back before the boom of the roaring twenties, when the steel skeletons of the new giants were born, passed the wailing of falling bombs, long into the future where masonry and glass fall slow miles to deserted streets.

This living, breathing, churning machine has a life of its own, its own fears, its own dreams, and without it, what are we?

I've lost another dear friend,
Another kindred spirit,
To the culling of this worsening
****** epidemic.

No more new poems
Waiting in my inbox.
No more just checking in.
No more redemption.

Just another empty hole
Pierced through our lives
Taken by the tip
Of a needle.

All the delayed flights and missed connections everywhere.
Making connections, breaking connections.
A design against futility, still the wind.

Kitchens I cooked in, trains I used to catch.

All the nights I've set awake, martyred on some kind of watch.
Taking directions, obeying erections.
A design against senility, still the mind.

Kittens I took in, dogs I once played fetch.

All the dreams of the past's futures have lapsed and are dying.
Failing selection, without objection.
A design against responsibility, still the road.

Cars I once drove in, land in one long stretch.

All the roads and all the cities are being rebuilt and crumbling.
Urban renewal, urban decay.
A design against anarchy, still the man.

Careers I worked in, living in one breath.

All the ends of all the tales and all the heroes found their death.
Poetic justice, blind justice.
A design against God, still the law.

Courts I appeared in, lawyer's corpse like stench.

All the trees in all the hard places in between know what I mean.
Natural selection, might is right.
A design against Nature, still the way.

Cartoons I once drew, laughing with my friends.

What round is this anyway?
Somewhere in my subconscious
I heard the bell ring
signalling a new one.
Now my ears ring.
Equilibrium disoriented
while I search for my footing.
Skinned from glancing blows
and bruised from taking solid punches.

Back when I was a desert hermit
I decided to step back in the ring.
I guess my fight wasn't over
like I thought it was,
like I hoped it was.
I didn't have the heart
to drown myself in whiskey
or pull the trigger.

So here I am again
facing down a capitalist bull dog
and I'm the junkyard dog,
the stray dog,
shaved bare to hide the mange.
My ears got holes in 'em,
my flesh marred.
My eyes are barely there,
but I'm still here,
passing up scraps
going for the bigger meat.

My ribs show,
shoulder blades sharp
as the knife I wear
and cannot bear
to be separated with.
My teeth are discolored,
gums rolled back
like my lips in a snarl,
but they still cut.
I can still land a killing blow
against this raging,
'roided up beast.

I swallow depression,
along with blood
and caffeine.
I close one eye
against double vision,
spit out bile
and charge back in.
I can still win this fight,
can still earn my place.
I'm here to stay,
no matter how many times
you cast me away.

I'm going to paint
my wild energy
rippling across the sky,
tearing from the crown
of my Kundalini.

I'm going to paint
my eyes white,
opaque,
to show they are
unseeing.

I'm going to paint
my heart gray,
the color of old
rancid,
ground up meat.

I'm going to paint
my genitals green,
like money,
like sickness
and envy.

I'm going to paint
everything black,
everything black,
the darkness of
my feeling.

I'm going to paint
the sheets red,
the walls red,
and my brain
across the ceiling.

Our feet tread the same ground,
our lungs breathe the same air.
Yet, my suspicions are mounting
of a disparity between our realities.

To you I'm barely here,
to me you're barely there.
If we should chance to meet
"Long time, no see!"

Then lean in to embrace
and solidify our greeting,
we'd pass straight through
with barely a feeling.

"Well, take care!"
Then it's over,
impersonal
and so fleeting.

"Goodbye."
"I'll see you again."
on the other side,
my dear friend.

I feel like I'm betraying you all
when I say I'm gonna stay,
then I start packing anyway
and backing out the door.

How can I explain this?
The pain in my heart won't quit,
mind caving in on itself,
and no one liked me extroverted.

No one liked my stories,
all the people, the places
I went without you.
How would I feel if it was you.

No one wants to think,
you might have had it better
than they did.
who can blame them?

Better to keep it in,
to keep on packing,
to keep on backing,
out that door again.

(Dad returned this to me tonight, apparently I wrote it in the 90s and he found it and saved it for almost 20 years)

Love hides in the moon,
Where lies and deceit hide too.
But you don't want what you got,
'Cause I'm just an astronaut.
God hides in the manic eyes
Of the maniacs you despise.
And if I'm just a man on the moon
Well then I'm still part of you.
If it will take a tragedy,
For you to see the truth,
Then I just hope I'm still here for you.
All things are fleeting,
And soon I'll be gone.
Gone sailing on ethereal seas
Of forgotten songs.
Joking 'bout my wrongs
With time's tides of traitorous throngs.
Laughing while the ones I love
Chase Maltese Falcons,
And society sinks shaking in withdrawal
From the loss of knowledge
That god is eminent
Throughout the body of existence.

A strange time to be.
A strange way to think.
Strange noises,
no on explains.
Strange news,
no one to blame.
Strange fish in Alaska,
Fukushima still leaking?
False flags,
toe tags,
dog tag stories
to pluck the heart strings.
I saw it in my dreams,
among other things.
For all the good it does me.
Still lost,
keep moving,
but it always finds me.
Still dream,
still wake,
walk through it
obliviously.
It's okay.
It was all going to happen
eventually,
anyway..

Seagulls pacing dark skies.
Walking circles below,
with a cigarette, in the snow.
Thinking of reuniting with you.

I went back to the past,
exhausted by everything new,
estranged by my time with strangers.
Dreaming of reveries untrue.

I went back to the future,
but all it showed me was you.
Nothing of what would become,
nothing of what we would do.

I wanted to break that portal,
to cut myself off,
to be free of prophetic visions.
I was afraid to be alone.

So I let it sit,
like a canker,
like a cyst,
until I would be brave enough.

Brave enough to step through it.

In the beginning it was already the end.
That distant apocalypse was here all along,
Riding freight trains and eating the "trash"
There when they boarded up the Slavic village. There when the fresh prince gentrified Philly. So much apocalypse has been swept under the rug that the middle class can't keep their balance with the weight of the rich on their backs.
Stepping around the smoldering hell holes of Centralia, while the earth quakes from underground fracking. The ash and smog hides the glitter of aluminum in the air. The water laced with fluoride, lead, arsenic, cancer. The seas run black with greed. Designer labels sit passed by on goodwill shelves.

By the time it began, it was already over. Anyone who didn't notice yet, just had to go hungry first. Bread and circuses, just like Rome.

I never thought I'd hear me scream
“I'm tired of this same old scene!”
Everything's more than it seems,
it's all worse than this.

I never thought I'd have to dream,
to take control of my destiny.
Brighter pastures and darker days,
it's all up to me.

So before I even hear you say,
that God is great and he loves me.
That everything's exactly as
it's supposed to be.

Just shut your mouth.

You're full of ****
and we both know it.
God himself if he did exist,
would **** your kids.

Get over it.

All your anger all your pain.
All the suffering and shame.
All the black marks on your name,
there's no one else to blame.

Just take control.

Pack your bags
and forget your debt.
There's a life
you ain't lived yet.

So get on with it.

Let's go on living like nothing ever happened.
Let's press on, push through, with one eye and all 9 fingers.
Let's give up our crutches, and take up all new habits.
Let's make good on all those past resolutions.
Let's be somebody, Let's make something of ourselves.
Let's dream and talk about ideas.
Let's move on. Let's keep living.

I used to write poems about nature.
Nothing in particular,
just clouds,
and wind,
and sounds.

Of brief encounters
with other living things
of various species,
none more mysterious than my own.

I remember once,
this bird landed on a thistle.
He was colorful and bright,
offset against the waning light.

Suddenly, sharply,
as if awaiting the tap of a maestro,
as if stricken like a note itself,
he sang his heart out.

It was brilliantly composed,
masterfully performed,
a truly inspired work.
A silence followed.

Looking briefly from side to side,
hoping someone noticed.
He reluctantly flew,
bobbing on gray skies, into the autumnal horizon.

What does it mean to be a modern man?
In the way in the Renaissance
you were a renaissance man?
What is the condition?
Let's check in.
Because you see,
I think it's the condition
of a reservist in waiting
waiting and waiting
to be necessary.
For a wolf to chase off,
or a meal to catch.
But instead,
we're opening jars.
We're reaching high shelves.
We're changing light bulbs,
and plunging *******.
We're taking out the trash.
We're battling for our right
to grow 'stache.
We're getting **** on at work.
And when we get home,
you won't let us **** on you.
I mean literally,
I saw it on the internet.
There's girls out there that will let you **** on them.
Maybe even, for free.
But we go to sleep unhappy.
We go to a *******.
We fantasize about that chick in the yoga pants.
We get drunk and wish we could club baby seals
and burn down churches
because we have a rage that can't be contained in a fist.
We **** if we think we can get away with it.
We still cringe when we hear our mother.

Some of us hang ourselves in attics, in barns, in public.
Or gas ourselves in cars in the garage
we never took full advantage of.
Some of us drive cars into trains, off bridges,
into crowds of screaming people.
Some of us still cut ourselves like teenage girls.
Although it does sound nice sometimes.
Just.. BLAU
**** it.
Yea, I'll have another Hoss.

I'm at my wit's end.
Fed up, burned out,
sick and tired.
Racing through alcohol fueled depression
because I'm not free, to be me.
Judged, criticized, crucified
held to the expectations
of other people's self-serving morality.

I'm a cog in a machine,
rolled under the wheels,
of a small business owner's
capitalist pipe dream.

I'm a pawn in a game
of war of money of politics.
Mislead, misdirected.
mission critical prime directive.

It's a story as old as "civilization"
all of this dehumanization.
Turning me into something
that serves you better.

I'm warning people
to stay away from me
because I see through their ****
and its ******* on ******* on ******* on *******.

I'm warning people
I can't take much more
because every human being
is an ******* and a *****.
Because we put these labels
on being truthful and free.
Because someone put a label on you
and now you put one on me.
Because someone taught you
its okay, to be
ignorant and mean.

And now I, have become
indignant and belligerent
which is just one step away
from being just like you.

But how do I move away?
Do I pack up the truck
and literally move away?
to where?
Are people somehow better somewhere?
Or do I just get as far away
as I can from them, from you?

Living off the grid
makes it hard to get laid.
Living off the land
makes it hard to get paid.
And you've been raised
to be a slave,
a wage parasite
on a dying host.
You want more than to survive.
You want to thrive.
You want to live forever
but will die of cancer or suicide.

The baby jesus inside me
has its face smashed into a tv screen.
The buddha inside me
is tired of taking the blame.

If every step kills a bug
and every bite kills a plant
and every breath kills a microbe
and every death of a dictator kills a universe of bacteria
then the only right action is inaction
and every action is inherently wrong.
Morality is a psychosomatic symptom
and our system is inherently flawed.

I try to escape and it seems like there's no way.
There's no light at the end of the tunnel,
and no traction on the corpses of the fallen.
There's a dream of hermitage, and the sadness that follows.

There is sadness in every corner bar and every heartbeat.
Sadness in every wilted limb and worried brow.
Sadness in every frustrated plea for release.
Sadness in the teardrops of the creation.

Sadness tumbling down like shards of glass
from the millions of dreams
broken by the machine.
Constant grinding.

I camped for four days,
near a swamp,
with mosquitoes.
Three different strains of wolf spider.
Night time camp invasion from a ******.
My dog got sprayed by a skunk.
I drank and never got drunk.
It was a great trip
I went to bed a few hours early.
Woke easily on Monday morning.
I was at peace.
Was happy, optimistic,
ready to start the week.
At my desk before eight AM.
I ate my bananas.
I checked my messages.
Everywhere the clocks ticked on.
Forty-Five minutes,
until my happiness was gone.
My peace was gone.
My optimism, gone.
For the next five days I'd be a husk.
One-hundred & Twenty hours,
****** dry by leeches.

It's September 2013.
A Coronal Mass Ejection scorched the Earth,
collapsing the Global infrastructure.
Those that weren't fried up in the killshot
traverse a world nearly foreign to them,
devoid of any form of luxury.
They make their ways to the FEMA camps,
setup all over the United States,
because that's what their TVs told them to do,
just days before the blast.
But they knew since the Remote Viewing program began in the Cold War.
A teenage boy,
now forced to be a man,
leads his Mother through the terrain,
avoiding building fires and roving gangs.
Finally they arrive,
the camp like a shimmering oasis
in the burned out barrens.
They stand in line at the gates,
poor and huddled masses.
When it is their turn,
they present the IDs they were informed to bring.
"Sorry son, your name's on the list,
you can't get in."
"What do you mean? What list."
"The list of people who didn't know how to keep their mouths shut on facebook.
So, you're out, but your Mom can come in."
Another guard approaches and squires her in at gunpoint.
"No, I won't go, not without my Son!"
To which the guard interjects
"Shut the **** up..
take your clothes off..
we're going to pour powdered sugar on you."
"Noooo! Mahhhhhhhm."
"We're gonna **** your Mom kid." the gatekeeper laughs.
*Insert Whale sound

You once stood for something.
When they told you "NO"
you stood like a black-eyed-susan.
like the tao.
but when they beat you, betrayed you,
hogtied and pepper sprayed you,
you got angry.
You did things that soiled your good name.
I guess you just should have learned to take it,
like the tao.
like the tao, and wait.
like the tao and let the waters rise.
like the tao and overcome.
the weak overcome the tyranny of man with numbers.
WITH NUMBERS.
as each drop of water equally starts the flood.
like each living being that has ever thought
"I will overcome."
I will overcome.
I WILL OVERCOME.
WE WILL OVERCOME.
OR AT LEAST WE'LL DIE TRYING YOU *******!

I hate social correction.
I hate anyone, ever, anywhere, telling me what to do.
I don't mind if they ask.
I just don't want to be told what to do.
To each man and woman, beast or snail,
govern themselves, that the soul may prevail.
yet still I do not hesitate at the chance to put some bully in their place.
to drive the point home to some self-important ******* that there are bigger ***** in the sea.
and still i thoroughly believe I am doing this because somebody ******* has to
and I'm not doing for me.
I don't even know what I'm going to do anymore.

They,
Laugh openly, mockingly,
at every other Religion,
Philosophy, Opinion,
Lifestyle.
Yet still I am expected to handle them with kid's gloves.
Expected to tread carefully, not to offend any of their sacred sacraments.
They,
who conquered and enslaved my ancestors through treachery and deceit.
NO!
Maybe you should die for your own sins.

I turned my back.
The **** of human emotions continued,
as did my growing misanthropy.
I wished to forget that we are herd animals.
I wished to forget that we are petty and vain,
impatient, ridiculous, misguided and wrong.
I wished to forget this so that I might remember,
that we are a part of billions of years of life,
in one endless moment on this rock.
Part of uncounted aeons of an unexplored universe,
with completely unknown bounds and significance.
I turned my back,
but I was surrounded,
and I couldn't remember anything,
most of all what I wanted to forget.

GREED GREED GREED
GREED THAT MAKES
THE WORLD GO DOWN
GOING DOWN
ON A WASHINGTON PHALLUS
GOING DOWN
WITH THE PAPER PALACE
IN FLAMES
GOING DOWN LIKE PLANES
INTO BUILDINGS THAT STAND
FOR THE MAN
WHO HAS NO FACE
BUT HAS BOTH HANDS
IN YOUR POCKETS
GOING DOWN LIKE HIS PLANS
TO OWN THE HUMAN RACE
GOING DOWN
AT AN ACCELERATED PACE
GOING DOWN
LIKE A CHEERLEADER
BENEATH THE BLEACHERS
DOING HER PART
FOR THE TEAM MORALE
GOING DOWN
GOING DOWN
LIKE YOUR DREAMS
GOING DOWN
AND GETTING ******
GOING DOWN
GETTING ****** BY THE MAN
BUT YOU’RE NOT GAY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU DIE AND ARE REBORN
TO RECLAIM
YOUR VIRGINITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU RECLAIM YOUR DIGNITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
THE MAN WILL TAKE PITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU GET OUT OF THIS CITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
IT ALL GOES DOWN
GOING DOWN
ON THE MAN
WITH THE TASTE OF SALINE
YOUR TEARS ON HIS ****
GOING DOWN
ON UNCLE SAM
WHILE GETTING ******
BY UNCLE RICH
TICK
THERE IS NO TOCK
IT’S MIDNIGHT
AND WE FORGOT
TO WIND THE CLOCK

What does it mean to be a Modern Man?
In the way in the Renaissance you were a Renaissance Man?
Knowing all there is to understand,
and learning all the skills you’ll need with your hands.
Fluent in English, American, and Ebonics.
Part IT Guy to fix everyone’s electronics.
Part Guru to share your health advice.
Part Farmer because who can trust anything,
you buy in the stores these days.
Part Eagle Scout so you can impress everyone,
because you “still get out to the woods once in a while.”
Part Mechanic to work on your fuel efficient car,
and your wife’s giant dual-axel turbo diesel truck.
Part Biker, because Man was born to be free.
Part Hippie, because EVERYONE WAS BORN TO BE FREE.
Part Hill Billy because they’re doin’ it right.
Part Libertarian, part Socialist, part Anarchist.
Part Patriot, part Activist, part Terrorist.
Part whatever the **** I want because I don’t give a ****.
Part of a government watch list.
Part of a Humanitarian Project.
Part of a Rebellion,
Part of a Revolution,
yet to come.
Part of you,
because our conscience,
is the same.
Part of the whole,
because it is impossible not to be.
Part of god,
because by now you’ve realized,
it is you,
and there’s no turning back.

There are humble gods
weeping laments over guitars,
notebooks, prison floors, drums.
While locked in cells, of mind,
of design, of compromise.
Of drugs and *** and sin
and hail satan hail satan.
All the party kids go to hell!
because they dared to have a good time
on this puritan prison.
This mirror vision of the ego
of a mastermind.
This clairvoyant's hell.
This witch burning hate mongering
puritan hell.
This insane ******* place,
society,
where we all **** a certain way,
even if it's not good for us.
**** in a hole in the ground,
you don't need a ***** throne.
That's what they do in "less civilized" places.
They do what makes sense.
******* Europeans.