If I showed you a still from a Wes Anderson film
I'm sure you'd probably have a lot to say--
a multitude of ideas waiting to pour forth from your mouth
and brimming off the top of your head...

I'd gladly spend as many hours as I'd need
waiting for you to empty your excitement
as you talk away about the things you love
in that adorable manner of wanting to say so much

Believe me when I tell you
your impassioned expressions
are more entertaining in their own cute way
than any feature film I can recall

Serve me a dish
of things I never knew
and stuff I could say
I only learned today

Faster than an old fashioned slide rule,
stronger than any AI,
able to leap tall algorithms in a single bound,
he is the master of all things technological.

Unafraid of math, science, AP exams,
poking fun at dumb jocks and mean girls,
getting the better of hoods and bullies,
defender of outcasts and the downtrodden,
a purveyor of all that is intellectual,
he is the hero we need in these difficult times,

So, give it up for Super Nerd!

The grief was intense
in individualization. I walked on
the singed coals due to rain brutality.

Someone comes from
your back after touching Buddha
in sleep. I did it again. Killed my poem.

A speculation. I am
alone. Who lives for others? A toeless
ghost laughs, but walks very fast.

I once fancied myself noble like a wolf
But when he beckoned I ran like a dog

I swallowed my pride, ceased my howling for what I deserved

And like a dog I crept back time and time again
Whether he, or love, was a crueler master I couldn’t say

It seems we both forgot that a cornered dog will still bite
I wonder if my jaws felt like a wolf to him

Son of A Gun in The Wild West

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up going under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood no Kanye clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…


∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

a double-ended apron bathtub, holds

an oblong pond of milk--poised to

exude volume.

its faucet drips plaster-of-Paris, as the

bell of a saxophone nuzzles to surface.

the congested takeaways of noir lighting

set in--the: O of the saxophone glints no

shiny brass.

only exhales the black bits of checkered

tiles from its bell--whose blow is the central

implication of sound.

which may, or may not have been produced.

draining a predominant starkness too white

to stiffen.

the slow burn of august. the comfort of sleeves that are too long. the itch of winter, spreading too quickly. the clothes on my bedroom floor. the dishes in my sink. the look in my eyes i wonder if any one else can see.
it’s like a dream where
all your screams come out as whispers,
and nobody is standing close enough to hear.

or maybe
a nightmare where they hear you perfectly,
but pretend that they can’t.

i wonder
which is worse.