Doing unto others
as we do with ourselves,
we manipulate
and conceal.

Power -- poorly understood,
absent autognosia --
seeks gratification
and little else.

Bewitching
and unscrupulous
hypnotic pageantry
holding sway.

A visceral magick
used cavalierly
by vampires
on the hunt.

Rapt in the Promise
of continuity,
the world
watches on.

Do you have the will to choose, or do you watch the pictures hanging on the wall, calling out your average name , and if they have commanded their message,
Do you, now preach the same?
Shackled in fear of the might known,
Feeling good about the certainty of strangers guesses, will you ever truly know?
How does one run away without making a sound?
What is kept from the eye stored underground?
Do you have the will to choose, or do you watch the pictures hanging on the wall, calling out your average name , and if you have consumed their message,
Do you, now preach the same?

Late night game shows droning on
Frozen pizza boxes on the counter
Eyes fixated on that glowing screen
Communication has come to a halt
Is this all we're living for?

Homework scattered on the bedroom floor
Laying in bed and sleeping till 1
Never seeing the light of day
Is this all we're living for?

Let's make a new beginning
You and I
Where the birds still sing
And we watch the sun rise
Let's step outside of our comfort zones
Before loneliness eats us up
Take away the materialistic dream of the world
And create our own masterpiece

as watch myself become infinite, the days go on by myself in the loop day in and day out the same thing over and over again sleep, work, by myself, sleep, work, alone. This infinite loop is a struggle, although I don't see myself in this loop forever, I don't know how to change it. I know where I want to be, I know what I can be, it's the motivation I don't know how to grasp.to whom that is reading this I have a question to ask you. Have you ever seen a TV show called Californication? The main character is named Hank Moody, is a writer alone in LA, with a daughter, chasing after his ex, who runs into the arms someone she cheated for. He can't write, he has no aspirations, no motivation. but we watch as he drowns himself in smoke, *****, and alcohol. It's so entertaining to the viewer because he is a walking case of misery and self-loathing. It makes ourselves seem like our lives are so much better, When they're really not. the strange thing is I see myself becoming Hank Moody and not the viewer, I get excited over new ***** but it doesn't fill the hole that I had for another. So my life becomes an endless loop. Work, sleep, ****, drink, alone, repeat.
infinite.

i like being home
laying in bed watching tv, writing poems
doing nothing cause i can
or cause i just wont
but working gives me a sense of accomplishment
the feeling that I'm doing something with my life
that work is where i belong
and for the first time in years
work is where i feel most at home

I cried when Jimmy died

I fell in love with Ky

I wanted to be Marlene, or Lynn maybe

I fell in the snowbank with Charlie


I disappear like the Cheshire Cat

A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.

This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing

Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the ****-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors

The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.

But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path

On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now

I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial

Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.

But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.

Cooking
He says
Is like ***.

As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues

The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.

His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.

Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.