A cute girl with blonde-streaks and pink skinnies marches dignified past my cubicle, stopping for a moment to inspect me;

"Is that-
Nevermind."

And on she floats into the grand sky-blue matrix of life.
That was our moment together.

Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!

Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.

To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.

The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.

As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."

Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."

"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.

Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.

I call this one the limbo week,
Where everything lies on the verge, on the peak
of an outbreak of sorts; the end of an era,
Staring out towards the French Riviera,
Still waiting.

Lost are the wills of the men to protect,
Lost are the men that once willed them.
Lost is the bonds between one and the other,
Lost is the other that was once to be bond.
Lost is the striving towards one final goal,
Lost is the goal to be strove for.
Lost is the light that led to the end,
Lost is the end that the light once made real.

Radiant shine from the window pane glass.

Fire burning, a heart which to tie,

He knows it won’t last.

Power from response, response from power,

Not to which matters to him,

As he stares at that tower.

Leaning against the sky which glows blue,

As if taking a bow as to start anew.

He feels trapped in the norm of the way he calls life,

As his heart it does burn,

With dark civil strife.

One moment hopes there,

The next it runs dry.

Little triggers to pull,

As to force him to cry.

He knows not why his sorrow,

Trapped deep in his bones,

Continues to pelt,

Just as hard hitting stones.

He is drowning,

Lost deep in the blue.

He remembers the voice saying,

“ Who knows?

The next one is you.”

His body does work,

In the dark of the night.

Just as a clandestine,

Preparing to fight.

When he does find deep sleep,

It finds him unwell.

His body does writhe,

His imagination swell.

That blurry dark dot,

You can’t see on the map,

Holds its figure in place,

Unready to snap.

It hides in the shadows,

Making his past but a ghost.

He maintains none but fragments,

To which he clings to the most.

Just as he writes this,

A loud screech does pierce the day,

As if a blind hobo grabs his shoulders,

To say, “Be afraid, for this future,

As much as is mine, may drip onto you,

In a dark, shaded line.

You will not see it, for you see none but black,

But it will grab you,

And hoist you off track.”

Later that night,

He does look in the mirror,

Reflecting the words,

Which should make him see clearer.

The dark will not pass,

With but one little light,

He must search very quickly,

For that one spoken sight.

Whether he finds it,

Is not mine to say.

He must look in himself,

If he desire the day.

Semper Fidelis
Semper Fidel
Semper Fiddle
Sumper Fiddle
Sum Fiddle Plays
Sum Fiddle Plays Jazz
Sum Fiddle Plays Jazz

looouuud

man.

Care to listen?

why did the residual effect continue to reside-ual within the mind I articulated as a master plan to nowhere in particular and particularly no one hurting questions like they're bigger answers to something you never wished to ask or asked to squish like mantracker episodes on OLN where you're hopping the bush like a freight train through the Utah Salt Flats, O' beautiful, buttered misery!

it doesn't matter
that you used to
walk the night
in search of food
and housing.

it means, "I wish
upon a star" became
a wish upon a bar
stool.

our foolish lisp
never quarantined
itself for fear of
loneliness

the stir stick
of caffeine
insanity

(where was
your princess
when the king
-dumb fell)

"well," He choked,

"she was busy with
the lampshade..

*or a lack thereof"

Wherever he'd believed me,
it'd been a temperate climate.
Not too cold, not too hot, one
of those Buddhist middle path
days where the weather sat to
meditate. What I'd told him was,
"well, my friend, there is nothing
new under the sun."

He giggled like a 6 year old and
said, "except when I turn over
rocks."

swept roads
as if, the clouds.

monday mourning
as if, the clouds.

tight muscled, barrel chested, gattling gun
as if, the clouds.

not an option, consent. not an
option to the body and the
body and the solid
soulid body.

miracles
are
                          made of physical

matter.

so is your textbook.

              so is your Bible.

intrepid young explorer! where
does the river take you? heart?
mind? soul? toe? jasmine green
tea leaps out the cup in the form
of steam. it was always easier to
sleep than to stand and face the
massive concoction called your
mistakes. mis-takes. retake? we
wait like money to be spent. we
*wait like dollars to be dropped.

misty day if she mistakes her
lens for the world. every breath
elects new particles to the surface
of her sun. every now and again
she twitches in sleep and it's like
electric dream time spits seconds
in hours. hours in minutes. minutes
in mine. once in awhile she wakes
to stroke my back or my arm and
if holy moments are all the time, us
together float the illusion of Maya
away to be here. I look in her eyes
and tell her were just God playing
hide-and-seek. she nuzzles my nose
like a sweater cat and speaks. a
multiplicity uncorks the wine and
tells us to dance. I'm dancing. Keep
dancing.

Language speaks. Sandwich eats. Mandrake roots.

credit card
hung on the
walls of the
Louvre

to make
some ******
point.

'it's beautiful,
isn't it?'

the wicked dance of expectation
and one vs. the other is a lost
cause that loses itself in itself
as it's still within and without
through the same ******* highway;
the desert and the tundra aren't
separate worlds, they fade into
one another like the slow dance
you refused in 8th grade.

It's hard to sit alone at home
And wonder where you are.

I trust your safe and comfortable,
But why are you so far?

It's hard to lay to sleep at night
And know you won't be there
For me to love and to embrace
In winters morning air.

It's hard to wonder when I'll see your face
As close to mine
So kisses are not tugging memories..
But all the time.

It's hard to think that
During these 5 months of loving you
I've seen you for, at most, 3 weeks;
Inside my heart, you staged a coup.

I cry a lot
Because your face is rarely close to mine;
I neglect to mention all these tears most of the time

Because I chose this
And chose you
Despite the constant pain

Relief is only ever, at the most, a month away.

Yet I also hold out hope that you and I
Will someday be
Close to near-inseparable
And in love
Yet always free.

But.. for now
I've sentenced both my body and my mind
To missing you
Yet feeling it's a soul-mate that I find

Within your essence and your everything;
Yes, I love more
Of you than you could ever know exists;
Please know, that I am yours.

33% on your physics test
but somehow you understood
the laws of motion well enough
to climb aboard a bus, move
your legs in such a way to
create repeated momentum
until your arrival in a class-
room where you arranged
graphite particles in such
a way as to demonstrate
a clunky understanding
of what you get perfect
A's in when it comes to
practice.

Intuition, maybe?

How do I give traction to this estranged attraction?
Do I put my thought into action, and gauge her reaction?
Or is looking to date, for me, a risky transaction?
I keep pushing these feelings into blatant abstraction,
And I'm sorry.

I'm bad, at this point, with our interaction,
It lacks a consistency,
Yet withholds sporadic satisfaction,
And I'm not all that sure on how to approach you,
Every time I'm around you, it seems the uneasy stages a coup inside my head,
And proves it don't pay to be well-read, if the words you have learned seem to remain unsaid,
How silly.

coffee burns lungs, cigarette smoke, don't
lie. Black Folgers tastes like cigarette smoke.
Stars and visions of blank black back-then
haunt neurons, twitch tears. The *******
lights and the gaudy bulb, who thought this
was a good idea? Thomas Edison ruined the
world so no thanks to Thomas Edison. I'd
rather sleep on a dark-world night-time
than a bright-world all-time.  

the grass-is-greener syndrome, Paris syndrome,
I-exist-syndrome for the love of lavender lungs
syndrome, suicide sounds as scary as life when
you scream loud enough, that's true confinement.
Jail-time on Earth. I don't believe this, why do
I think like the devil? Can I blame it on Adam
or whatshisname?

Once again the
lights go out
like fought-out
children in
divorce.

Twice again the
lantern masks
it's ambiguity
in laughter
from a
solid source.

Thrice the country
rises round ye olde
England, Richards
ground. The author
contemplates a paint
roller moving on its
own like bullets
once the shooter's
made a drum-roll
cease.

Maybe if he'd been asking to meet before work and sit at the edge of the ocean to discuss Mandalas, Kerouac, or St. Anselm I would have said 'yes.'

But the cigarette isn't so simple.

cables are faded like pencils erased with no patience
and wifi reigns king.

lord of the invisible air
it's the internet plus O2 we survive on.

There are nights when sleep evades,
My tired eyes; yet thought invades,
To make my hallow head howl loud;
Tonight, you will not find a crowd,
In thronged masses; city streets,
Tonight, no DJ drops his beats.

There are nights when sleep comes soon,
Under the brightly-lit full moon;
My thoughts, lie strewn throughout this mess,
I call my brain; the cut-slack caress,
Of my gift in which I care,
So little for the systems 'fair,'
They tell me structure has it's place,
In this chaos we call the human race;
Yet the guns and guts beg to tell,
A different story, of others hell.

Now I'm not one to run from black;
And I'm not one to move off track,
Yet the beaten trail, I find used,
And along it lies the bodies,
Bruised,
Of those who chased the distant dreams,
Of alcohol and slot-machines.

The TV blares, until nights end;
It tells us fame sits around the bend,
That we do walk past,
Everyday,
Like I can't see the gullible sway,
Towards such lies;
They grow so old,
Around that bend,
Lie's fools gold.

The beat, upon it's own does change,
From black to blue,
And red to gray;
The ones that fear such backlash say,
'Does color matter anyway?'
Is there a separate end,
To night and day?

To say the least,
Time is a lie,
A lie which tells me when I die;
Please, when I die, you can cry,
But not because we won't speak again,
Instead because throughout your veins,
I pulsed like blood, seeped like sweat,
And now all I do, is beset,
Your head with thoughts of then,
Which envelope for the moment, now;
Yet I am still the sweat on your brow,
I am the words you speak,
And moves you make;
I left you empty, in my wake,
And as of now, you must fulfill;
That is my last wish, my last will.

Full of hatred, be mankind,
Yet now the light they've dodged,
Is there to find,
In others words,
There thoughts, in kind,
Twist fervently forwards,
The future in which I won't be,
Our actions made this new man free.

I am, yet then I am not,
For my partial head has caught,
The virus I asked to infect,
To find within our souls; collect,
The universe is large above;
Do you think stars fall in love?

Glassy eyed,
I look at you.
I'm tired, yes,
And so are you,
Yet upon our faces,
We both wear,
Projections that we both do care,
So much for what we both are;
When we're with each other,
Our minds meld,
Like molten iron,
No thoughts withheld;
They say that kisses seem to weld,
Forever stronger than industrial bonds;
Of you, yes, I'm dearly fond.

The King upon the mountain screams,
You must all see, I, too, have cracked seams;
I to am just as flawed,
And now to that,
You must applaud.

For through these cheers,
The truth is shown;
We all have at least one charred bone,

And there is no such thing as being alone.

when she played wingman for her friend at a party

after her friend had dumped a kid of innocent naivety (first love! first love!)

I asked her if she would ever have *** with someone

immediately after our breaking up

and she said,
"no, I have more respect for you then that.
it'd be at least a couple weeks."

and now look at us.

the nail in the coffin

was his ******* inside your moist *****.


I rejected a girl last night

because all I could think of

was you.

**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.

wake up!
it's time to
conquer this
country like the
Nazis never could.

Kid behind me on the bus keeps punching something incessantly. I can hear society in his accent. Appeasement. He's an apple seed budding.

silent march past abandoned store
working the burger has got me teary eyed
Bowsprit kicks me into 7th and I stop,
and I stop.
ears ring, head spins, goodbye
I'm moving to Lund to hug the red wood.