Leonard Cohen, gone the night before we recited Flanders Field,
And our memory was still fresh with poetic inspiration,
The artistic suppression of dread.

Famous Blue Raincoat,
The feelings of despair and isolation abound.
I felt the cold New York traffic that I was separate from all the bustle
And all the life.

Chelsea Hotel with its twists in compassion,
It's all too human and vulnerable to admit your schisms,
The plight of life when it slips away from us,
Into the city and falls off the roof.

Hallelujah resonates most,
The sound of pure emotion
The feeling of triumph with your chest bare to the Earth.
Let the raw expression engulf you, spread the ashes.

I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire,
Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco.

Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home,
And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress?

Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources.

There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure.

Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone.

Herr Trump, where is the ice going?
Would you sell the penguins for profit?

Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness.

Tell them sincerely.

Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same.

What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?

You have your demagogic president-elect,
Dreaming in shades of Mussolini
And will sit in his downtown skyscraper and laugh that all the populists
Were not in on the joke,
And thus could not be in on the punchline.

The progressives hotboxed the shower the night we handed the country to Trump.
Pennsylvania, the center of the cataclysm.

The vortex has opened and engulfed all the steel,
All of the illegal immigrants have been scooped up and swallowed,
Reproductive rights will be voided in a stacked Supreme Court validating the opinions of white male legislators.

Tensions twisting to contort and ignore the onset realization
That all progress is halted to return the country to the era of segregation,

Deportation Gestapo formed with the lone intent to displace the children of those who dared to dream of a brighter life.

America, look what you've done and face yourself with your objections.
Look dead in your eyes and see all the minorities, tears in the diaries of closeted teenagers,
And the judicial dread of the gentleman who only wants to live comfortably with his husband.

You've made stepping stones of the counterculture, all crying in dorm rooms or next to their gardens,
All together in sorrow.

Underground America has been sold out,
We're a social experiment for what can happen when sulfuric acid is poured upon the voiceless.
The silent majority has shut us up.
We've been yelling to change history and now are tracking back.

Bigotry is back in style and I'm terrified.

You said, as if that is the only aspect necessary for preserving humanity.
There's a sense of decency in all the things you choose negligence:
Sincerity, honesty, acting with someone else's interest in mind, thinking without malice,
Walking outside and onto the patio at your grand pity party.

What would you do with no attention at all?

You'd shrivel up and die.

Just be nice to people, it's as easy as that,
If your portion of sweet words are honest,
Yet yours are meant with such fake intent,
I look through your Saran Wrap smile, synthetic *** appeal,
To know your ex-bestfriend has great understanding and ****** insight,

It ends up that you were seeking my vulnerable brown eyes and not my cheap wine when you told me to come share with you,
But what I shared were a few too many buzzed secrets.

You, on the keyboard struggling to play songs of romantic tryst in no sense of irony.

Our last communication: road to Huntsville, called to yell at me one final time. I didn't need it.

You drove to play with rockets, the kind you'll never be entrusted to operate,
And the high you can only use to escape your pitiful exhibitionist existence.

This is the portion you're getting of my blood.
Simply a leech...
Don't you know I'm full of poison?

You, the ever-brilliant astrophysics girl, you failed to research me and my contents to know that I am coming down, down from vindictive respite...

I told you at the Bell tower that I once thought I was God. And I am.
I'm the Old Testament God who you never should have ****** with.
I will hang you with your manipulation and feel all the remorse you cared to show everyone,
Plotting for the spotlight.

But, "Just be nice to people".

This one time, I'll pass.

Young girl, songs lamenting the American condition,

You are the catalyst of sexuality.
You are the tar on my fingers that keeps me writing.

Clear in your heart, paradox is the word and I am the scar,

You're too afraid to come outside,
Bombs won't break through your kitchen tables and plexiglass.

Far too much shelter, this is a movement I can get behind. Starting to crack. Starting to scream.

The motivation now: breaking out of mediocrity.
///
At least I'm better than those guys, I must continue to assure myself.

I might be the loner,

Underwhelming boy who will never serve his country,

Yet I don't go around breaking things that aren't mine—

Urania may have pulled my strings like a puppet,

But I snapped her sanity.

I will spill every drop of my pagan blood in burning my world to ash.

There will not be mass calamity,
For I am unimportant, typical—

I'm planning to commit a ******.

What will they have to say about me,
Reduced to dust and only partially remembered?
///
I'm fixing to die,
Highest spire of Reims Cathedral.

I'll miss the girls who drink themselves into dehydration (if the dead miss at all),
Stuck like pin cushions with medical stickers and needles...

But don't miss me, it's a lonely endeavor
And one I cannot advise.
///
For the lonely soul who once spit venom at me in a dream,

Pick yourself up from the wreckage of the parking garage.

Keep laughing at the patriarchy's agents of the night,

And find fame, love, honest devotion, anything you could hope for.

All lost upon me.

Not worth the time to worry over.
///
There's nothing inside me worth saving, I've decided.

I am to throw myself at the Leviathan and into the pit,

Rolling in the abyss and into the bottom.

I'm not about to waste one moment's effort on repentance,

There's a great revelation that I'm troubled with: drugs only cloud your judgment.
///
My connection to God in Heaven, all narcotic illusion.

I mean to be eulogized by the poetess of beautiful sorrow,

That her melted caramel eyes would lead me to the grave.

Be my priestess one last time,

Then let me down to rot.
///
Who will care for Gothic Architecture when I stain the edifice and hit the pavement?

For no one cared that I struggled like Sisyphus with my demons,

But will love me when I hit the ground with tremendous velocity behind me...

Vibrant girl in colors vivid and bright,

Teach me how to stay afloat.

People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,

It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...

But yours truly did it last night

Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,

Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse

And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,

Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,

So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.

Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,

But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.

It's monotony—

I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?

That's the joke of mourning,

It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.

It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City

And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.

Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.

I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.