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Sunday morning coupon clippings
like breathing for gasps of the air
while out there
the beads of rain
necklace the silky spiderweb
and all they want to do is decapitate,
amputate and castrate
a piece of you.
to hack off what’s been given
like a bull in Cambodia,
to surgically remove what’s been earned
with an incision of accuracy.
ah yes, the prairie state- land of crucifixion:
everyone on the cross with black blood streaming down their cheeks
it’s like roaming through the jungle
of machine guns blazing
from behind the trees
and slugs whizzing by your ears
with feet failing to trudge
through the battlefields
of dead bodies at dusk
and arms raised waving the white flags
we all enter en masse
receiving less than half
putting up with twice as much
like products of the tombs
working twice as hard
plus some illegal activity
on the side just to drown
in their inflationary sludge
we can’t even afford to walk
across the room anymore
so often times you’ll find me
lying down
twisted in the sheets
feeling as comfortable
as a Picasso painting
with nowhere else to go
nowhere else to turn to
except dreaming of death
in the minarets of my past
and gently plucking lilacs
from the garden of my love.
in the chronicles of our days,
the agonizing ones
are the most
memorable.

flipping through pages
of history books
it’s always
war war war

expired lives
settling differences
with violence and force

and now the living must
barter time and
happiness
for absolution
in order to honor
the dead with tradition

but yesterday was yesterday
and yet we carried around
like dead weight
on our backs
without thought
of letting go

and somehow, someway
the problems we’ve already
countered seem to attack
us the most

as I stroke my beard
and watch them spin
down the endless well
of dread, sorrow
and regret.
at this moment, right now,
as you read this
is a new beginning
in a series of new beginnings
that is constantly repeated
in a continuous cycle
and every moment beforehand
becomes a dream sequence
of non-existence and
wasted time
nothing comes back to haunt us
except the history of ourselves
we slaves to our decisions
prisoners to our internal form
anchored by trivialities
centered by nothing
broken records of regiment
to what we repeatedly do
everyday and continually
search for happiness
even if unhappiness
secures our bliss.
we are the everlasting breeders
to a succession of living corpses.
smoking a joint full of crystal cookies
I think of the poets tonight
everyone of them
climbing on each other
reaching for the top of the bucket
trying to escape
and everyone pulling
each other down
with no chance of reaching the top.
I look down into the pail
full of doleful glum
and it dampens my spirits
I want to pick it up
and dump it out
onto the sand.
I want to pull the thorn from their side
I want to release them from their anguish
but no one ever helped a fish
by pulling it out of the river
to save it from drowning
and I fear for their psychoanalysis
being swept away by the tides
of forgetfulness
I fear for without their sorrow
their creativity will be carried
off into a soulless sea,
lost and gone forever.
ME
I’m a writer who can not write
a musician who can not play
a drunk who can not drink
I’m emotionless when I
express emotions
onto paper
I’m toneless when
I lie flat on the
keys & strings
I’m impotent when I paint
lustrous images of
graphic lewdness
I balk when I’m willful
I take action apathetically
my purpose subsists
of insignificance
my technique- nightmarish
my craftsmanship- negated
influenced by nothing
guerilla to everything
and dancing in the sunlight
during the nighttime
I have no plans for these hands
no rules, no laws, no bedtimes
just propagate uncontrollably
I’m a deterrent to myself
and the thoughts I project
are like disfigured children
terrorizing the corridors
of blood in my brain.
I don’t know how to create art
and that is the best art
to know how to make.
stupidity reigns in my brain
and I can’t get out the words
that I’m trying to say
sometimes I rhyme and I don’t
know why but I don’t like it
this way
when I speak it all comes out
in lame jokes and awkward
conversations
so I keep myself cornered
and silent to avoid any sort
of confrontations
if only I could talk like how
I write
I might just be able to live life
the way I like
a better car, a fully-stocked bar,
a nicer house, a less-stressed spouse,
god forbid I have ambitious kids or
give me a higher quality of wine
and I’ll be doing just fine
but the voices dampened my insensibility
to make it hard enough to get out the
sentence structure of my impossibilities
I stutter and twist and my mouth
fills up with spit
I choke and croak out the sounds
I make in my own throat
it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard
allowing something you know is wrong
to be right
because you can’t speak up and you keep
your lips sealed tight
maybe it’s better this way, to live day by day
when silence outweighs the things your trying to say
I’ll just keep to myself with prose and poems
and lyrics and tomes
and let the loquacious bobble their heads
with halfway essays on ******* they did today.
I turned 36 today but I feel like I’m 86
and all I want for my birthday is to die.

pain is everywhere/ hell is everywhere
and happiness doesn’t exist.

no amount of love or change
in my life can cure me from the
aching loneliness that lies within

no amount of records could
complete my collection

no amount of words could
finish my poems

I don’t want to **** myself
I’m not a suicide case
you won’t find me at the bridge tonight
and this isn’t a suicide note or
a cry for help or attention seeking

I’m just really ready to go,
ready for decomposition
ready to escape from myself
ready to be put out of my misery
and to be released from total
anguish that life has shown me

there’s nothing more this blue grey
world could offer me
when the sun shines
I want the rain to fall
my feelings are numb
my brain is dumb
my emotions have solidified
depression makes you feel like
a useless blob on the floor and
I know now that happiness
is a mound of decaying flesh
with an empty slit as pretty
as a melancholic smile.

do you think my poetry brings laughter?

am I an ancient jester of poetic injustice?

I sure hope so.

I wouldn’t want anyone to feel
like the way I’m feeling now.
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