every poem I read now
makes me even more cynical
as I think
“I’ve been doing
better than this
for
years!”

every poem I read now
has too many words
and say way too
much

they’re all by whiny children
who have no perspective
or basis in
reality

I
cannot read
the poetry of my
peers
without
those cynical voices
yelling at me from behind
my shuffling eyes

each poem now
is too full with fat
of a generation born
on excess

each poem I read
I cannot enjoy
as I look from the outside in
and realize that I am far
from being different from
these children that disgust me
so

no more fighting
no more running
no more wondering
no more fearing

we will not stand for this life
we will not be the **** of the earth
we will not ache to be anything else

this is the time to be true to our dreams
this is the place to forget old inhibitions

I will become more, as I have always known  I was.

I write, now, only of
exhaustion and anger

no more is there love
or adventure or
hunger
or thirst
or solutions
or questions
or even suffering

there is only
burn-out
and
further burn-out

I need much more than
a good soaking
this time

I read a
report once
about teaching monkeys
how to use vending
machines

and they put these little coins
in the machine and out popped
a grape and the monkeys were
very smart and learned to treasure
the coins and the scientists all
jumped with glee it and made
for a great story

but as I was sitting there,
reading all this,
I kept wondering where
they thought the line was
before they stopped teaching
monkeys and started teaching
people

I know what it’s like to be invincible
walking through the streets of London
wind biting at my face and
cold cutting to the bone

I fear nothing

the night cannot get me
the criminals cannot get me
the gods cannot
god cannot
no government
nor act of fate either

I fear nothing

but then I wander back home
frostbit and travel-weary
thawing my whole being as I rush inside
and as I melt
so does my ambition
and I remember who I really am and
sigh

the ocean felt much remorse
for the ships she’d drowned
trying to help them cross her
waters as gently as she could.

I
suppose
I
should
think
about
death

but
really,
it
barely
phases
me

I
have
it
or
I
don’t
and
when
it
comes
at
least
you’ll
have
this
foot-
print

to be proud of myself
is to silence my pride

it would color him
and darken
him,
it would make him
cry
and make him
think

it would be devastating
and it would be
soul-crushing

it would destroy
and it would
create

it would ****,
only one,
but it would
****** more
in the times to
come

it is terrible,
and horrendous,
and monstrous,
and black,
and it happens

and it colors him,
and darkens him,
still.

long lost or
long forgotten
we all feel as if left
by those who we
thought really
cared

come and go
is the natural
way of the uni-
verse but we’re
caught on the
barrier between
natural and
unnatural and
we hate it  here

more complex than animals
yet still animals

we feel all the ancient urges
welling up inside us as our
minds scream NO NO NO
at the things we want but
refuse to do

***
***
***

food
food
food

**** or be killed
**** or be killed
**** or be killed

in your mind
in your head
in your heart

it’s always been there
but we treat it like an
invading army

we are all animals
in a world filled
with all sorts of
other life

are we better?
worse?
the same?
different?

think
think
think

it’s all we’ve got
and it tortures us
so much

are we all alone?
each of us an island
destined to drift for
a time before sinking
into the abyss?

friends
family
and
lovers
are
all illusions
cooked up by
evolution to
keep us from
killing ourselves
at the thought
of what our
life really is

we are all alone
but the way we
survive is to stick
together even if
it goes against
everything the
universe tells us

and we are caught
between the natural
and the unnatural as
our ship rocks against
the whim of the uni-
verse and our species
continues to evolve

when the sun rose this morning
I was sound asleep.

warm in my bed,
I was worry-free
and dream-free.

I was happy.

but I woke up
and there was rain
and no sun
and the sky was
grey.

it’s the first day of the year,
so what does this say about
every other one to come?

eh,
it doesn’t say anything

the plants are happy
so why shouldn’t I be?

so I take that in mind
and march into the new
year

drive a knife into my hand
and I couldn’t tell you
if the blade
was sharp or dull,

if the pain hurt
or just sat there
existing,

if you should stop
or just go ahead
and try
again.

look into my eyes
and I couldn’t tell you
if I was looking back.

my mind is drowning
(nearly blacked-out now)
and everything’s deafened
(both the good and the
bad).

I can’t see and
I can’t hear and
for all I know that hand
you just stabbed could be mine
or yours or someone else’s
entirely.

please,
wake me up.
the knife didn’t work.

music notes
on a musician’s
libel

hunter’s bow
on a hunter’s
clothes

***** shoes
on a *****
man

a chair’s legs
on a god’s
body

a pope’s declaration
on a blasphemer’s
cry

an english ship
on a world’s
sea

a child’s book
on a child’s
desk

a belonging to,
and reflection of,
thyself

I sit here,
flicking a lighter

on off
on off
on off
on off

and I like the way,
if you time it just right
you can see the tiniest
bubble of butane escape
the spark
and run screaming
into the
atmosphere

it gasps for air
freed from its plastic
prison

one tiny moment
of vigorous
effort

and then

nothing

the life of that gas
is as fleeting as my
attention

my mind so full with
terror and worry and
anxiety that it’s gone
blank

so I sit here,
flicking a lighter

on off
on off
on off
on off

waiting for a spark,
a light,
a breath of fresh
air

it’s amazing the sheer number
of supernatural powers people
have attached to things over the
course of history

charms, temples,
talismans, totems

all forms of the same
misguided ignorance and
fear

it is funny to me that
I feel something when
given one myself

water

that’s all

water from the south of france
dug out of the moat of some a
church that’s older than legend
that surrounds it

supposedly, this vile of *****
fluid can heal, better than any
doctor or medicine

now I, and the person who gave
it to me, both doubt it’s powers

that doesn’t shake
it’s meaning

it was a token,
a gift,
from one sickened
soul to another

that’s touching

that
is
real

so perhaps that’s why
humanity has been giving
gifts like this since the
dawn of time

it’s not a magic, unnamable,
but the simpler wizardry of
friendship

as I walked up to the stage
reciting the poem again in my head
I realized how unprepared I was
and was afraid

how great was I?

as the words flowed from mouth
and the meaning flowed through
my body I did not feel confidence
nor did I dream of success

how great was I?

as the steps besides the stage
flowed behind me like a steam
I could hear the judge’s pencil flair
and the tapings did not sound good

how great was I?

as I left that place in a hurry
said good bye and good luck to all
I did not think of winning or losing
only that I must move on

how great was I?

as I hurried to the next thing
practice for a play
I sang and danced without thinking
of the poem I had just read

how great was I?

as the phone rang in my pocket
and I checked to see what it said
I saw my friends had sent me
news that I had not won

how great was I?

as I carried on with my practice
I did not clench my jaw
I knew what was is what it was
and knew I could only move on

how great was I?

but,

as the doors outside opened
and there stood two friends
who’d sent me that word
they screamed to me
“you won! you won!”
and I could say was
“what?”

how great was I?

as they insisted to me my victory
and told me of how I had been tricked
I could only repeat, mouth gaping,
“what do you mean I won?”

how great was I?

as they “yes, yes, yes,
it’s you! it’s you!
you won, you fool!
you’re act was great!”
I stared at them
lost of my voice

how great was I?

as I slowly sat down
taking the story all in
I wondered in my mind
not what I what next
but instead I was paused
and could only ponder

how great am I?

anything but love,
he begged,
I love her too
much.

writing poetry
is a lot
like playing the
piano.

it takes skill and
practice,
but the best of us
seem to be
gifted with it.

as if god decided
we were going to be
another Beethoven
or
another Bukowski

too many people never
realize this,
and continue to play the
piano or write their
poems
and always thinking
yes
yes this next piece
is going to be
the one
the one that makes me
famous

they write and play
and cast their eyes downward
each time they get
rejected by the producers
or by the publishers

always saying to
themselves
ok
it’s ok
they just don’t know
what they hell
they’re talking about
I’m great
I’m still great
I just need my break-
through
I just need my first
masterpiece

these amateurs are not
to be disregarded
or
looked down upon
though

for without them
we would never find
the Beethovens
and
the Bukowskis

it takes a million fools
making their
cacophonies to the
wind
for the miracle to happen
and the master
emerge

slow down
bring the music to a quiet
keep your heart rate at a calm
this world moves fast enough already
without your screaming speeding it up

in a panic
never make a decision
the key is to stop it
even if just second
then you can rationalize,
think, organize, plan,
then you can make a decision
and move on

the world will always move fast than you do
and we humans aren’t designed to live
at the speed of the world
but we, more than any
other creature,
can slow it all
down
and be
calm

blinds start at
2 and
1

at an hour
they’ll double
and then we’ll
be at
4 and
2

and then every
half-hour after
that

they double again
and the night goes
on

high card deals
(I deal)

2 each
to the 7
at the
table

I have nothing
so I fold

and my uncle
to my left
takes the ***
and the deal

they would win
and lose
those 7 at the
table

and I would sit there
taking cards
and losing cards

and the night went on
like that
and I would not
win with a
smile

looking out,
grey branches grasp
at grey skies
and death sings
pleasantly amongst the
underbrush

looking up,
a breeze distracts
and pulls me towards a
newly cleared sky

looking back,
a green explosion
spread instantly across
the landscape,
the world now a painted
mess mere words are
hardly fit to
describe

the world isn’t ending any more
humanity doesn’t rest on my shoulders
death is both frightening  and
no longer a threat
eating is tasteless and bland
anger no longer satisfies
a deep tiredness looms over me
and watches me
and says:
you are no longer
the inferno
you once
were

I am letting go of tension
and giving up on fate
I am killing myself and trying
all over again

the act was committed
and done in an instant

my eyes go hazy
my gaze looks nowhere
and yet sees everything
my world sharp as glass
but my feelings so dull
I forget they are their

I am logs still hissing
from cold water

silently my embers die
blindly I sink into the earth
my last moments were
trivial and like any
other
it was a good run,,
I think,
but I am now due
for a long rest
before
the biggest
one of
all

der
nachte Himmel
akzeptiert
mich

ich
akzeptiere
mich

für einmal

in face of the unfaceable
the wise man would turn
away

take what he can, in what
he can, and leave the fight
for another day

the wise man isn’t losing,
nor giving up, or giving in

the wise man is winning
for with his life he escapes

the naïve boy would ask

wise man what should I
do?

this man/this girl/this job/
this poem/this something
or another is causing me
trouble

the wise man would answer

can you fix it yourself, or
through the power of others?

the naïve would shake his head
no

but what can I do? he would punctuate

the wise man would smile,
putting hand on shoulder
in chide

and whisper in the naïve boy’s ear
why I’d leave it,
what good is a
fight?

the green world is all around me

the trees
the bushes
the ferns
the herbs

the grasses
and
flowers
and
fruit vein
too

this planet may be blue
but everywhere else it’s
purely green

a sphere
is infinity
contained in
a single space

round and round
you can go but
never will there
be an end to the
trees, and the bushes,
and the fruit veins
too

this imperfect world is
perfect for me and as
the shadows on the mountain trees
coming from the clouds up high
shift and change like life itself

I will smile
at my perfect world
and the shadows on
the mountain trees will
mimic me imperfectly

he reached out
with his cold hands
not to injur others
but to try and find
some warmth
for himself

can’t stop moving,
jittering,
twitching

no need
no need
no need

but I can’t
stop

moving,
jittering,
twitching.

we’re moving too slow!
I scream

come on
come on
come on

let’s go
let’s
go!

moving,
jittering,
twitching

hands,
feet
body

stop
stop
s­top

moving,
jittering,
twitching.

put a little faith in life
put a little faith in all
the forces that be

obviously
something cares about us
something thinks we deserve
to keep toddling forward

so if you think you've done
something to make these
forces turn against us:

I think you should reconsider
just how long the ****-up we
call human history really is

is there any
other business?
the drab
judge said
to his
fellow lawful
relics

the room was
silent

good,
we are dismissed
he said

I’m sorry,
a voice said,
but I can’t let us
go without saying
something

the judge let loose
a deep breath from his
nostrils

what is it,
brother?
have you a
concern?

a man,
the voice said,
one that is set to
hang
he is
not
guilty

and how is it
that you know this
brother?

his crime,
the commitment of
emotion,
is not a
crime

how so brother?
have we not seen
what happens when we
feel?

yes I know of the wars,
of the hatred,
of the destruction,
but I say
it is not a
crime!

but it is-
a crime

the room was silent then
the judge and the man
who the voice belonged to
stared at each other

it broke with the voice
not the judge

where would we be without
feeling?

where would we be with
it?

silence
again

we would be animals
without our emotions

are you saying we
aren’t
animals?

yes,
I am saying
we are better than
that

we are man!
we are human!
we have minds!
we have morals!
we are above the rest!
we are the best, the
greatest!

we can be responsible!
we can be trusted!
we can be allowed to feel!
we can love!

the air had long left the room
no one knew what to think
there was hatred and anger
but also denial and questioning
who was right? who was wrong?
what does this challenge mean?

it was the judge,
not the voice,
that spoke this time
first

arrest this man

he is guilty of our
most heinous
crime

and the voice was dragged off
his body desecrated and burned
by men in black masks and sick
smiles

the voice did not die
the man he was fighting for
did not either

the man ran,
to the hills he ran,
on the mountains he
screamed:

I love her
I love her
I love her

he was never caught
he ran about the country
and was heard by ears
and seen by eyes
and his image and his form
would not leave the minds
of the people

yet the corpse of that voice,
living now in a dying man,
still lies in some forgotten
warehouse, decaying and
rotting with worms

that corpse is what happens
to those that think freely
even in this age, of free speech
and free justice we are one
step from a court of logic
that forgets what it means to
love and truly thinks it is a
crime

this all plays within my mind,
the judge myself
the voice myself
the man myself
the message myself
the court myself
the meaning myself
and most of all

the torture
myself

lost
the summer day

heat waves
and bird
chirping music
this is quite a beautiful
afternoon

trees are green
the sky is blue
I am blank,
lost as the summer
day

why not
enjoy
an ice-cream sandwich
on a beautiful
afternoon
in a city
by a
bay?

all she
could muster
was

my name

between

the moans,
gasps,
and

screams.

there’s a rift between who I am
and who I thought I would be,
two identities existing within
the same space, a long shadow
and the object that casts it.
this, of course, has repercussions:
a screeching sound that comes
from reconciling two forces, both
trying to be alone. listen closely
and you may hear it coming from
between the seams that pull apart
slowly, despite their best efforts
to contain my dissonance.

my eyes are wild
my heart is strong
my eyes are sharp
my mind is sharper

I’ve burst from the black pit
and jumped back into the world
my guns a blazing and my arms
once again pumping with adrenaline

my eyes are wild
and I’m happy to
be alive when just
moments ago I might
as well have been
dead

the rain falls but
my spirits rise

this is what I was meant to do

I was meant to burst,
not just rise from,
the black pit that
had consumed my
life (once again)

so I burst!
and burst I did!
and now I tell you I have burst
so that it doesn’t slip away
too fast

I’ve waited so many years
for nothing
and
everything

all anyone can ever say is
“it’ll get better later”
or
“it’s for your future”
or
“tough luck, kid”

well **** that

you don’t have to wait to enjoy life
why wait till your old
when everything is dull
and you can’t do half
of what you once could

the only virtue we teach the children is waiting
and it has confused them and made them think
there’s nothing else to life

some cope by saying “**** the system”
and run down the dead-end to self-destruction

others never deal with it
going their whole lives
unhappy and unfulfilled
and thinking the whole
time that that’s the only
way things could be

but I say to you
that is not the way!

do not consume yourself
because you’ve never been allowed to

do not hold yourself back
because you’ve never thought you couldn’t

the whole world is out there somewhere
and that whole, wide, wonderful,
wild world is calling to you and
saying

“come!
come and get me!
I have everything you’ve ever wanted!
and if you’re smart,
you can have it all!
no strings
attached!”

like a puzzle,
thrown
to the floor, there
are pieces
that flutter and
shatter away
attempting to free their
bonds and free them-
selves

like a vase,
thrown to the
floor,
there is no piece
left unbroken

like a book
off the shelf,
like an egg
to the ground,
like a brain
against the wall

there is only the
remains

in three, two, one
we brace for impact

there is no survival when victory
is measured in collateral damage

this day has gone so slowly fast

as in
each minute ticks by as if an hour
but at the end of each hour
I can scarcely remember a minute of it

but how was it?
this slow,
yet fast
day?

fantastic?
no,
but it has been happy.

friends,
memories,
entertainment.

I kept busy,
yes,
and that keeps the mind
busy from thinking about
the bad things.

the sad things,
the memories,
the frustrations.

god,
it’s late now,
the day is so slow,
slow enough that they’re
catching up with me.

so I speed up,
speed up in any way I can
till my body is like electricity
trying to dance away the dark
with only the tiny shocks to make
light

it’s hitting me,
exhaustion,
and my bed
calls to me in soft
whispers

with the skies
so grey
the trees still
bare
I wonder when
spring plans
to start

these are questions for dreams
and visions for nightmares
so what point is there to sleep?

too weary to answer
I close my eyes instead
and hope the monsters
decide I deserve rest
for once

it is undeniable realization
that the majority,
if not all but a small
percent,
of people are absolutely,
totally,
completely,
terrifyingly,
petrifyingly,
murderously,
suicidaly,
alone

this is the sad fate
of every human being
ever to be born upon
this earth

my father said it best,
almost exactly as I said it above
to be exact,
but it took hours of
talking, years of
living, centuries
of inherited wisdom
to finally understand
the oppressive truth
of what he
realized

there is no happiness in money,
no satisfaction in power or position,
*** lacks emotion and emotion lacks
reason and reason lacks the passion
that we need to get up in the
morning

we are born
we live
and
we die

alone

never forgot this

never make the mistake
of thinking that even one
micro-ounce of genuine
empathy is not worth
more than a thousand
golden kingdoms

the ability to truly
connect with someone
is the most valuable
resource in the
universe

we build societies on pillars
of loneliness, and justify it
with science and god

all we need to know
is that we can achieve
all we need in a single
conversation

it is unknowably guilt-inducing
to realize that most people can’t
have conversation at one in the
morning with their fathers

most don’t have fathers,
others don’t know they do,
and the rest lack the will
to break down the barriers
of age and pretentiousness

this undeniable aloneness is the
shadow of my ethereal nightmares

not for its effects on me,
but for its tyrannical
grip on the every day
people I cannot hope to
help

I doubt being
a poet
all your life,
doing nothing other
than writing
and reading
and editing,
can make for very
good poetry

what does a poet know
about real life?

he sits in his room,
he types,
he listens to music,
drinks fine liquor,
gets angry at things,
or loves things instead,
but if all he does is

write

how does he know
what you do?

I don’t seek to be a
“professional poet”

in fact,
I’m afraid
of it

afraid,
that I could never be
“a poet”
if I were to become a
“professional”
one

I want to work,
and learn,
and see the
world,
and then write
about it

because that’s the world
you
(the reader)
know
and
the world
you
read my poetry
to find answers
for

so I stay away
from the world of
poetry

I scorn it
and
love it
at the same
time

and again,
I am both the center
and the outsider
of one of the few
things I love
in this world

we’re going to be in the streets
marching, singing, dancing,
we’re going to be the new generation

beating against the cars and ATMs
running amongst the faceless people
we’re going to be in the streets

like a blazing fire
like an incoming flood
we’re going to be the new generation

they will be afraid of us as we stampede
they will call us names as we ***** about
we’re going to be in the streets

when we topple them they will curse us
when we replace them they will blame us
we’re going to be the new generation

yet the world will move on as normal
and the new order will come astride
we’re going to be in the streets
we’re going to be the new generation

now I feel the guilt
of my 20,000 faces

fighting in everybody’s corner
I never really take a side
but work for and against each one
just as much
or
more

every time I’m asked for sympathy
I can only come back with a hollow
“yeah… sure.”

do they notice?
do they know?
do they hate me,
secretly,
as whispers
traveling through all ears
but mine?

so few,
(if any)
know this deep,
dark,
terrible,
horrible,
character-destroying,
world-shatt­ering,
locked up,
and bursting
fact of my
life

yet here I go
sharing it with
the world

I straighten up now

I will not hide this poem,
not like some,
I am not ashamed

there is truth in confession.

but to all,
not to
some.

it has been a
long, long day
on this man’s
conscious

whether it be the guilt
of procrastination
or the pain
of seeing others
do what I really
want

all those visions
and noises
of a reality, I can
only dream
of

are painful
in a way only
dead men may
know

I am
haunted
by this
day.

(every day
it now seems)

I am haunted
and I am afraid
of asking:

is this it?
is this the rest of my life?

the key to
understanding people
is realizing that
you can only
understand
a person

the sounds of my frustration
are practically palpable

I can feel the hate
I have for myself

my breathes short
my hands twitching

I seep anger
and weep shame

there is nowhere to turn
except inside

the same place I’m running from
the same thing that’s hunting me even now

I can’t write any more
I have become an external

I’m worried
I’m… scared

there I said it
I am scared

I am terrified
I am justified

I am fleeing from myself
and I know there’s no use

somebody,
please forgive me

I don’t deserve this
whatever I did,
it’s not equal to self-destruction
of the black hole
I created in
myself

to the unwilling or willingly inable,
the course of the stream that we float on
like autumn leaves seems beyond control
because we have never felt what it is like
to control where we go, let alone know
that we can become unmovable objects.

nobody knows me like you know me
that’s a lie
nobody can know me like you know me
that’s a lie
nobody can ever be what you are to me
that’s a lie
nobody is out there for me
that’s a lie
nobody can  be you
true but,
that’s a lie

so for first time in a week

I woke,
went to the bathroom,
drank some water,
put on some clothes,
and walked out of the
room like a normal
person

to say this is a miracle
is doing an injustice to
the truly ill

but to say it is something
I am amazed at, well, that
is only the truth

it is funny
to know just what
all those dying
people in the
books and
on tv are talking
about when
they say:

“I can never imagine
being normal again”

the room seems different
somehow, but you know
it’s all the same

the world seems different
too, but I suppose it’s just
that you can be a part of it

I awoke today and forgot
what had happened to me
a week ago

and to say that one of the
most amazing moments of
my life was simply:

waking, peeing,
drinking, putting
on clothes, and
walking out the
same door I have
for seven years

well, that would just
be the truth

she was afraid

so afraid

because everything is
about fear

hate is about fear
love is about fear
jealousy is about fear
fear is about fear

in the days of animals
we were the most fearful
and thus the most
successful

it is one of the many
ironies the universe sticks
in for ***** and giggles

she was afraid because
she saw me slipping

she saw the image
she had a-fixed to me
coming apart at the
seems

so she was afraid,
she was terrified,
that she was losing
me

and she was right

let me look at my hand
and see what I see: on it,
a blistered mass, healed
somewhat, but not fully,
and I can remember
the knife sliding in, so
easily, so effortlessly,
like it was meant to.

it hurts, the wound I bear,
and this is not the only one.

most of them are hardly
visible, hiding in my body,
in my mouth, in my heart,
and most of them are old,
no longer holding pain, only
disfiguration.

let me touch this wound,
feel it move with fresh
blood and toughen under
my pressure.

like all of them: it will heal.
time will give this flesh new
life and its stiffness will fade
eventually.

this hand has not grasped
its last knife, and not felt
its last cut.

let me look at my hand
and see only a scar, not
a burden.