Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns)

Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
At the Blue Canoe Bar, I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Sarah went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, I know it, yes, you!)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
Enough,
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
By the pinks, the cornea, singed,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle comparison...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw. Ok.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
Hell,
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
Two less than two,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?**
.
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about if you look it, look me, look here,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to

Write a new poem.


August 3~5, 2013

We are the destroyers



We are what you fear



We come to give you hope

      and let you know

                  the end is near



The end of separation



The end of what you fear



We have come to show you love



We come because the end is near





                  

*Song of The Reaping:

"Me and my girl are gonna bring in the new age

Me and my girl are gonna break down the wall

Me and my girl are gonna dance through destruction

                                               and laugh as ashes fall"

I held hands with Pandora

as I opened up the box



We destroyed everything we loved

but it could have been worse..

                   I could have died alone

The rush of blood the face we placed
On every corner on every space
We raced to come to terms with life
With morality a facade for strife
Pointing to the pain as a promise for more
Pointing to old books that might restore
Dignity and respect for the living
While other possibilities are destroyed
And the destroyers are forgiven
Sweaty palms stomach ulcerated
And for the sake of the soon to be liberated
Let me explain how real morals are made
Not through musty scriptures
Not through verses that are immature
But through learning and coming to terms with
How everyone feels and experiences life different

They are the destroyers,
They have come through air,
Burning our streets and
spreading out despair,

With their stolen voices,
They have joined the laugh,
Burning through the corpses,
The righteous attack.

We are fallen warriors,
bodies rot in dirt,
We are eyes of ravens,
The blood of the earth,

With a rusty weapon,
We will spread the word,
The swords of our forefathers
are not of this world.

The cloud will spread,
The sky is dead,
Remains are bared,
The sky dies scared.

No mercy!
No freedom!
No mercy!

There's a revolution at our fingertips.
Their lies won't be televised
like they were there
seeking out the unjust seekers of light

The world's on fire
We purge the dream destroyers

and collect their blood
as souvenirs
on a slide

She had dead eyes



                   not inert



but     beyond     life



A hunger drove

her           stare



A    fire    burned

hotly underneath

I forgot to remember..
Remember what was real..
Real dreams make for moments unbound..
Unbound by all science we believe in..
In the morning at night..
Night was day.
Day of the destroyers..
Destroyers explained to me how it would all come down..
Down would become up..
Up would become sideways..
Sideways from me was it explaining it all..
All in all..
All together.
Together we all fall.
Fall from grace.
Grace my memory.
Memory of them and I.
I forgot my pen and could not write it down..

"We'll die together" says Pandora



"Our fates have been intertwined" I tell my Kalika



She screams and stomps the floor in

                                        ecstatic dance



Our love marks the beginning of the end

They came in the night.  
Slowly creeping in.  
On a Reconnaissance swell
so that nothing will be missed.  
Destroyers they were.
Invaders of the stars.
Here for the harvest.
And to **** us all.
We could not fight them
for they were to strong.
Our greatest minds created
The machines that would make them fall..
Our machines beat them back.
Our machines held the lines.
They destroyed the destroyers..
And saved all of mankind.

I do NOT write "poetry".
I do write words.
I cannot write "poetry".
I do write words.
I do not want to write "poetry".
I do write words.
Ive never "seen" myself as a "poet".
I spend my time avoiding the mediocracy of **** licking criticism
unlike every so-called "poet" I ever met.
I watch as "poets"wallow in the slough of narcissicism.
Ive never want to be called a "poet".
I do not want to be immersed in the depth of narcissicism
where "poets" spend their lives.
What an insult to be compared to a "poet".
any "poet" even Josef Stalin or Mao Tse Tung or the Dali Lama who all wrote 'poetry'..
"poets" make their homes in  the heights of false humility.
Edward Lear would be the height of unanimity
in his approval of my nonsensical behaviour.
I should throw all of my words out my window
for all the good they'll do.
I have no name or identity.
I have no name or identity.
Names only exist in official documents.
I know who I am.
I am the individual Isness.
Which is a small but equal,individual,independent,nameless,
formless,genderless and non physical Isness formed from the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in this human body.
Reborn lifetime after lifetime after lifetime until I let go, permanently,
of Mind and Conditioned Identity and become Isness realised
which is the true goal in life for all humans.
I have no mind or conditioned identity.
There are words that are a call sign to the ears in this body.
Words that are not uttered by the mind driven liars
on these threads,with their asinine cries
for their conditional love and the possessiveness it engenders.
This is but my latest in a string of bodies
since I left the Isness of the Universe at the very beginning of existence .
Bodies that have been the vehicle for me,the individual Isness,
to be incarnated in since existence began
before the dawn of time or space or .
Ive read my words out aloud in Edingburgh.
Ive read out aloud my words in Formentera and Ibiza and Tanger
and Paris and Amsterdam and Delhi and Calcutta and Bangkok and lots more cities of EVIL and repression.
Ive read out aloud my words in Better Books in London.
I stood next to Bart Huges with Lee Bridges,
one night in  1967 reading words from a blank page--
with Jimi playing round the corner.
I stood in the square of Saviours in the north and
shouted my non-violent words
at the crowd of violent supporters of the Oligarchy.
I am definitely NOT a "poet".
Oh no!.
Wouldn't want to be a "poet".
Oh no!.
I don't write "poetry".
Not ****** likely.
Oh no!.
I only write strings of meaningful associated words.
Or write strings of meaningful dissasociated words.
Or write just words--supply your own unjust meanings.
Wouldn't want to write "poetry".
Sooner write how I adore the flowing lines a curvaceous ****,
or a dragon fly hovering over a Marguerite--irridescant,
or licking a sweet smelling dripping ****--licky lips,
or a cloud floating by serene and bubbly,
or having a stiff **** in my mouth dribbling precum,
or a night sleeping on the banks of the Ganges
alone with humanity as my bed companion,
emptying the warm fresh contents of the attached *****
into my eager mouth,
or the soft grip of a baby monkeys fingers around mine,
or slipping a length of my hot flesh into the **** or **** of the beloved,
or the sublimity of a crunchy salad with balsamic dressing.
"poetry" is so boring compared with these verses and chapters
of experiential knowingness.
"poetry" is used as a beard by"religions" with their vain and bloodthirsty "gods" and "goddesses" and untrustworthy mendacious corrupt but pleasant priests.
"poetry" is used by Monarchs and other assorted Tyrants to proclaim
the " phoney kinship" they have with these vain and bloodthirsty
"gods"and "goddesses" as they enrich themselves with the gold teeth of their willing victims.
"poetry" is used by cruel dictators to proclaim their phoney kinship with the uneducated uncultured and unwashed  masses
as they lead them to the pits of mental slavery and destruction.
All these narcissistic scribblers proclaiming themselves
to be this or that or the other--when all they actually are
is a bag of nothing but cold air--that turns into just-ice..
Insecure and vain destroyers of ancient trees,
filling pages with their deranged and strangled but beautiful syntax. .
Inane tossers of epithets murdering prose with tongues
stored in the knife drawer and sharpened daily
on dead peoples bones...
fake humility abounds among "poets".
Arrogant professors of greeting card messages.
Throw your scribbles to the winds.
Let nature rot them in the garbage can of history or her story.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.

www.thefo­urnobletruthsrevised.co.uk

She looks at this stranger across from her.  Who is this man?  She searches for some sense of familiarity.  There is none.  She is struck by the grayness and aging she sees in his face. She closes her eyes and tries to remember the man she once knew.  The boy really.  She was 17 and he was 21.   He was her first true love and  her first lover.   She fell in love with him or maybe fell in love with love, or maybe just fell, through the door that lead out.  Out of the war zone that most people call home.  She is a survivor.  A survivor of abuse, with all the battle scars to prove it, and a survivor of marriage.   It’s rather ironic, she thinks of them both in the same way now.

She tries to remember  the moment their love stopped, or that she just stopped loving.  Like marking the milestones in life, there should be a marker there.  Maybe it began in the first few months they were married.  She was 7 months pregnant with their first child, and a bride of only 9 months.  So trusting, so naive, so full of wonderful hopes and dreams.   In her 7th month of pregnancy, her idealistic, childhood fantasy was destroyed.  She found the man she had walked down the isle with, sworn to love, honor and cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, with another woman.  Oh, “they were just friends,”  of course.  “I only lied to spare your feelings,”  of course.  “I just needed someone to talk to,”  of course.  Sad isn’t it, 9 months into a marriage and she didn’t understand him, he couldn’t talk to her.  She should have known then but she was young and she forgave him.  It seemed to hard to do anything else. To stand up for herself  meant to admit failure.  Like somehow she had failed to meet his needs.  So she tucked away the pain, burying it deeply, right next to the pain from her childhood.  

But she survives.  She knows the price you pay for survival.  You learn to live with the pain.  The physical pain and the mental pain, they are not so different.  They are destroyers.  Destroyers of  the person she wanted to be.  Stealing her hopes, her dreams, and finally her soul, one piece at a time.  

He never hit her, he could never have done that.  Besides, she swore no one would ever lay a hand on her again.  Her mother had beaten her enough for a lifetime.  For many years he never even raised his voice to her.  He just left her alone.  It was the loneliness that became her prison.  

Time moved on and they learned to coexist.  He avoided confrontation and she became a master of manipulation.  They would always mend the bridge but they could never repair the dream.  Months turned into years.  She tried to regain the newness, the trust, the feelings.  Constantly needing, no demanding, reassurance.  Only to watch her needs build a river between them to deep to cross alone. The bridge had been repaired to many times and was to shaky to stand on.  There was only one boat to reach her and he owned it.  Unfortunately, the only place he took his boat was fishing.  He never came to get her.  

The years passed.  She gives birth to another little girl.  This precious gift, life out of lifelessness.  She pours all that she has into her children, trying somehow to fill the void. She tries to reach him every now and then, tell him what she is feeling.  But he never understands.    Then one day she stops.  Like the death of her innocence, she finally concedes to the death of this existence.  Like a cancer victim, the disease has consumed her.  They are no longer husband and wife but two people who live together for  the sake of the children.  The only joy she knows is the joy of motherhood.  

They come together now and then to relieve their needs.  Even that is more mechanical and at her pleasure.  Sometimes during  that moment she let’s her guard down, desperately groping, praying somehow he will look at her and really see her for the first time.  The ache is pounding so loud she can’t believe he doesn’t hear it.  How can he not see the pain that is swallowing the woman she used to be and leaving this empty shell of a person behind.  From somewhere deep down, a tiny light of the person she used to be shines through. It is quickly extinguished by the darkness and his snoring as he falls asleep, oblivious to the emptiness she is feeling laying sobbing right beside him.

Morning comes and she waits for the words she has memorized so clearly.  He smiles, as always, “ thanks for last night.”   He says it no differently than he says “thanks for breakfast.”  Knowing that only his need was fulfilled.  Her aching to touch, to connect with this human being still remains ripping at the very center of her being. She puts on her practiced smile and accept his kiss on the cheek as payment for a job well done.  He walks the dogs, showers and heads out the door.  He says “I Love You” the same as he has a thousand times before.  He doesn’t notice that for months now she has not replied.  She cannot bring herself to listen to the empty hollowness of her own words.  

Then the predictable happens.  She met a man.  He was not a very handsome man or rich man or out of the ordinary man.  He was just a man.  But one day he reached out to her.  He paid attention to her.  He catered to her every need.  He was experienced.  He knew the fruit was ripe for picking.  He said he loved her, and wanted to marry her, and she believed him.  How naive she was.  She looks back now and cannot help but laugh.  A married woman, having an affair with a married man, who asks her to marry him.  She should have known better.   It did not take long to learn the truth.  She was not the only “other woman” in his life.  She had ended it long before her husband found out.  When he finally learned of her betrayal, he showed an ample amount of righteous anger.  His male ego had been damaged.  But he forgave her, as she knew he would.  She never felt guilty.  As a matter of fact, deep down she knew this would happen.  She felt justified. Like somehow she owed it to him to show him how it feels to be betrayed.  

And when the smoke had cleared, she took the easy way out, again.  She said she loved him.  She wanted to make it work.  She wanted him to love her.  It didn't sound like such an unreasonable request.

She would do anything in her power

to    exert    her   will    over   death



                  She screamed

                               and wailed

                                      and moaned

                              as she danced



She stared through me

with those     black

                                 burning eyes



and smiled

                  when I put my hand

                       on her hip



She smiles as she burns this world away

Our love marks the beginning of the end

Science the world destroyers
How better have our world become?
Building a new home by destroying the old
Take us back to the old
Your betterment remains destructions
Crude kills our land

Viruses you creat for breakdown
Nuclear weapons for clearance
We inheal death as air
Finding are of more ways to waste lives

Parents Ape, Children human. A  crash
Million heads crush
A single sink
Thousand souls sink

Anger has the sun,planet too hot for survival
Nature you **** for your made
When your dreams becomes so
We shall all live under the soil

Divinity you flops
'There is no God' you brush
***** and Gomorrah you freshen
Science!,stop destroying the world you love.

The glory of failure.

It’s just **** with sugar on

Jam and cream without the scone.

Because when I’m begging out in the street

And my eyes happen to meet those eyes that look down

To me on the ground, and you put a coin in my cup,

Just remember you’re looking down I’m the one looking up.



And for those who pass by while shedding a tear

Don’t worry yourself none I’ve made enough for my gear

And more than enough for a couple of beers.

I know what you’ll say

You’ll say, I waste life away

Like I’ve wasted this day.

But I’ll say, I made enough to pay for my addiction.

The seduction which leads me to say

That’s the glory of failure.



I saw an advert for a job and this job was paying quite a few bob.

But I wouldn’t have got it…no sugar just ****.

So I didn’t bother trying

I went back to lying on my bed

I went back to getting out of my head.

When all’s done and said I’m just a no hoper

A drug fiendish doper.

That’s the glory of failure.



If I could have a chance, a second chance, a last chance

To get my brain round to thinking

To think I’ll stop drinking.

I could get off the gear, I could get off my rear.

I could send my C.V to employers

Those employers who are known as the unemployment destroyers.

I could have a meaning instead of this leaning I have,

Towards self destruction.

I could get a job on a site become involved in construction.

So many things on the doorstep right here

But really

I much rather prefer getting ****** on the gear.

Oh yes that’s the glory of failure.



I should get myself well move out from this hell

But what the doctors have said is, in six months I’ll be dead

So I’m going to make tracks.

No,not those made by the needle

I’m going to wheedle

My way into a hospice which could be quite nice.

I think that’s the glory of failure



But what the hey I’m a guardian reader

But unlike other guardian readers those centre right bleeders

I’m totally anarchist, often totally tanked up and ******.

But in reading the guardian I just cannot lose

It makes such wonderful padding for the holes in the soles of my shoes.

And I’ve had plenty of dates with several girlfriends of mates

But when they’re looking down there and they see nothing stir.

That may be the glory of failure.



Perhaps when I’m old and I’m ready to die

I might cast my mind back and I might wonder why,

Every time I have failed the boat seems to have just sailed.

But I was never a sailor.

I was just a participant in

The Glory Of Failure.

Silence
Can be oh
So
Many
Things.

But
If I had to pick
One word
To describe it
That word
Would be:
Deadly.

Silence
Is full
Of screaming
Assassins

Silence
Is filled
With hurrying
Scurrying
Thoughts
Incessantly
Screaming

Destroyers of peaceful days
And once sleep filled nights
Killers of dreams
Breeders of nightmares

Silence is
Loud

Silence
Is full
Of Screams
And cries for help
All unheard
By outside ears

Silence
Is full
Off every mistake
Put on Repeat
The ultimate broken record

Every single
Could've
Should've
Would've

Come to think of it,
I've never
Heard anything
Louder
Than silence

the destroyers are out to destroy
they are the heat of the night
******-burned bodies trembling in the jungle
they are bullets nestled silently into the back of one's head
babies dangling from their mother's limp arms as
she builds herself a new body
made out of the countryside & the trees & dynamite
and she will bring the explosion at dawn
i could fit the memory of last night in a wine bottle
i fell asleep in the dumpster and you kissed me with your wine stained lips
in the morning i hoisted the sunrise into a wheelbarrow and headed west.

now i don't know who or what i am
all i need is a soapbox to stand on
or a cliff to climb
a little solitude
i need to be regurgitated as smoke
hanging over three lanes of asphalt
i need a valley with soft green carpet
and a pretty girl's adolescent thighs
i need my face shoved in her *****
i need the enormous bliss of a long afternoon
i need to find the intersection of
our intimate streets.

Availons twain twixt thus brighte biste
Hestorienne devoureed Christe
Holloe tou tu esn't et est.

Louvre, Le Louvre ist mi.
Bootes of sootes clamour shouerin'
Flouer in heand, beautie en Maie, Marche und Aprille.
Mama et moi no us or tu terrile.

Caspidate, inspedre, endre, spedistor, fouallona, mortalivus, vieliefe.

Good God, just confess already!!
I love... Ilove... Ilive, lie, liove, lovie,
She kissed me once on my cheek, deadly and deathandmorteanddeadandlifelessandvieless and now i love her, i want... ive never loved anyone, but now i know. I'll name him Theo, because of our God complex and i love you.

Nothing I do is good enough for you

I hate myself

Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue

All I am is deficit to you

My worthlessness

Another mouth to feed



We are each over-expectant

Hoping for the incredible

Imagining more than what we’re served

Denying reality

Each destroyers

Of our own dreams



The moral compass

Keeps teetering towards disaster

Not-so-distant past lingers

I want to go back to my own people

But my own people don’t exist anymore

Except in cartoon version



Everything is collapsing fast

Nothing is gradual

When did the present

Overstay its welcome?

I am desolate dictator

Of empty room



What do you do with your scabs?

Not the little flakey ones

I mean the big chunky crusty ones?

I throw them in pan and sauté them

With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper

Serve them to myself and ghost dog

Everything around me
Keeps me coming back to you.
I'm a lost puppy
Wandering in the woods
And I'm a hopeless case
When you're not around.
And I can't tell if this is admirable
Or sick but I'm only happy by your side.
The anxiety boils in my veins
And taints my mind
When you're so far away.
I fear for your safety daily
Because of past violences
And pill poppers
And self destroyers;
You're the only sane person I know in this world.
My guardian angel,
My one and only
Savior and protector.

I pretend to be a hardass by cutting my hair short
And smoking a cigarette a second
But it's only becaue Bruce Willis was safe
Climbing vents is Die Hard
So long as he had a gun in one hand
And an import smoke
Twisted in the knuckle of the other.
I am a lost transmission
And all of these words
Are just different combinations of twenty six letters
That could never encompass all you mean to me.

I am not a hardass,
I'm a pop princess
Longing for a God
But I am too intelligent to believe in one.

When did it become the norm for teens
To turn into Holden Caulfields
And when did I realize at first
That I see things other don't
And often suffer because of it?
It's like when I walked out of that theatre tonight
I was reminded what real life was
And promptly found myself again at the hand of anxiety.

I am not a monster
But this is a rant
Because I can't go a day
Without wondering why I'm still here.
With me
It is no depressive item,
I am only wanderlost.
How do people live past 25
When the world I live in is demented
And scary
And I am so, so
Small.

I breathe.
I am released.
But the air I fill my lungs with is heavy like lead
And I can only picture myself
Sinking to the bottom of the lake
Because my boots are too heavy
And I have decided to dive in headfirst.

I am a fool.
I am a disgusting imagined facet
And I am lost.
I am not thinking rationally tonight
And for that I thank only God Himself
Because I know He's ******* me up for a reason
But that reason might as well be for naught.

For I am no saint,
But a sinner.
Yes, I give little girls faith in themselves
By explaining to them that just because
They are ten years old
That does not mean they are not kick *** people
Because MegaMan was ten
When he was trying to ignore
****** puns from Cutman
And the same idiosyncrasies
And the same existentialist suicidal ideals
I try to ignore today.

I told my father today
That I wish I would have tried ditching school
Because then I would have felt as though I had
Even the smallest bit of control over my fate.
But I am so, so
Small.

I know the school
And everyone in it
Would not have noticed me go.

I know the world
And everyone in it
Would not notice me if I were to go.

the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******,
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
                   go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.

color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.

& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]

maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
                                                       above,
                                          between
               the lights and music.

reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.

and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science?   secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.

  nat geo channel:  [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
                                                                ­  on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]

money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.

quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and ***; and
microwaves  ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.

blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.

These hearts have become racist
What used to be kind
And all hope to be seen
is wasted
On the stampeding blind

These teeth have become stained
What used to be white
Has been darkened by the
viscera of
those consumed by the night

These hands have become destroyers
Fingers that once saved
Equal and human;
Clean or depraved

These hands have become destroyers
I feel you chewing the limb that
used to be there
Your skin is under my nails
You're burning my fingertips
And pulling my teeth

You strangle me deep
among the sea of leaves
Flashing advertisements
in my eyes, Listening to
my every word. You tell
me I'm sacrificing for the
greater good. But I feel
submissive. I feel hateful.

You say Eve is the reason
for the downfall of mankind.
She is nothing but of rib and
even bone cracks. Saying this
as you dislodge my jawbone.
I try to argue with you, but
my language is gone.

You say that a dog is harmless
if surrounded by fence. That the
owner of the dog should pay for
the fence. That the ***** could ****
or produce pups that would ****.
I am still without words and losing
copious amounts of blood.

I am poor and no-one will acknowledge
my death. I am someone people will
forget died and will have to be reminded
years from now, during a cook-out or
amateur bowling tournament. My legacy
is that of failure and being obliterated,
justifiably so.

These people look to money,
to colors on fabric idols,
to pages in a book written by
share-croppers afraid of flooding.

Remove me, so, to remember me
for what potential may have existed.
Kindly ignore that I never resisted,
and that I, the apex of forevers, was
always ungrateful. That I conformed
and became deeply hateful.

Sating stains unrecognizable
dripping filth of first love gone
Insignificant swelling of power
We are human
Hungering for control over strong hold fear
Tangible in it's release
We are human
It moans to be sought by destroyers
We are human
Hypnotized by dances of mesmerizing flesh
patterns mangle until there are no more borders
sweeping over luscious ruins
we depart from entrapment and lightly fall
Silver gleams off malleable thoughts
We are human

You
Literati
I want you to know
I’m writing to you drunk
With a sober mind that thinks in its own
One that is independent
One that is great and strong-willed
To know
You are not pursuing a life of greatness
Merely of pettiness
Of worthless endeavors that requisition an
Agenda of procreation
Of Darwinism
****,
I may be drunk or beneath the tyranny of the ALMIHGTY BEZOS
But I am consistent in my beliefs
And all destroyers of
Existence
And freedom are
Bound for
Destruction.
SO KEEP FIGHTING BECAUSE
i AM A BEING BORN OF REBELLION
AND SO ARE you.

BROTHER, HAVE YOU GOT A JOB?
SISTER, ARE YOU WORKING?
WE JUST WANT TO EARN A WAGE,
NO B.S. AND NO SHIRKING.
EVERY JOB WE SEEM TO FIND
DOESN’T PAY A LIVING;
ASKING FOLKS IF THEY WANT FRIES
IS THE ONLY JOB THEY’RE GIVING.

IF WE GOT A JOB RIGHT HERE
WE’D HELP TO BUILD DESTROYERS,
MAKING LOTS OF PROFITS FOR
GEN. DYNAMICS AND ITS LAWYERS.
WE DON’T WANT TO BUILD FOR WAR
WE WANT JOBS SUSTAINING
LIFE AND HEALTH AND LIBERTY
FOR EVERYONE REMAINING.

WHY CAN’T WE BUILD WINDMILL TOWERS?
TRAINS & TRACKS THEY RUN ON?
WHY DO ALL OUR TAXES GO TO
WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION?

Egos
large enough
to steel the spirit
of entire societies

their self servitude
offering no help
to the people

their cold hearts
have no place
for love of others

their only need
to feel superior
as they tear down
all that is about them
through the misuse of
the position they were given
in order to become

as a child
king of the hill

whose lie
gave them the idea
they were above all others

do they not see the destruction
they leave in the wake of their walk
through life

Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
When at the Blue Canoe (another poem),
I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Isaaca went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, know it, yes you)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
Enough,
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
With pinks singeing the cornea,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw.
Ok.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
Hell,
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
One less than two times three,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?
.
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly, so tempted
To stay, to not pass by but pass on,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about it if you look,
Look me up, look here, the story is in my poems, but always,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to
Write a new poem.


August 3~5, 2013
Written and posted here one year ago today. Strangely, it fits my mood exactly, again, today, 2014. Edited for clarity here and there...

*If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

I am just an ignorant girl always building hope out of sand
Under the feet of destroyers
They laugh at my ambition
And stomp down carelessly
Onto what I couldn't hold together with glue

So I laid there, defeated, roasted from diglottic sun
Red and burning, confused and peeling
Waiting for the tide to wash the remnants of my failed creation
And these shells of pearless useless oysters
Away.

Termites, those invisible, destroyers
eating away, eating away
bit by bit, I can hear
slow and steady
gnawing away
so determined to hurt me
destroy the bit I have, only
this time its not wood
its flesh and soul
they eat away
bent on finishing me
my whole being.

Have you seen these termites:
that eat the inner being?

What happened to the dandies
Those gentlemen of the grandest Culture
Destroyers of dreaded boundaries
Mockers of meaningless morality
Inquisitors of a profound lack of imagination
Guardians of good taste
Messengers of modernity

What happened to those 19th century hipsters
Who so gracefully dissected Society
And whose wit and wisdom
Shook the foundations
Of mainstream hypocrisy
Of inept intellectualism
And lamentable lies

We are in dire need of retrieving
The lost art of being a dandy
To shake the foundations once more
And to revoke the righteous rage
Of the cultural creed
To set society aflame
With wit and wisdom

x

Narcissistic -
Empathetic;
Automatic
Narcoleptic:

To the dreamers
Divine deceivers
A Sublime message,
The faith's receiver'
Understanding lonesome
Psychic sleepers;
The Destroyers'
Disguised Defeater.

Naturalistic,
Apathetic -
Neolithic?
Unrealistic.

x

Hail to Caesar now, Zeig Heil
Noble Eagle Standard flies,
Schutzstaffel in midnight legion
Disciplined long stabbing knives.
Heil to goose stepped march precision
Noble Eagle Standard soars,
Centurian’s in closed division
Screaming stukas strafe azores.
Fist to leather armour snapping
Stiff arms high in thronged salute,
Hail to Caesar sing the Legions
Zeig Heil Waffen SS brute.
Discipline of Shield defences
Stabbing lances follow swords
Clouds of arrows fill the heaven
Dachau’s ovens roast the hoards.
Winged Aquila flies the column
Wielded high as Roman’s would,
Black and white with red blood running
Swastikas where Jews once stood.
Europe caste in corpses rotting
Women screaming in the land,
Deutsch and Roman locked forever
Destroyers both, in history’s hand.*


Marshalg
In response to Anselm’s “Two Translations”
25 March 2013
On a cool and dry Autumn afternoon.

Joy Destroyers:

Holding grudges

Unresolved anger

Dislike of oneself

Sense of entitlement

Quickness to judge others

Failure to see the extraordinary and the miraculous