Given a moonless sky
there was once a time
we could hold words in the mind
far as the line of horizon.

The problem with pragmatism
(aside from self-loathing)
is that no one sings of it.

Of spring: it is not that the flowers crouch on
with an aperture already dialled to metabolize
a portion of the sun, and die,--
it is not that all of this unfolds as scripture.

We live in a web of connections.
For Hume, the sun might not rise.
The flowers will come.

Omnipotent, audacious in power. A craving I hold, though intangible to my fingers. Able to bellow with ions of energetic magnificence and allow power and eternity to pass through. So strong. I am not.

Immortal, suffering throughout, inner galactic warfare wages on beneath my crackling skin and steams out my pores. Cursed to bleed eternally, withering into a shape made of dust that would but blow away if not that it were nailed to the ground.  Undying, undamaged, eternally ****** to live. I am.

Omniscient, vastly knowing, swimming in the sea of a mind, aware of such actions that could overthrow a universe, but would falter in awareness that it need not act pointlessly. So full of self control. I am not.

Alone, wanting, hoping, reaching out to a father and a creator of whom I wish I could love. Clawing with infected stubs at a ghost. I pass through untouched by the divine and am left hallow. My emptiness providing my only company. Cast out amongst the endless decay of happiness, dark pain fills my hovel. I am.

Omnipresent, existing amongst all things. Spatially filling the gaps of the universe, existing thoroughly and throughout. Seeing and hearing and understanding. Procreating happiness in the minds of the hopeful. Bringing purity into the world with eternal hands, and spreading it throughout the cosmos. So present. I am not.

Banished, outcast to lead a sorrowful existence. Cursed by meaningless actions that could not prevail and see the light of anything. Walking an untraveled path that I alone must aimlessly stumble across. Blistering feet bleed and crack beneath a decimated body.  Everlastingly succumbed to Hell. I am.



A God. A powerful being that could not but shine His holiness on the universe. An entity that could make the multiverse bow before his divinity. Who could spread his arms and cast a deafening roar of purity. His spirit, floating through the minds of his children.  A deity, blessed with the power of creation and given the job of fulfilling such desires. I am not.

I am an outcast. An unwanted empathizer of evil. Master of the demons that crawl beneath your withering and faltering mind, finding sustenance in the sin of a world full of hatred and wrong. Bringing whole worlds to their knees and casting away any angel who dare spread his wings before me. Willing to rip off the feathers and burn them so that I may cook the pain and swallow it. Allowing the pain to seed itself into my system and metabolize into something I call a soul. I am no god.  

I am not God.

I am the Devil.

Call it a catch-22, cause I've caught catharsis, and my conch shell has run out of clues
I've been eating away the cost of everything I pick and choose
Why is the coast so blurry, every time I'm taking my midday cruise
Trying to metabolize my surroundings, but all the people around me are just empty calories, even the closest few

They're all cheap, cheeky, circuited *****
That's why I've trained myself to be calloused, bruised, collected, and blunt
But you cannot make yourself all that you want to become
You can only intend, to spend, your chronic currency to coherence
I burn my pockets so I don't have to carry your candle
I'd rather be illuminescently bent, then hiding my head beneath a tent
With your boyscout projects, and afro-engineered beligerence
But I will be your calm cashier, I will take your money if you need to conquer your fears
And I do concur, slur your slew of words, I know you're just holding back the real tears
Beneath that cartoon cardigan and cyan crew
You're the carpenter, you didn't have to just paint every part of your body in denial and blue

I know you are the way you are, you don't choose
Somewhere deep in my cynical carcass I know you don't have to choose
Sometimes it's not what you choose
But sometimes it's who

Look deep in the culture of narcissism
You cocky carpenter, you have more purpose then simple cytogeny
Cut into your carcass and pull out something new

For all the things I've done
She was probably the one I hurt most
With words like daggers
And still I stagger from what I did

I'll internalize this shame
Metabolize in vain
You see my brain won't let me see another day
Without remembering
And all I do is pray you're happy

even though, blood become
               word. and the body
          continues to have to
     metabolize when slumbering,
till a future becomes
        some moved on
                                  parallel universe.
          (mahogany-stained oak grip;
                          she’s the better
               adventure, so don’t slip)
         and the Long Dark sweatings,
                     unusual;
             brambled-feet still stink.
     (it would snow
          in a raging roar)
        wonder, can the crazy
                      be smelled?;
        wonder, does the risen body
                      require metab.?;
        wonder, did he catch a ghost
                      between his teeth?
and now [SELF-DENTISTRY 101]
                     hold on –
         watch this guy
             pull his own tooth.
   (i’m too white
     to keep this a-flow)
but Paul spoke the red, (amanuensis,
    main-saint diggin’ the schizos)
and,            but wait,
       “Jesus spoke in red,” a lone
         cowboy sang.
and colorblind, remember
        and,
                  hold up,
     guy is still working
                that tooth –
     some paper towels,
     pair of pliers,
     someone to hold the light.
             “So I don’t get blood
                 all over my buddy’s bed,”
               [brake]
      “That was a long nerve.
           You hear it pop?”
               [brake]
           “If I was straight white-boy,
                   this’d be easy,”
               [brake]
   but what can follow.

hidden in the hatchback of goatbreath is the smell of accepted failure. it hums in nostrils. netsick nostrum, holes are burning in my chakra. i seal the deal with seven cigarettes. my stomach bleats at the wealth of judgement, chaotic topology, four hundred calories under four dollars and the ghost that steals it. we metabolize knowing-better until achy. it cinches under my vice reel. vent ounces off the odd keel. cheesey sequence of solitude. sepulcher of the scape goat. wiles of worry, dancing off the coast, calibrated. we carved a mouth on the grave to kissit. some lives. we stained the hull with ****** caramel. sub lies. pick up my sanity from the pharmacy. the world fell short of your specialty.