for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?

Welcome to the club where there's no clapping
And shouting's just beneath you
     when you've raised yourself so high
And not a soul here is into moving--
Just standing with crossed arms
Because it's all "alright (you) guess."

Now be careful with your mouth corners,
     A smile could crack your face
You're not a joke unless you make one,
and we "don't get it anyway."
Your pedestal is comfortable
And comfort's where it's at--it isn't boring...
It's your birthright--
     You do things the rightest way.

Always so amused, but never laughing
You're not having any fun
     'cuz it's business anyway
Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons
Don't make you Chief-of-Scene--
Just chief on its list of flaws

Now, be careful with your egos, boys
They're fragile. Say you hate--
     all that ******* rockstar *******...
I'm getting all your "jokes," today
Your pedestal is lofty and
You built it all yourselves--"That's D.I.Y., kid."
You're all you've hated...
     You do things the "rightest" way.

x.

understand that nothing is real.

**.

search for art in all that you see (for art is present in all things).

***.

art is everything, nothing is real. we are left to conclude that art is nothing, nothing is art, or perhaps everything is nothing-which makes art more real than nothing, because it is in fact something.

xxxx.

when we smoked cigarettes in the alley way during winter, our backs against the cold brick wall; well, darling, that was art.

xxxxx.

you made poems and paintings and songs and dances, but i’d never seen anything more real (or perhaps less real) than the way your eyes looked when they were in love. and that, well that was the truest art there could ever be.

xxxxxx.

understand that your love is everything, and everything is art, but nothing is real, or art is nothing. my words will never quite be right, but your eyes in love were the rightest thing that never existed -(or existed more than anything).

By our first strange and fatal interview,
By all desires which thereof did ensue,
By our long starving hopes, by that remorse
Which my words’ masculine persuasive force
Begot in thee, and by the memory
Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatened me,
I calmly beg: but by thy father’s wrath,
By all pains, which want and divorcement hath,
I conjure thee, and all the oaths which I
And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy,
Here I unswear, and overswear them thus,
Thou shalt not love by ways so dangerous.
Temper, O fair Love, love’s impetuous rage,
Be my true Mistress still, not my feigned Page;
I’ll go, and, by thy kind leave, leave behind
Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind
Thirst to come back; O if thou die before,
My soul from other lands to thee shall soar.
Thy (else Almighty) beauty cannot move
Rage from the Seas, nor thy love teach them love,
Nor tame wild Boreas’ harshness; thou hast read
How roughly he in pieces shivered
Fair Orithea, wbom he swore he loved.
Fall ill or good, ’tis madness to have proved
Dangers unurged; feed on this flattery,
That absent Lovers one in th’ other be.
Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change
Thy body’s habit, nor mind’s; be not strange
To thyself only; all will spy in thy face
A blushing womanly discovering grace;
Ricbly clothed Apes are called Apes, and as soon
Eclipsed as bright we call the Moon the Moon.
Men of France, changeable chameleons,
Spitals of diseases, shops of fashions,
Love’s fuellers, and the rightest company
Of Players, which upon the world’s stage be,
Will quickly know thee, and no less, alas!
Th’ indifferent Italian, as we pass
His warm land, well content to think thee Page,
Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,
As Lot’s fair guests were vexed. But none of these
Nor spongy hydroptic Dutch shall thee displease,
If thou stay here. O stay here, for, for thee
England is only a worthy gallery,
To walk in expectation, till from thence
Our greatest King call thee to his presence.
When I am gone, dream me some happiness,
Nor let thy looks our long-hid love confess,
Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor bless nor curse
Openly love’s force, nor in bed fright thy Nurse
With midnight’s startings, crying out—oh, oh
Nurse, O my love is slain, I saw him go
O’er the white Alps alone; I saw him, I,
Assailed, fight, taken, stabbed, bleed, fall, and die.
Augur me better chance, except dread Jove
Think it enough for me t’ have had thy love.

the gazer, he is called.
he calmly watches the world around him.
he analyzes threats and joys.
he sees clouds, sun, planets, and people.
but this one stops him.
this thing.
it stops him. and it stops his heart.
this one, different thing...

first a description:
he is nothing miraculous
funny, because i love him
that, in itself is not a miracle.
for love is easy. it's blind and cruel.
but this...this feeling
whatever it is....it is unworldly.
this one, different thing...

here's the poem, here's some lines,
i'll try to make sense, i'll try to rhyme.
here is a special few verses
for the special man who nurses
not mine, but our weary souls.
this one, different thing...

-begin-

his past is as dark as his hair,
heart as light as his eyes are fair.
he is smart, but no genius
he is strong, with no meanness

he has a name which gives him no favors,
his voice is a sound that never quavers.
his family, a gem
not of glass or stone,
but one of him,
one of home.

to be polished and cleaned,
shined til it gleamed
scratches run deep
as it's surface will weep

but family, none-the-less
a gem, but i digress.
this is for him, not them.

he is taller than i,
he sees but is blind
but when i come to mind,
i open his eyes.

in a flash i arose, i shot through his sky
i lit up his world with my light and my try
i'm a once-in-a-lifetime
i'm a half-witted rhyme
i'm a comet, you see
flying alone and flying free.

but this flight was different.
every pass 'round the sun, i grow weaker.
my tail shortens, my ice is spent.
my voice becomes meeker.

as i shot by above the earth's sky
i spied with my little eye,
a man.

i've seen many men.
i've seen planets.
i've seen rocks.
i've seen just about anything a comet can see.

but this man. he stopped. and he looked.
right at me. right through me. right through me.
i may have been wrong, i may have mistook,
but when i saw him, i saw me, i saw we.

i'm not the only comet he's seen
but i am the brightest.
the time he's spent on earth
with rocks so mean,
they make diamonds look weak
(like the ones on her hand)

but i am the brightest.
i'm the cleanest, i'm the rightest.
that's why we froze in time.

but for a moment,
a fleeting, shining, bursting moment in time.
he made me want to stay.
he made me want to lay
on earth.
with him.
forever.

but this is not the way of comets.
we come and we go
we shine and we glow
but we never stop.
we never halt.
we never drop.
we don't show fault.

but this man, he stopped me.
my orbit slowed
my heart showed
i stared and i lingered
i grasped for his fingers.

he dragged me down to the hell on earth
we danced and we sang and giggled with mirth.
this man and i, had this thing.
this one, special thing.

but, as the way of comets, i desired to leave
i wanted to fly, i wanted to believe
that i had a choice, i had a say
in my present and my future day.

not true, not true, not true at all
this man made me stumble, this man made me fall.
he held me down and stole my flight
i begged and i pleaded to only his delight.

i am no longer a comet, bright and flashing
i am a rock with an icy core
but a heart still dashing
evermore, evermore.

he took my sky, my light, and space
but i had my heart, just enough to save face.
i still love him to this day
i love him and i will stay.

he melted my outer layer while freezing my soul
but i am still me and i will recover in time
his wedding ring lies on the counter in a bowl
and i'm here waiting to make him mine.

september can't come a day too soon
he's cheated, he's lied his way to the moon.
but he's here now, today, this moment in time.
he's honest, he's changing, and soon he'll be mine.

i trust and i believe with every fiber of my being
that we were meant to be, just the time will be fleeting.
wrong time, wrong place
there's nothing we can do to change the ways of fate.

this is how it will be.
he will walk away and i will be free.
i can wander, i can fight, i can die.
he will live, he will work, he will lie.

some things change and others do not
i accept him as he is and love him with all i've got.
there is that one special person that you never forget
he is mine in this lifetime as she was his, which i regret.

i wish it was me. i wish he could see.
i wish i was there. i wish life was fair.
but years separate our bodies and we
will never be one even if we did so care.

wrong time, wrong place
we were never meant to be.
but i will love him and he will love me.
soon we'll separate just to save face.

time will pass and nature will weather our core
our minds will be lost and our souls set free
maybe then we can truly be. you and i, him and me.
evermore, evermore.

There lived a witch in olden times
Of the quizzical variety
A firm grasp of the arcane arts
Though sadly not sobriety
She hatched a certain theory
Causing general consternation
But she turned away from doubters
And towards her new salvation

Go deosil, never widdershins
Avoid a deadly plight
For turning left is sinister
And that just isn't right
Rotating anticlockwise
Is officially redundant
Keep turning right for victory
Examples are abundant

My cousin said she knew a man
His name is immaterial
He turned left one too many times
Whilst searching for the cereal
Reality was torn apart
And through the gap he fell
He landed in a tangled heap
Outside the gates of hell

Go deosil, never widdershins
As daytime follows night
For hard to port is oh so gauche
But starboard's always right
Moving counter to the clock
Will ever be unwise
So keep on going rightwards
And away from your demise

Wendy failed to plan her route
With careful dedication
To turn only the rightest way
And reach her destination
Her lack of forward thinking
Led to tragic complication
She came upon a roundabout
And died of dehydration

Go deosil, never widdershins
Stay right and on the level
For only flaccid penises
Hang limp towards the devil
And those who turn to face the dark
The gods will surely smite
So if you think of turning left
Instead, go three times right

I dream
of sweeter skies,
of spotless lies,
of silent cries.

I dream
of darker days and clearer nights,
of shallow insides and deeper outsides.

I dream
with the perfect imperfection,
the rightest of sins,
the beauty of everlasting dreams...

I live
with the wrong being right,
with the pain feeling nice,
with the sun shining in my heart
and under my skin
this Darkness owning everything with its pride...

Today I was reminded of America's greatness.

The greatness that is truly just an idea.

The greatness that is truly fickle.

Fickle enough to be crushed by a mouse's nibble.

That a caricature could become the leader of the free world.

Indeed, the world will see how free we will be.

I was reminded that we are mentally enslaved.

To a media onslaught that trains us how to behave.

We are conditioned, on our own conditions.

We relinquish critical thought for a pre-programmed intuition.

Welcome Mr. President, to your dining table.

On it you will notice a sumptuous oyster,

The world is within.

Treat it carefully.

Or don't.

The choice is yours, sir.

The consequence is ours.

Because we love propaganda

More than a proper agenda.

We fiend to be the rightest

Instead of being righteous.

And we're eager to give a piece of our minds,

Instead of gaining collective peace of mind.

Welcome American people, to the first day of a new legacy.

A new tragedy.

Ours was a set of wrong timings. It started with us. We met, unfortunately. I was happy and contented until I met you. We were something impossible still I hoped for the best. It was wrong. It felt so right.

And everytime I think of you I feel so happy yet so sad. Its so euphoric I could fly right out that rooftop and into the sky. I'll shout your name, let it be known that I'm exploding into my happy thoughts of you then dive into the pits of hell. All this pain's making me feel like burned out to pieces then burned all over again until I won't know how to feel anymore.

We had to end. We're a tragic story but I'll talk about us like a lover talk about his love, like a painter paint about his masterpiece, like a writer trying to write his best. I'll talk about how our roads were only meant to cross for a second then forever gone. It was a second worth remembering. A second of infinity. We've separate destinations. We're never meant to be. We tried. It wasn't enough.

I'll miss you. It's funny how I could feel so much for you like I've known you from when forever began. But I'm glad we met. I could replay us over and over and over and over again until my memory sinks into the deepest of the earth.

Ours was a set of wrong timings. But you were the rightest of all my wrongs.

What is love I asked a stranger?
What is faith in time of danger?
How do you know at end of the day
If  the one beside you will forever stay?

What is love I asked a friend?
What is faith when you‘ve reached the end?
How do you know if the feeling is true
If you should stay or say adieu?

What is love I asked my mother?
What is faith when you have no other?
How do you know when to make the turn?
How do you feel, how do you learn?

What is love I asked my father?
What is faith when life gets harder?
How do you make the rightest choice?
How do you speak without a voice?

What is love I asked my sister?
What is faith when your life is blistered?
How do you tell which one is right?
How do you sleep without a light?

What is love I asked my lover?
Do we have faith, could we recover?
Do we have hope for the time to come?
Are we believers or are we just numb?

Love is believing in the other one
Love is the light when there is no sun
Love is the potion that we all should drink
Love is the script in inerasable ink.

Don't settle for the wrong love
Learn to wait a little longer
That magical moment will come
You will find the rightest person
Who will see your worth and who
Wont leave you for anyone else
You'll be more than enough
For that person to stay.

Id compare you as summers day but you are not always inviting,
Heavier then the burden of a deadman,
Not the eyes of a blind man,
Or the smallest molecule,
Could you be sweeter than death to a suicidal teen,
Maybe if hell wasn't always a truth,
You are not the sweetest summers day or the most beautiful of people, But to me, you are nothing I could ever describe and get it right, cause' I'd always be wrong in the rightest of ways

Resistance is futile
so they told me.
They came, saw, and conquered all!
All those who did not flee.

So I did.

I was afraid
of them
of them
of them all.
I ran
and ran
away from their siren call.

I heard them
so I hid.

I ran far
but not enough
never enough.
"Join us, Join us, Join us"
They chanted and sang
the prancing of feet
and voices so loud
all the sounds my ear did they meet.

I was found.

And I regret nothing!

I lived a lonely life,
running around
running, running, always running.
And I suppose I hid in actual hopes that this power would find me.
Now I have kids and a wife!

Now they have.
And now I'm happier
than can be.

This power, this force that moves me so,
what is it, what is it that
I could be speaking of?

Love.

Aye, Love most wonderful,
delightful indeed.
Love most powerful unstoppable, unshakable.
Starts with a seed.

For resistance is futile,
don't you see?
Being in love, seeing that now,
I'm the happiest and richest I could ever be.

So don't run,
don't hide or fight,
trust me friend,
this was the rightest right,
I've ever felt.

Resistance is futile,
you will see,
soon you too will be happy.

[ in-kuhn-sis-tuhnt ]
Adjective
Contradictory, irregular

I call my self inconsistent
and despite the way that I fluctuate between
one thing has always been
the way that I can see
the world that spins madly around me
when all is said
and all is done
I will always be the one
that can see through the fog on the overcast day
or that can always guide the way
I may not be the best
I may not be the brightest
but when it comes to me
I'm the rightest

This isn't meant
To reach
Their eyes
Nor am I
It's a little
Late now to
Consider
Common courtesy
I might as
Well speak
I've nothing
To lose
But everything
I failed
At failing
That's the worst
Failure of all
And some
Nights I still
Dream that
I'm back
In that hell
But in my
Mind I stay
Behind and
I never
Let him go
But that's
Not the truth
I don't know
Where he is
Or who I am
Just that
This mind
Is empty
Of everything
In a way
Tormented
By the things
I swore
I watched
Fade
It's hard
To say that
I won't let them
Break me
When all that
I want is to
Break and
Break and
Break
Until I'm
Shattered down
To a piece
Of sand
Waiting for a
Wave to take
Me away
When I think
Of home
I think
Of pain
There's no
House without
Blades
There's no
Love without
Shame
I'm falling
Away
From all
My drawings
Sketching
Of ideas
I once thought
I had
I can barely
Step in
The rightest
Direction
When every
Which way
I am faced
With the same
Mistakes
I keep on
Making
Maybe it's
Fate that I'll
Leave like
They didn't
Maybe it's
Best that I
Bow out now
Maybe it's
Will that I
Throw caution
To the wind
And myself
With it
This life
Is a hell
That doesn't
Mean it
Has to be mine

HERE I BE!

South of the buzzing
of a hairy bumble bee

North of the big dog’s bark

West of the breeze
tickling  cherry blossom trees

East of the sunlight
stealing over the fields

that’s where

you will
find me.

*

My little girl's sense of where she was...as if it were written in the sky and the world was simply there to do her bidding. She used her own personal co-ordinates to bring in a thought to land.

"Where were you Tilly?" I asked innocently. "I was by the big cloud pretending to be a tiger beside the worm...look!" And with that she produced the worm she had been hiding behind her back. So she had gone to the bottom of the garden...hopefully not to eat 'em.

So I thought I also would get my bearings the three year old Tilly way! I was singing Ariel's "Where the bee ***** there **** I..." so I guess this got cross-pollinated with where and who I was. It takes a little girl to teach one how to live in the world in the rightest of ways.

HERE I BE!

South of the buzzing
of a hairy bumble bee

North of the big dog’s bark

West of the breeze
tickling  cherry blossom trees

East of the sunlight
stealing over the fields

that’s where

you will
find me.

*

I ESSERE QUI!

Sud del ronzio
di un peloso bombò

A nord del grande cane abbaia

A ovest della brezza
il solletico alberi di ciliegio in fiore

Est della luce del sole
rubare i campi

ecco dove

troverete me.

*

My little girl's sense of where she was...as if it were written in the sky and the world was simply there to do her bidding. She used her own personal co-ordinates to bring in a thought to land.

"Where were you Tilly?" I asked innocently. "I was by the big cloud pretending to be a tiger beside the worm...look!" And with that she produced the worm she had been hiding behind her back. So she had gone to the bottom of the garden...hopefully not to eat 'em.

So I thought I also would get my bearings the three year old Tilly way! I was singing Ariel's "Where the bee ***** there **** I..." so I guess this got cross-pollinated with where and who I was. It takes a little girl to teach one how to live in the world in the rightest of ways.