burdened with the weight of it all,
the camel stops and lies
in the middle of the desert

the man driving the herd--
the herd that's laden
with tired, overworked
camels, walks toward the downtrodden
offender with his arm outstretched
and in his palm, sat a pistol--

then, he hesitates--

as he stares into the eyes of
the camel--
deeply--
intrigued--
but beyond that,
he felt a sense of calm, which
soon turned sour--
everything turns sour

he gazed into the dark abyss
of the pistol
turned it toward his temple
and pulled the trigger

all the camels scattered--
except the one lying down

he placed his head in the sand,
then slept
in memory of
the
fallen
herder

are you really so ill
that you can not stomach
one word
I tell you

you just nod off
as if you want to sleep
and then
turn up the music
the music you play
isn't creative
and now when I look back at
this memory
maybe you aren't either

maybe it's what I have needed to
see all along
that
you were flawed
worse than I was
and I was only flawed
because of you

but then again
I still need you
I don't know if I
can look at you,
though

she asks me why everything I write
is depressing and not
happy--

I tell her I
only write what I know--

she left yesterday,
I dreamed we were
together

she dreams of other men--
men without souls
these soulless
masses of
skin and fat and bone

who will never know the sadness
I
now
feel

because they are hers and she belongs to them

I watch a fly bash it's head
against the television screen
I turn it off
the fly leaves

everything
leaves

all of us
from an early age
are murderers
we **** with our
bare hands--
no weapons
no remorse
no gloves
no arrest
no trial

just our hands
strangling out our victims
bringing about their untimely
demise--
and as we
slowly
but
surely
******,
we are being
strangled
all in the same
by the hands of those who
supposedly love
and care--

where there is nurture,
there is strangulation about the neck--

a skyscraper begins to crumble
as I am left on top
I am the last of my kind
--and I sit atop the
swaying monolith
and watch the animals
around the once bustling
city streets
I once roamed these same streets
with little to my name--
at first--
then I hit it big
and I went from nothing
just another faceless being
to one of them
high society
I ate with the famous
and the famous ate with me
I slept with the fame-starved
and they ****** me
but now I am left alone
atop this building
waiting for it to crash
I am reminded of a girl
from my youth
the first to crush me
the first of many
the one that still
hurts--
even after she is long dead--
everyone is long dead
except me
and many would see that
a curse
while it reminds me of my glory days
at
the
bottom
I hear the metal beams begin to bend and sway
windows burst
birds fled

I think:
this is it, finally
as short lived as my death was
I found myself
again with the young girl
in my youth
and the conversation--
a despicable one
was different
she shared what I felt
and all was good in the world
at last, I was
at peace

other skyscrapers
continued to fall for years
and my carcass was ravaged
by animals
and rogue humans alike

and as the last of humanity
came across my body,
they swore I wore a smile
and in my hand
lay a picture
full
of
love

He's a catch isn't he
young and far from virile
nonthreatening and funny
in an unfunny way
to me,
the textbook *******
a guy that couldn't
do or deal with half of
what I do daily--

and after all my
pleas of love--
the poems I wrote you
the letters I wrote you
bearing my soul--
putting everything on the line--
you still won't look me in the eye
bet you'll look him in the eye
because behind his eyes are nothing
you love that

when you look behind mine,
you see the pain
you inflicted
you see the dreams
unrealized
but mostly you
see the pain
and the guilt seeps
and seeps
I hope

I tried,
out of both spite
and courtesy,
to tell him you'd just lead him on--
wait for him to bear his soul
then get uncomfortable with everything
and he took my words
and put them on a platter
and, with them, sat his--
delicious, appealing, and
poisonous
telling of how you love him
and you swore to me--
he was nothing--
less of a friend than I--

either way,
you'll cause my emotional death

make me sour for any woman
much  
           less
                   you

and now,
finally,
unlike every other time
I haven't forgiven you
I have but made you seem forgiven

for, now, at the last,
is the time for me to pull
the strings--
for me to ruffle your feathers

and I hope you tumble down
and eventually make it to my level
where you see the gods from below

and find them

all
but
divine

I hate woodstock
I hate the whole
mainstream counterculture

why embrace something as alternative
when society itself is evolving to be just that?

I almost desire to be
the textbook,
cookie-cut
worker drone
family man

but I figure,
I'll push in a different direction
than anyone I know

most writers are
bullshitters
anyway
especially the best
ones--

I could imagine Sartre
before fans,
promising a world he couldn't provide

I think all writers
at their core,
are idealists
dreamers

when that ceases,
they can no longer write

or turn
to nonfiction