While the World Sleeps

Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. Early risers unite. The chill winds stress, the heavy clouds oppress, despotic priorities impress. Doors are locked, blinds are closed. Bodies repair wear and tear, snoring all the while, as I walk onward. The earth has just taken her morning coffee, birds begin their caffeinated chirps. Lighter, lighter. Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. A yawn reminds me of wakefulness. My belly reminds me of breakfast. Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. The days are not reborn. But they do age.

The Waiting Room

The silence of waiting,
The waiting silence,
A bureaucratic science,
The loaded silence.

Silence filled with When.

We wait, wait, wait,
For our turn in the queue.

A hundred blank faces,
Bored for patience.

Crossed legs,
Coats on pegs,
Tapping feet,
Brains half-asleep.

Finally our name is called.

We slowly stand,
Gaze at the waiters,
Listen to their silence,
Snort with haughty mien,
Strut away in triumph.

Sometimes A Shed is Better Than a Palace

From within the shed gleams golden Christmas ornaments. They hang from a miniature tree, its top bent sideways by the low ceiling. Children laugh, sing ancient holiday songs; Men guzzle beer and arm wrestle. The merry music drifts through the ears of passerby, who can only envy the simple merriment.

Within the palace crystal and golden trees stand, painstakingly polished. A live orchestra plays the finer holiday songs. The best foods, the finest wines for royalty. But the venerable humans are frozen like statues, constricted. Passerby glance at the palace and become daunted.

A Shed is Better Than a Palace

From within the shed gleams golden Christmas ornaments. They hang from a miniature tree, its top bent sideways by the low ceiling. Children laugh, sing ancient holiday songs; Men guzzle beer and arm wrestle. The merry music drifts through the ears of passerby, who can only envy the simple merriment.

Within the palace crystal and golden trees stand, painstakingly polished. A live orchestra plays the finer holiday songs. The best foods, the finest wines for royalty. But the venerable humans are frozen like statues, constricted. Passerby glance at the palace and become daunted.

Sometimes a shed is better than a palace.

Diesel Dragons, Vol 2

Greetings folks, it’s Rodney Marvel again. In our last lecture we covered some of the more basic habits and attributes of the wondrous creature known as the Diesel Dragon. In this lecture, I will be speaking on the digestion process’s damaging effects upon the human mind.

You may recall that when a dragon consumes its prey, it digests certain unknown elements, then regurgitates its victims bodily forth. To an unsuspicious communicant, these victims seem perfectly normal. But, this simply is not true. The victims are abnormal. Their brains function quite differently from a normal, unmolested human. This is invariably due to the Diesel Drug, a drug so addicting and alarming, that it is massively sweeping across the youth of America. The drug is an agent absorbed through the skin once the human is inside a dragon’s belly and is generally used to ease digestion. But in a human, it acts almost identically to alcohol.

Many teens are more than willing to be digested in order to have a ‘wild time.’ Minors across America are growing increasingly hooked to this venomous poison. James Smith, aged fourteen, is a prime example of one such person. “I like the convenience,” he says, “It’s a mind-expanding process. The gas knows all.” James also states, “I’ve often waited over twenty minutes for the Diesel Dragons to give me a gas injection and never regretted a bit of it.” Let me stress that by ‘gas’ and ‘gas injection’ James refers to the Diesel Drug administered by Diesel Dragons.

Though he may sound clear-minded, he is deep down a disturbed and drugged mind. He goes on with conviction: “I even deposit quarters into the dragon slot nowadays.” No expert has ever heard of or seen a ‘dragon slot.’ It is either the delusion of a sick mind or some drug user slang. James’s own mother reacts: “I just thought I raised him better than that. He was always such a good boy. I never would have expected him of using the Diesel Drug. What on earth did I do wrong?!”

Here we have a boy, devoured in the prime of health, addicted and completely under the control of the Diesel Drug. James’ addiction encourages others of his age to follow his path. God alone knows the consequences of such actions on the youth of America. I could only suggest that James be hospitalized in the best rehabilitation clinic in the country.

Another victim, Susie Yohann, is struggling to recover from the Diesel Drug. “It’s like, when I’m on the gas, everything is cool. But I always need more gas.” However Susie, unlike James, does not deify the drug: “I just want my life back,” she exclaimed at the end of the interview…a clear call for help.

The dangers of Diesel Dragons are immense. Insanity for the survivors, sorrow for friends and relatives, victory for the dragons. Children must learn that being in a Diesel Dragon’s stomach is not ‘cool’ or ‘fun.’ It all leads to the same grim end.

Picking out the Cave

The dark cave is moist and filled with whirring winds which occur at regular intervals. A dirty probe excavates it, removing stalactites and stalagmites with its scraping tip. The tip latches onto a resisting structure, loosening its squid-like grip. The probe is then withdrawn, and the load is launched into space. The single-minded probe reenters the obstructed cave. A flood has occurred, glinting red in the sparse light. It flows immeasurably. The probe is forced to discontinue its task and wait for drier days. The stalagmites and stalactites will have grown back by then.

The Man Who Destroyed the Impossible

There was once a man who destroyed the impossible, but none like him will ever exist again. The man who destroyed the impossible boldly stared down the impossible, and with one careless smile he doused its powers. Then the man who destroyed the impossible turned and said, “Do not follow me.”

The Smoking Environmentalist

The smokestack bullets forth its massive volume,

A great fire broils in the industry’s bowels,

Burns acid skies,

Blackens red lungs,

The aftereffect of a process,

Whose affairs endanger,

But maintain the State.

Sated are the fingers that control the smokestack,

Smoke-stained and worn,

Damaged is the structure from which it protrudes.

Mechanical Flight

They fly over humble rooftops,

Staring down at safe streetlights.

Their eyes glare,

Their brains sync,

Circuits active,

Directorates clear.

They watch you walk, drive, laugh, think, eat, breathe.

They save it all in their memory banks,

Flying dead over the world,

Eclipsing the sun.

The smoking gun, the hard face, smooth and chiseled wrinkles. The dusky man means mayhem. Ready for popularity, with his cultured insanity. He is the patriarch. Moses died for him, the man with the smoking gun. How many pictures, mental images, has the disguised mirror taken? It is fogful, with sin. Baggy eyes lament, dark with self-hate, groping toward self-escape, or so the watchers digest. The great end all atrophies in neglect. The influence above all, for all, with all, wastes in drought.

Life is a Gamble

Life is a gamble,

A throw of the dice,

Rattling on the polished roulette.

As it rotates full circle,

We hope against probability,

For the odds are against us.

Unfortunate car wrecks, unlucky speeding tickets, murders next door.

Incurable diseases, sudden heart attacks, mild sicknesses.

Affordable gas prices, harrowing interviews, sleepless nights.

Pregnancy, roaming charges, lightning strikes.

Food poisoning, pimples, traffic.

As we wander through our sensual casino,

Our every action alters outcome.

Our throws may be prudent or reckless,

The odds adjust accordingly,

Our loss is another’s gain.

And the stakes are always rising,

Our gain is another’s loss.

Yet behold the eventual outcome:

An unlucky number.

Skip into the synthetic crevasse,
Feathery, the promise of comfort,
The beckoning crevasse,
Crossing reality,
Destroying hope,
A horrid sort,
Of striped deception,
Of dark graveyards,
Of yielding springs,
Of unsung signs

Anthropologists Discover Primitive Writings

Anthropologists Discover Primitive Writings

The archival internet dig site has been in operation for over a year now. It is a project developed by world-famous anthropologist Emil Suisseou established "to locate, identify, and study homo sapiens writings scattered across the internet in ancient times." The internet was used then by homo sapiens to communicate, express, and interact. To find these writings, the dig team performs a file search, translating a language called HTML to a readable document. "The process is painstaking, but necessary," Suisseou declares. The team mainly searches for items called blogs. Through blogs, the homo sapiens publicized their opinions and their creativity. By studying blogs, experts may be able to judge the clarity and quality of homo sapiens' brains. "The blogs are instrumental in placing homo sapiens on the evolutionary calendar," Suisseou states.

Nevertheless, some eminent archaeologists and anthropologists believe that Suisseou overestimates the importance of the blogs. Dr. Jill Yiffer is among them: "Although the blog is undoubtedly a crucial resource toward learning about homo sapiens, it cannot be used to completely weigh the development of homo sapiens' brains." Yiffer originally criticized Suisseou in her article, The Complexity of the Homo Sapien Brain, which details the cognitive capacity of the primitive intellect. From the article's introduction: "Homo sapiens developed in a time of great complexity. Their minds reflect that. Different parts of the brain were used for different tasks. A blog can only reflect one aspect of the brain."

All this controversy began fairly recently, with Suisseou's discovery of one particular blog entitled The Acerbic Writings of BCL. The writer, known popularly as BCL, has quickly become Suisseou's main study. Suisseou believes that BCL's blog provides evidence that homo sapiens were much farther along the evolutionary scale than was previously established. "His expression, while primitive, retains a sophistication that I have never encountered," Suisseou said in an interview earlier this year. Yiffer was the first to balk at this conclusion stating, "He may have command of his language, but his ideas hardly differ from the rest of his species. Moreover, his logic and reason remain untested."

Whether The Acerbic Writings of BCL holds the keys to our ancestral minds or whether it is merely an interesting, historical hodge podge remains to be seen. As Suisseou continues to resuscitate the prized writings from time's grave, the great debate continues. Suisseou will post the writings for the general public to review in the near future.

The Mad

The musk descends, robed shapes are unmoved. Hunger attacks, but another hunger presses. The lights go out, the world sleeps, the shapes light a candle. Eyes red, unblinking. Frustration, elation, infatuation, mortification, contemplation. The shapes' hearts beat awake, a staggering influence, a breathless intake. An alluring grace, a change of pace, then dash it all away. A monsoon of turmoil, clashing waves, followed by deceptive serenity. The shapes transmit their insanity to print.

Driving in the Night

Driving in the night, passing the symmetrical streetlights, the evenly spaced billboards. Driving in the night, I said, with Ron Bell's made-up face attempting concern. The advertisements enter my line of sight in the most precise manner. Driving in the night, battling with my fellow motorists in rash advancement. The endless asphalt stained with blood, washed by rain, paved and repaved, the Roman road. Driving in the night, my headlights glowing. The city lights expand across the flat distance, informing on life. Driving in the night, bearing the silence. The coyote makes its own music. Driving in the night, obeying a stoplight. Red means stop, white means caution, blue means go. Driving in the night, police cars roaming, rising fear and hate. Dark parking alleys beckon. Driving in the night, past closed shops with electric signs. Dormant buildings waiting for the next business day. Driving at night, morning sneaks from her grudgeful retreat.

The clock said 5:59 AM.

It's now 6:00 AM.

My beard is a minute whiter.

A song moves

A song moves,

Molten in the air.

Such is its presentation,

On the giant ears.

The greatest mind,

Pumping blood,

Harrows the soul,

To real tunes.

Too fine for me,

The moving emotion,

At impossible rates.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy birthday to me,

December second, nineteen eighty-five.

Happy birthday to me,

Twenty-two years of mayhem.

Happy birthday to me,

Laugh at a happy soul.

Happy birthday to me,

The winds speak sensual.

Happy birthday to me,

I did not blow my candles out.

Happy birthday to me,

I ate my cake with purpose.

Happy birthday to me,

I laughed at love.

Happy birthday to me,

I lied to sobriety.

Happy birthday to me,

Get ready to exit.

Happy birthday to me,

A frayed-but-scared noose,

Swings wildly.

Happy birthday to me,

Let’s look toward death.

Carrying Reflection

One can feel the reflection on the face,

A steady stream,

Voracious, unending,

Shining past a Cuban street,

For a cultural instant.

And in that instant,

Lays a million dreams,

Cloudish bubbling,

A sense imploded,

Where English alters,

Where sanity distorts,

Where self melts.

Censorship

A full brain rests on the ground,

Hemorrhaging.

Full stomachs pass it by.

A voice cries concerned in a crowd,

For a cage bars the libraries,

The old faces staring out.

Lights illumine the earth,

But darken much secrecy,

Struggle as They may,

The shadows yet appear.

I've Been Bitten

I was bitten,

By a dear pet of mine.

I pushed him too hard,

And he sunk his venom fangs,

Into my jugular.

The poison did its work too well,

Coarsing through my bloodstream,

Destroying affection in its path,

Whose only hope is repair,

From the searing venom.

What Happened to Life?

What happened to my life?

It passed like a fleeing train,

And I can barely feel the air it disturbed,

On my wrinkled skin.

What happened to my life?

One moment I was having a beer,

The next I was having a stroke.

What happened to my life?

I’ve slept through most of it,

Snoring too soundly.

What happened to my life?

I felt it was eternal,

I lived it nocturnal.

What happened to my life?

I fear the tombstone pillow.

What happened to my life?

Final Greed

We’re running headlong on a curvaceous path,

Lit up with lights that twinkle.

We’re running headlong toward a barricade,

Neck to neck,

In some sore footrace,

Our breaths fogging up,

The Christmas night,

Our feet pounding the Swastika Santa,

Out of WWII hibernation.

We don’t know when we will hit,

The lights blind,

But we keep running,

Guns over shoulders,

And money greening our gambling pockets.

Parents

My father’s knowing eyes,

My mother’s gentle voice,

They stick fluidly in my memory.

My father’s knowing eyes,

Weighted with experience,

Brings dire laughter to my chest.

My mother’s gentle voice,

Jerks tears,

Lights compassion.

My father’s knowing eyes,

Satisfied,

An unwritten poet,

Our thoughts juxtaposed.

My mother’s gentle voice,

Lilting with color,

With uttering sensitivity.

They are in the reclusive loving thoughts,

Of a shuddering disappointment.

Chirp!

Chirp! chirp! chirp!

Beaks upturned,

Tiny weak wings gyrating,

The chicks cry for food.

A hundred feet distant,

A cloud of shocked feathers,

Scurry with adrenaline,

Parted from their frame.

Wings that flap no more,

A song forever unsung,

Prey to the prowling predator,

Whose emerald eyes mew with satisfaction.

Where is mother?

Where is her living nourishment?

Her children fade away,

In an unkempt nest,

Ignored by nature,

Whose aim is otherwise.

Searching for a Smile

Walking through a dream,
Searching for a smile.

Stone faces meet my gaze,
Icicle tears hung from the sockets,
Piercing and sharp,
Unmelting in the soil of unplowed souls.

Frowns like clockwork,
Hang on the walls,
Predictable at all hours:
A colorless and aimless precision.

Searching for a smile,
In an unwanted dream,
Hearing a gloomy forecast.

Do I want to wake up?

I will find my smile,
In the unwanted dream,
Before its time is through.

The Wolves in the Air

Wolves enter the brisk morning air,

Jettisoned by a whirring fan,

From a neighboring establishment.

The pack hides,

To ambush guardless victims,

Who stroll unsuspecting,

Into a repulsive encounter.

The she-wolf lurks,

Fiercest of all,

At the forefront,

Smell unmingled.

Half the attack is psychological,

Rendering sense repugnant,

Immobilizing.

The trap is sprung,

The pack howls in triumph,

Then dissipates,

Lingering for an instant,

Game devoured.

Black Cat

The black cat stalks,

With lengthened spine,

With prancing paws,

Fearful of naught.

Her mystical eyes,

Glare from the shadows,

Registering.

She roams the rubble,

A queen amongst mice,

Who scatter at her paw beat.

No purrs issue from her cold breast,

Her claws slash adoring wrists.

The black night blankets her,

She is alone.

Alone.

With her sad luck,

A friendless observer.

Artistic Revolution

To cleave poetic with a gleaming sword:

This is the ideal.

A clean cut with skilled hands,

Circulation banned,

Toppled limbs.

Headless monuments litter a triumphant city,

A careless obliteration of past heroes.

Time ushers new sensibilities,

Into toddlers’ playpens,

Who build and stack so many blocks,

Wondering about new discovery.

Pudgy fingers rub the hilt,

Swing with rapture,

Destroy with art.

Dirty Fingernails

Each time I catch hold,

It slips.

Lodges under my fingernails,

Darkening the cuticles.

I can feel it,

I can see it,

Teasing me,

Testing me.

Sometimes I can hold it,

For days, weeks.

Other times hours, minutes,

Defying clockwork.

And always the residue,

Under my broken bloody nails.

What is my influence?

I am influenced by the hum of a computer fan, the click of a keyboard, the caw of a bird. I am influenced by the tread of feet, a didactic voice, the peel of laughter, the cracks of anger. I am influenced by a smooth texture, tangled wires, screeching tires. I am influenced by the shoddy shoes I wear, by the air I breath(cool, warm, even smoggy), the auburn leaves, the mud I slug, the wandering bug. I am influenced by an exposed sun, a freezing wind, the quality of a lawn, the quantity of a dawn. I am influenced by the quack of sprinklers, the clack of ducks, the baby's whimper. I am influenced by a stop sign, by a locked door, by an unsmiling feature, or a decorative portrait. I am influenced by a long legged beauty strutting, spreading lust to onlookers. I am influenced by a low fuel light, and a gas station calls. I am influenced by the figures on my paycheck, a gruesome anticipation. I am influenced by fleeting advertisements, glued in my mind. I am influenced by the popcorn I smell, and I feel for movies. I am influenced by the sleep I love, restful or fatigued. I am influenced by the roaring airplane, and the thought of travel. I am influenced by the spoken word, and it is written on my face. I influence and am influenced. That is my existence, and it is yours as well. I feel the influence, godless and human, flowing in me and through me. Do you feel it too?

The Great Domineer

The great domineer,
Reins in hand,
Gallops through skulled fields,
Fashioned robes flowing,
Silver sword slashing,
Blue eyes glaring,
Warring on ambivalence.

A mighty cry emits from her lungs,
Plants fearful hate in fateless hearts.

Young little warriors fire poison tipped arrows,
At the sweet face,
Seeking vengeance.

Loner in public

The loner in public,
Face in window,
Watches the passing crowd,
In the deja vu night.

Such diversity,
Such stories.

He imagines the gossip history.

They walk,
With bags in hand,
Absorbed within themselves.

Each one flies magnific,
Within their unnatural lives.

Cop cars warn of oppressive dangers.

"Stay back!"
Is printed everywhere.

See the loner in public,
Study human nature,
Face in window.

In the Fishtank

Bubbles lift,
Screaming sonar,
In the airless nightclub.

Artificial pebbles,
Blue, red, green,
Litter the bottom.

Artificial plants likewise,
Who sway in a subtle way,
Rooted by watery gravity.

Grubby fingers tap on glass,
Algae disturbs,
Belly-ups tremble.

Gills flip forth,
Guppy mouths gape.

Shocked eyes stare,
Their circular shock,
Their lidless impenetration,
Dead are the fish eyes in the murk.

The aquamarine world looks out from behind the glass,
Is frightened,
Wants its sprinkling feed,
Who is administered by patronizing hands.

The Living Expressions

Our hot, lively breath invigorates intellect. We encounter each other and copulate and mutate. Our two-legged stride encompasses the earth, invading all regions. We are living expressions. We thrive in the subtle night, immortal, dancing delicately on the streaked pavement under the loving moon. Some humans hunt us with beaming lights, calling with hoary, emotional, desirous voices, and we often hide. Others stomp for us with spiked boots, a vengeance baptized in blood. But our creators free us from their nets and show the world our waltz. Our creators, we adore. Our homes reside within their lovely locks. And they nurture us with their rejuvenating breast milk. We suckle until the nursing fountain dries, sputtering sawdust, then move on to future fountains, their nourishment arching across aurora skies, born again.

The Digital Face

The digital face is routine's God,
Loyal to the controllers,
But each commands the other.

The digital face favors priority,
Jealous of dalliance,
Watchful of efficiency,
Hateful of liberty.

Its eyes are everywhere,
Blinking with spidery steadiness.

Its stare ticks flesh,
Sprouting anxious goosebumps,
Over a scheduled skin suit.

The digital face does not smile,
Nor does it frown.
Its mechanical impassivity betrays no expression.

Those who dare question the digital face
Will descend.

To the timeless void,
To the barbarous past.

They will descend.

Lower.

Lower.

To oblivion's musky haze,
To the bleached bones of non-existence,
Piled like shadowy logs,
A ghost of their former selves.

Welcome to Broadstreet

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where bums lick dirty popcorn off reptilian asphalt,
Bodies screaming.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where skeletal slime preys with famine fangs,
Sensing weakness.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where enemy time is senseless,
Growing beards.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where simple pleasure is hard to come by,

Ignobly evasive.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where smog hangs low,
Plaguing lungs.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where flashing lights part the night,
Presuming guilt.

Welcome to Broadstreet,
Where our demonized outcasts roam.

An unwelcome houseguest.

Last night I had an intrusive visitor. As I was shutting my door, in he came unheeded and unwanted. A chill went down my spine as I became cognizant of his seasonal presence. I wanted sleep not company! Yet my refined etiquette forced me to entertain, even at such a raw hour. To be raised a gentleman is an inconvenient bore. So we sat, he and I, in embarrassed discomfort. Through painstaking efforts, I was able to learn that my visitor came from the northern regions. He had a breezy voice which chilled like winter frost and an overcast stare reminiscent of autumnal decadence. His face was pale and difficult to discern, but I caught the glint of his coal drop eyes from the humble light of a reading lamp. My heater of late was broken. At times it would work, at others it would not. Tonight it obstinately refused to operate, but my guest hardly minded, brushing my apologies aside almost with an air of gratitude. I, on the other hand, was swathed in thick layers for the cold was piercing. He declined my offer to tea, but instead rudely insisted on a glass of finely crushed ice. Though I found this peculiar, my hospitality acceded to his wish, and my manners prevented me from rash critique. And so my eccentric visitor and I sipped our respective beverages in fatigued silence for a dreary while. The tick of the clock was painfully hypnotic, and I could feel my eyelids grow heavy. At some point during this tete-a-tete, I dozed off. Though appalled at my own rudeness, I must say in my defense that I’d had no sleep for at least two days and, quite frankly, my idiosyncratic guest was far from entertaining. I awoke to the sound of the blaring, rattling heater, which had kicked into action. My visitor had gone. The chair he had occupied was completely soaked. I can only assume that he spilled his glass of ice on the way out and had not the decency to clean up after himself. Quite an unpleasant experience. Needless to say, my door will be forever closed to that brazen, ungrateful fellow.

There was one peculiarity, however, which strikes me oddly. Though my visitor had clearly departed, the deadbolt on my door remained fastened. How could he have left and locked the door from the outside?

I am not malleable.

Retract your offending mold.

I am not malleable.

For I am of the unchanging.

Uncompromising, independent.

I am of the We.

Pavlov’s dog is dead.

The good doctor vainly searches

For another specimen.

He won’t find one in me.

I heed not air-conditioned directorates,

They stink of greeded rot.

A pox on your sophistry,

On your mundane meritocracy.

Your time is come,

It is We who shall bring you down.

Savage Night

The pedantic night owl sharpens ears.

Fear impregnates,

Grows fat.

Silence cackles.

Children hide beneath their blankets.

Crooked shadows arrest,

Snaring, creeping,

Like an evil night ivy.

Felt worms wriggle,

Grow strong on little hatreds.

A broken alley gnashes plaque fangs.

The staring mountain range scowls its gruff face.

Witchery claws scrape across the mute desert.

Some scythe in undertaker garments highlights moonlight.

Suckling rapids pour down toxic drains.

A gnarled soul suffocates in a sea of blood,

Clogged by obstructive clots

Submerged muffles erupt from groggy bubbles,

With unforeseen enthusiasm.

A tiny voice,

Backed against smoke stained blue brick,

Cornered,

Calls for help on high.

Expansion.

Soldiers tromp through unfamiliar soil hunting prey with Uncle Sam’s eyes. Invisible radar scans, gleaming. The sun roasts up above, heat waves dance in rolling gaits, darting every which way. Muffled cough, steady march, synced thought. Mirage breaks monotony. Sarge stops, signals battle maneuver. Trigger fingers anticipate, twitch expectant.

Back home, politician clamors with competitive charisma. Invokes fear, desperate fear, reliant fear. Mr. and Mrs. hear him, see him from mounted plasma screen, an honest Western face, a suited savior. Instant agreement in cheap faith. An answered prayer, a sinister hope. Let it never end.

False alarm. Soldiers continue their drone march. An ant stares, resigns knowingly, and then is splattered under jagged boot tread. Another MIA. The animals flee before a great war machine. It mutilates and discards, tromping.

A ghostly face appears transcendent before the gore. Laughing dollar signs, fiery amusement, a gleeful celebrator. The phantom is politic.

The Man

The man thought he was amoral. The man thought naught could affect him. The man was wrong. The moral perspective is stronger than most think: as strong as a titanium mirror, reflecting in all ugliness. Silence attacks cruelty, like some muting angel, and streaked light shears from above, burning night crawlers. One sense, two sense, three sense, four. Old lessons crop from dry earth. Ethic barren, or so the man thought, within his marble suit. “The bomb is here,” he monologues to his secret self, staring at passive resistance. The man snaps his fingers to hipster tunes, dreading television cameras, awake unharmonious within the most peaceful night. On stage, he is an actor, giving “we the people” what he thinks they want. The man is a professional.

Hail the Spoken Word

Hail the spoken word.

Your god, my god,

The God.

It blesses or condemns,

Commands or pleads,

From all directions,

With such sacred power.

Manifest is the spoken word.

Obeyed is the spoken word,

My spoken word.

Don’t you love your God?

Light the wick

Light the feeble wick,
Watch it inflame in vigor,
Watch it flicker hungrily,
A didactic revelation,
Disrobing dreaming darkness,
Burning out of mind,
One starry lifetime.

Epitaphs Vol 1

-Life's expired, to say the least,
Below your feet, a ripened feast.

-This epitaph is bleak,
Hear my soul shriek.

-Be warned of this barren grave,
It may haunt the road you pave.

-I have left this world like a coward,
A stormy pride harshly devoured.

-I've joined the countless billions,
And await the countless trillions.

-My skeletal hand waves farewell,
To its soft and fleshly shell.

-WENT TO SCHOOL
GOT HIRED
FINALLY RETIRED
AND THEN EXPIRED

-Beer made mortality clear,
Now death is here.

Aristocratic Bum

Greetings, illiterates!
From an aristocratic bum.
My train of rags trail behind me as I stroll down litter street.
I drink free tea and box wine,

Soaring in the classical.

And I always, always put my pinky out.

I sense my own superiority,
While working at a lowly job.

I treat fools with smug contempt,

But wear a tolerant smile,

All the while.

Little Christian

You’re always searching for another god,

Little Christian.

Your attraction,

Flippant deification.

Deify the pretty soul,

Little Christian.

Because you don’t have one.

Life is like a fresh cracked beer

Life is like a fresh cracked beer.

Promising, at first,

With its vast mass.

But as the living fluid sinks measurably,

Regret surges sunken in the fold.

The last gulp is bitter hot,

With gagging destructive descension.

One laments the truth,

Wailing for cool reincarnation,

Irrationally desirous.

Heed the beating heart

Heed the pumping heart,

Pulsing with relish,

Within the aged cage.

Beating cries descry a cold cancer blade,

Clasped in corruption’s candy hand,

Alluring, savagely alluring.

Anxious thumping grating gentle offspring,

In dire remonstrations.

They fawn and chirp in new discovery,

Stumbling in infant drunkenness,

Toward seasoned maturity,

To be marred by scar and stubble.

A dance floor awaits,

The transfusing beat erupts,

Suspenseful, joyful,

Shifting intravenous,

Flooding a blessed puncture.

Bathroom contest

Three competitive clean freaks stand washing hands side by side in a public restroom. Scrubbing bathroom hands together in broiling soapy lather. Steam pours from the sinks, fogging mirrors, clouding stalls, disturbing sight. The washers appear bent upon the sanitary motions, but a perceptive observer can spot nervous fish eyes gleaming. Who will be the germiest? All refuse to cease, none will admit defeat. For protracted minutes they scrub their scorching, raw fingers and palms. One washer gets more soap, the others follow suit. How long will this contest last? Who will remain to the bitter end, champion of cleanliness? The outcome is yet to be decided.

To the striking hero

To the striking hero:

Blood and nonsense!

Time ticks and you inquire,
With deviled chin.

So the forked beard states,
With angered mascara eyes.

Pull your bow.
A tense reminder,
Of mendicant adrenaline.

Watch the storm troopers
Who garrison,
On dying suburban lawns,
Awaiting orders,
Boots crunching gravel,
Conjuring cowardice,
With bulging magazines.

What choice have you, hero?
State your purpose,
And be falsely hailed.

A blank.

A tangent blank,
Poor former ideas.

A typing keyboard hates innovation,
Half the time.

A tangent blank for you,
Former ideas.

Life,
Poor life,
Deadened by expectorate diction.

A tangent blank,
The dumb oblivion.

A sign
Of nonsense.

Who is what?

'Don't try,'
My favorite said.

A tangent blank,
For minds unspoken.

Wondering on product.

So they say,
A warbling mess.

Sober over it,
Creativity.

Prison Camp?

Each month the metallic pounding jolts me out of stage 5. A short second speeds, and I frantically fling on fabric. I know I have 22 seconds before my privacy is ruptured by the impatient authorities. The pounding persists and I hear the clink of key in lock. Shirt on backward, pants unzipped, soul unbuttoned, I stumble to the door just as it is being opened from the grimy outside. "Pest control," blares the little Mexican with surprising abruptness. "Achtung," my bitter humor internally translates, and I stand in military attention beside my doorway. My fellow tenants have also been rousted and look none too happy. Poison man enters with toxic tank, threatens biological life, and leaves with hasty determination. I re-enter my cell, slip back to bed, and fight off fascist chuckles.

Guilt

The guilt is free.

Its encasement shudders,

Wondering whence it came,

Or what works it reaps.

Guilt:

Judgmental harvester of past decay,

Tilling famine,

With gloomy insistence,

And stalwart endurance.

Guilt:

Stocky interloper of conditioned sound,

Blaring criticism,

Through a million megaphones.

Guilt:

Every tyrant’s blooded weapon,

Every despot’s accusing bedfellow.

Guilt:

When will you give me peace?

Flourishing Plant

Stop trying to bend me.

I wish to detach.

I am not serious anymore,

Oppressive expectations,

I’m cognitively indifferent now.

Let me flourish within my lush greenhouse.

Without your gross pesticides,

Without your adapted fertilizers,

Without your loving care,

Without your floral discrimination.

Let me flourish by myself.

You wither me,

Wither me with presumptuous force.

My leaves have blackened.

Trash

Propped against a locked door,

Are Inhabitant’s revealing discards.

Bled and bagged,

The silence of the dead,

Material with no purpose.

A grim portrayal of Inhabitant,

Shadowy shallowly indirect,

A stalker’s priceless nuggets.

Dear Inhabitant,

Do you know what you show?

Your wastes, tastes, distastes.

Your nutrition, addiction, predilection.

Your private life and its secret strife.

Body made public.

Propped against a locked door,

Bled and bagged,

Are Inhabitant’s revealing discards.

The Body

My soul is in my face,

My ideas in my gut,

My impulse in my heart.

Its corrugated valleys,

And untamed wilds.

What drugged habits it hides.

I don’t wish for more,

As I mock imperfection,

As I self-exorcise.

Draped with expression,

And backward health.

This is my body.

Boiling inside,

Tinged by lust,

Incorruptible but aging,

Hurting but happy.

Fizz and Burn

Fizz and burn,

Delicious one,

I need your therapy.

In you I experience generational culture.

In you I hold fermented power.

Refresh my mind.

Sharpen me.

Clear away indigenous dullness.

Every philosophic sign points to you.

Do your damage,

I gladly pay your toll,

From an empty aching wallet.

I've purchased sight,

With your carbonated mind-eye.

Drunk Sandwich

There it is,

Porous, blotched brown resistance.

Stomach transforms matter.

Teeth clash with crisp wheat sheet.

Survivalist desire pouring through the physical.

Tasty contentment.

Thankful nourishment.

Low inebriated cleanup.

Then fiery passout heat,

With blotched snoring,

And wasted dryness.

Moderate Pleasure

Moderate pleasures breeze through town,

Their simple sense wreaking content,

Fingers outstretched,

Twitting buffoonery’s bulbous nose.

Cherubic laughter accompanies the hopscotch streets.

Life slyly swims,

Through Time’s river,

Ignored by the all.

A Crack in the Pavement

A crack in the pavement
Will satisfy my writer's spirit,
For it is spidery and enthralling.

A chink in a fence
Will stimulate my appetite,
For I feed well on imperfection.

A leaky roof
Does not faze me,
For I am honed by pitter-patter

A shattered window
Won't wound my nosy hands,
For my layers are of similar substance.

But an incomplete peace,
Will drive me wild,
For the world needs a rounded piece.

Wakeful.

Wakeful.

Wishing for dreams.

A scant replacement for mystical states.

A fatigued hand vainly conjures.

The magic evaporated.

The science will not respond.

Its fluorescent crackles lodged in the stars.

So the wise men say.

An educated laugh chortles with dawn.

HAHAHAHA!

HAHAH!

My laughter echoes through the overworld.

HAHAH!

My laughter challenges the status quo.

HAHAH!

My laughter defies the Phosphore Essence.

HAHAH!

My laughter kills all morality.

HAHAH!

My laughter hates on sordid nonsense.

HAHAH!

My laughter defies monetary simplicity.

HAHAH!

My laugher drowns explicit sorrow.

HAHAH!

Nonsense reigns,

And I
CACKLE
With glee.

HAHAHAHA!

Scrubby uniform plastered,
He strolls down his stairs,
Knowing that the insane is perched.

Second floor, first,
And the burbling TV discerns itself.
The sacred smell wafts.

Who, he wonders, would be so conservative and blatant at the same time?

Only the elderly.

With the perched cigarette,
And predictable mouth,
Smacking,
"Hundred dollars tonight,"
Budding,
In regretted anticipation.

Please, let me be.
Please, desperation is pitiful.
Please let me be.
Please let me be.

And thus,
We end,
And I head to work,
Annoyingly sorrowful.

One Last Poem

One last poem to write.
For old time's sake.

One last poem to write,
Before vibrance overloads.

One last poem to write,
And mind infests.

One last poem to write,
In the desperate drunkence.

One last poem to write,
With swirling ray sense,

One last poem to write,
Abandoned by scholastics.

One last poem to write,
In spite of monotony.

One last poem to write,
Without the transience.

One last poem to write,
To the forsaken.

One last poem to write,
Neglected.

One last poem to write,
It's a shame I'm writing.

Another Face.

The spackled light cowers,

Sulking behind the mocking horizon,

And you feel the face’s presence invade your reality.

It haunts your dreams,

I see it in your eye.

Frozen in time,

With graceful gaunt expression.

You are in love with it,

Poor haggard victim,

In love with its forlorn pleading.

The time has come,

For intense calibration.

Plunging down the winding lanes,

Focusing,

On memory’s hyperbolic portrayal.

In tune with the silent cry,

Until ignited rapture bursts its seams,

And winged creatures flee with purpose.

Awake.

Awake in bed I lay,

Sluggish,

Ignoring the cheery day.

No warmth can overcome,

The relaxation in my bones.

No meritorious labor can overcome,

My content irresponsibility.

Eyelids closed and steady breathing,

Resting, resting,

From reality’s harsh unsheathing.

The world can go to seed,

Whiles I rehabilitate.

My mind can go to seed,

Whiles I dumbly sloth.

Worry and concern are blocked by the bouncer,

Who is a big burly professional trouncer.

Enter sleep without a knock,

Inviting in,

A fluffy flock.

The clock ticks down,

The ebb of time slows,

People dance in town,

At their shallow shows.

But I am at home,

Away from Rome,

Embracing harmony,

And charming rhapsody.

Born Sick.

I was born sick.

Sick of inanity.

Sick of schedules.

Sick of superficiality.

Sick of vanity.

Sick of politics.

Sick of testosterone.

Sick of poverty.

Sick of corruption.

Sick of religion.

Sick of drugs.

Sick of emotion.

Sick of logic.

Sick of opinion.

Sick of health.

Sick of gossip.

Sick of disease.

Sick of greed.

Sick of pollution.

I was born sick, Doc.

Is it terminal?

Please help.

I Open My Own Doors

I open my own doors.
I will not hold them open for you,
Nor do I need you to open them for me.
In fact, your patronizing courtesy will be rebuffed.

I seek the closed doors.
When I find one,
I clasp the taunting knob,
And
Pull,
Pull,
Pull,
With all my being,
Until I breach the structure's skin,
And its vital organs are exposed,
To my appraising and critical eye.

Watch for me in the city,
Roaming,
Ripping entrances out of selfish slumber,
And tromping my way on through.

RS-21 operator engaged.

RS-21 operator engaged.

Powered on vortex.

Cerebral circuit-scape engaged.

Breaching the Howitzer perimeter.

Perimeter breached.

Corpus mantle increasing.

Decreasing darning levels to compensate.

Now passing corifluous auticle.

Shooting carbon destabilizer….done.

Atomizing corneal suction drones.

Locating oracular apparatus…done.

Rotational stimulator in high frequency.

Turbulent overdrive balancing gravitational laser.

Dorian schematics approved.

Nautical inducement drive jammed.

Employing reparational methods…failed.

Receiving preoperational layout from base….received.

:SYNTAX ERROR LINE 7300001: