DWI

The silvery lures dangle before our eyes, swaying in the noon currents. Scintillating. One by one our guppy minds and mouths succumb, and we are hauled to the surface, dry throated and choking painfully. The fishermen in blue stop our flopping. The politician's knife guts us. Our entrails are flung back to the deep; our sweet meet is consumed by raw men with rapist teeth. Their banking bellies are bottomless everlasting.

Two Temperaments

Two twin temperaments,
Emotive colors alike,
Rage in active combat.

Their clashing may be heard,
Through the worldly banister,
Through the activity concave,
Into the depths of my philosophic state.

A disruptive loathing,
Mutual and aggressive,
Poisons the waters of peace,
Whose spring smells tainted,
Whose taste turned to vinegar.

The repetitive flow,
Trickles a cry,
Gurgling purify, purify!

Preach it!

Preach it, preacher,
Amidst the illusion!

A voice of faith,
Of ill-bred monotony.

They square their eyes,
As they pass you.

Preach it, man,
In the light of the dedicated!

A strong assured voice,
To convince them.

And you.

That which diverts.

That which captivates.

That which enchants.

She Walks

Daylight stops,
And she walkingly taunts.

Her age is shown through her youthful habits.

She loathes,
The distasteful future,
Her feet pound,
The hateful pavement,
With impetuosity.

Again the sigh,
With rolled eyes.

Her contagious depression,
Lurks.

Her sense of finality,
Looms.

I wonder whether she sees me,
Watching, watching.

Third Person Sense

The third person sense is a shield from attack. It bolsters a soul; it protects the core. The third person sense is the ultimate literary weapon, purging disease with soothing release, the most effective balm. It is a haven where no conscience jabs.

Carried Away

I feel carried,
In life's enwrapping trance.
My heart is on the breeze,
Thrilling my senses,
And processing, transmitting, absorbing,


Fellow humans,
Your thoughts call out to me,
As I fade.

Your unsteady strolls,
Your rapid eyes,
Your uneven breaths,
The schedules are written in posture.

Fellow humans,
I am carried away,
To unexpected levels.

Away unhinged and out of sorts.
Away on a rapturous journey,
Whose end is pain,
But whose goal is love.

Away,
To where the voices of the past,
Peck and crow,
Like indignant pigments,

To where life is a pinpoint,
And translucent futility is Lord.

Selfless Soul

Oh, the selfless soul,
Nobly and courageously devouring,
Her woefully underdone cow.

Not wanting to trouble,
The sparkling martyr wretchedly chomps.

She is miserable and discontented,
But bears it all with a stoic face,
And an angry purse.

Wholesale Slaughter

Did you really exhume the great bodies,
Deified by history,
And conquered by the earth,
In the name of art and profit?

Do their decayed forms
Reap golden inspiration?

Your unjust rehash,
Makes lovable pigs,
Out of the bright new creators.

In their brainwashed trust,
They await their wholesale slaughter.

Gamer's Nostalgia

The platform is switched on and enticing power charges through the controls like a drug, entering the surging bloodstream. Dreams, music, fantasy fan fictional thought. Skill builds and enhances might, pride, confidence. Artistic affection hypnotizes, to be stripped of its enthralling trance in the replay years and stand humouredly by as the great gamer's nostalgia. Who is this remarkable memory queen? Her longing seduction brings scarlet flashbacks with it. Within her majestic throes I yearn for the discovery years.

The Modern Debate

Mundane is the modern debate,
Consisting of cheap entertainment.
Participants' brains reek,
Of plebeian decay and distraction.
They become fired and passionate,
Over home-runs, trade-offs, and touchdowns.

Death to the modern debate,
Set fire to its fungussed core,
With surging wild heat,
Engulfing rotten underbrush,
To pave the way for new life,
For widened perception,
For vaster consciousness.

Crows the car.

Do you feel the whir of the car alarm,
Early in the morning?
My brain is not awake,
And my ears hear it as a bird.
Its repetitive chirp awakens.
Whatever happened to the rooster's cry?
It was stifled by an industrial lie.

Across the Bar

Across the bar,
Our two eyes meet,
Transferring our cliche energy.
It flows,
And I grow self-conscious.
I avert my eyes in love of soul.

The Dead Have Gone Wild.

The dead have gone wild,
Sweeping remnants across the fissured earth.
Hoarse moans retch through the winds, bearing children.

The dead have gone wild,
Roaming with dirty knives and suffering eyes,
In tumbledown trucks.

The dead have gone wild,
An indescribable frost hounds their presence.
It is devoid of weather,
It causes lively minds to shiver.

The dead have gone wild,
With predatory determination,
Prowling with hungered haste.

And oh!
Our frantic repulsion!

Dare we lay the wild dead to rest?

The Time Line's End

My life's landmarks flutter in the wind, proudly and shamelessly broadcasting all that I have been. My unofficial time line is a link through my past and is monofilament in structure. Can you see the hook in my gills? I bend the rod and spin the reel, but there is no resistance from the shore. As a result, the line lengthens through the currents stretching for the opposite coast. There the swim will end. There the beached amphibian will break its line and use its legs. But the lure will stay lodged inside my throat, glinting through the dusty breeze. Grasp the broken time line and follow my footsteps, tracking my progress. They will lead to a shovel and an unfilled grave. The headstone will read "The Time Line's End." Firmly tie the broken line to the headstone's body. Then fill the hole and burn the shovel.

Used

Our lived-in consumerist loves,
Marked by use,
Coffee stains, torn fabric, graceless rips,
Reveals cloaked identity,
Instills meager remembrances.

Awake on my sofa filled with memory,
With morning imposing,
Stealing rest,
Aging body enveloped by the past.

Second-hand users receive historical enchantments,
Casting their own spells,
With reckless runes,
Onto broken scars.

Vibrant clues materialize,
In an unsuspected sort of art,
That reflects life's simple defects,
That contrasts life's hidden joys,
With rattling inconsistency.

The Dark

In the dark,
My pupils adjust.
I see many things,
Suspicion cleansed of rust,
I clean, I clean,
With widened eyes,
The darkness lightens,
Adapting, embracing, caressing.

She

I think she thirsts to forgive,
Such a good girl,
With meaning in her eyes.
I see her vivid face in the enterprising dark,
Bursting through my subconscious,
Her full lips, delicate face,
Incredible hair, natural all.
I love and hate her sharp ignorance.

You would rob the blind,
With your torturous mind
Creeping with softened steps.

Despicable is your eyesight.

In their soundless sleep,
You would murder the deaf,
Raging with hellish heat.

Reprehensible is your hearing.

Dangerous Ideals

A series of ill circumstances caused my residence inside this jail. I’m not a criminal, not a bad person, and I wait out my time with the wronged man’s supercilious indignation. In fact, everyone I know will attest to my good nature. My unsuspecting mind was simply sucked into the quicksand of an erroneous philosophy. I always thought philosophy promoted right behavior. How wrong I was! You see when a child is told that white is black and black is white, he walks through life with that incorrect assumption until someone wiser sets him straight. When I began my quest for the one true philosophy, my mind was identical to a child’s. That is, I had had no experience in this field until my first unfortunate encounter with it. In this sense, I cannot be held entirely responsible for my actions. I’ll tell you what I told the judge…indeed perhaps a bit more if you prove yourself a good listener.

It all started on a sunny day in the full fledge of winter. The chill wind was acting awry that afternoon. It seemed to eat away my warm layers and molest my mellow skin. As a result, I had stopped at my local bar, a familiar haunt, to warm my heart with a bit of scotch.

At the bar I struck up a conversation with a peculiar gentleman. His wave of salt-and-pepper hair would whip about as he gesticulated with his head in a harsh baritone voice. He was brilliant and intoxicated, and the liquor had made him eloquent. As a philosophical man, he believed in explicitly following all orders from authority. He was all for social stability and vehemently asserted the capability of government officials. He called himself “the last true Platonian.”

Now, I have always had a malleable nature. I am easily persuaded, easily swayed especially in areas I have no experience in. I am afraid I possess the mind of the fanatic. Thus, by the end of the man’s impassioned diatribe, he had me convinced, religiously so, of the impenetrable uprightness of his ideals.

When I took my leave of him I was warm all over, come what wind may. I immediately altered my conduct to match that of the unalterable genius at the bar. And, for a great while, it worked well. Weeks passed and I obeyed all statutes, all laws. The world smiled upon me, and my mind was at ease. Life seemed so incredibly simple. One merely had to accept one’s place within society to fit into society.

Strangely enough, however, the simple act of driving, something which hundreds of millions of Americans do daily and effortlessly, was especially difficult for me to do as a Platonian. You see, there are so many directions, so many signs ordering and imploring the driver toward this or that end that they distract one’s attention, and confuse one’s logic with their overlapping priorities. There are deer crossing signs, pedestrian crossing signs, keep out signs, warning signs, bus lane only signs, stop signs, yield signs, dip signs, right lane closed signs, no trespassing signs, and that’s just the beginning. There’s a sign on every business roof, on every residence. My young Platonian eyes couldn’t help but read and process each one individually. This was so distracting that each time I got into the car, I would nearly wreck. But, I was convinced that time and persistence would burn this little problem clean. And, very slowly, my driving improved.

Then came the day where everything fell apart. I was driving home from the supermarket on a small charming road going precisely 25mph as the speed limit sign read. I made sure the speedometer needle rested exactly on that fine number. I felt able and determined. I was exceedingly sure of myself and my creed-such that I felt as a god amongst men. So when the upcoming speed limit sign read 250mph, I violently and officiously depressed the accelerator in compliance. I did not even question the hasty, unsymmetrical ‘0’ next to the 25: the product, I realize now, of teenagers and spray paint. Faster, faster, my Astro van strained. The next two speed limit signs blurred by at 100mph and still my speed increased, aiming for 250. My heart was pounding; blood was racing through my body. I could feel my sense and reason detach, but still I sped on. I was losing control, and I knew it. My desperate mind was squealing; the speeding van was reeling. Then suddenly I was surrounded by the screech of tires, the shattering of glass, and the bending of metal. The last thing I remember was a feeling of despairing helplessness.

When I came around I was surrounded by a crowd of people all asking me if I was all right. There were three police cars and an ambulance. Flashing lights and the hum of radios pierced my skull. I was not in my right mind. The next hour was grueling. I was forced to explain to a police officer exactly why I had been going so fast and how I had managed to smash straight into the police substation. His badge skeptically flashed at my eyes as I related my philosophic metamorphosis. By the end of my story, the officer had stopped writing, and his face had flushed darkly. I quickly found myself roughly handcuffed about the wrists and ankles. Then I was jettisoned into the back seat of his car and whirled to jail.

My trial was laughable. The judge, who was nobody’s fool, charged me with contempt of court almost immediately after hearing my story. This, then, is the spot I am in at present-scorned by the immaculate authority I had deified. I await another hearing with dread, for I know my story (and consequently my situation) will be unchanged.

My experience proves the dangers of philosophy. Within her seductive embrace, sense and reason divorce conduct, beckoning disaster. When Uncle Sam’s hard hands uncup this old bird, it will fluff its feathers and stretch its pinioned wings. It’s time to break free.

Old and New

My current wallet is in dire straits. The leather is torn, the seams are loose. Its youth has been unraveled by wear and tear. Yet there’s something about purchasing a wallet which strikes me strangely. Taking money out of my current money holder and giving it away in order to receive a new money holder absolutely baffles my logic. Wallets are expensive. I empty my old wallet in order to obtain…an empty new wallet? It’s clear that I need a wallet to keep my cards and money organized so that I am better able to buy things. How else do stores expect the consumer to consume? Stores should equip everybody with wallets free of charge. The consumer will have a safe, reliable place to pool his money, and the stores will have happy, organized customers secure in their affairs and ready to splurge on the things that count. Doesn’t that make sense?