Untitled

Our starving faces,
Mock America.

Bitter are we,
With a shallow taste,
In our twisted mouths.

In the millions,
We barely stand,
Swaying and weak,
Watching the world's food,
With suffering eyes,
Be consumed by the rich obese.


Their rolls of lard,
Could feed our nation,
But instead it coats,
Their sordid bones.

And our mouths water,
And our stomachs roar,
And there is not a soul,
That cares at all.

Lonely Hearts

What about the lonely hearts,
Pumping rolling blood,
Upon the nightish asphalt?

Who feels their red severage,
Caressing the simple ground?

Me,
Only me,
Of all creatures,
Only me.

A horrid prideful curse,
For I am the strange stethoscope,
Savagely listening,
With impunity.

Beat, beat, beat,
With one hand held,
At a Roman breast.

Eyes bulge,
In bad surprise,
As I hear all hearts stop,
Inside my deepest eardrum.

The Oracle

To visit the great oracle,
Enter her lair,
Which stands,
Ominous,
Over yonder.

The raindrops drip,
From the entrance's overhang,
Waking hapless questers,
Pugnaciously.

In you must walk,
Over the spongy moss,
Past the weeping walls,
Through dreary canals,
To an ancient door,
Littered with outlandish runes.

Chant the unheard words,
Of your unspoken dreams,
And the barrier,
Will swing willingly open.

The cowards will step through,
The courageous will flee.

Within she sits,
As she always has,
As she always will,
Communing with the spirits.

She knows of your presence,
And she will speak,
With a pure voice,
When the time is right.

Where the Shepherds Sleep

In the dizzy fields,
Where the shepherds sleep,
The dandelions sway,
With the wind's caressing melody.

The sun shines,
Touchingly,
From a fresh sky,
And you cannot feel,
The world turn.

Pleasant peace is,
A simple sigh,
The soft snores are,
Barely audible,
As the shepherds' chests,
Regularly heave.

Up.

And down.

Up.

And down.

The day of rest,
Wears on,
In the dizzy fields,
Where shepherds sleep.

Where refreshing grass,
Fortunate shade,
Energizing air,
Make perfect company.

Shapely clouds,
Indifferently patch,
The world above,
Careless and lethargic,
Stoking sleep,
With their bashful bodies.

Flowing beards grow,
A little longer,
Unheeded, untrimmed,
As the scruffy sun begins,
Its epic descent,
To take rest,
In the earth's beckoning bowels.

Untitled

Horrific is the cold,
That burns within,
A slow heart.

Can't you feel,
Its aching breeze,
Gusting in the spring?

Cloak your exposed mind,
Or it may die,
A hypothermic death.

Force of Lung

The sun glazes,
The white speckled ceiling,
During the morning's snow-capped peak,
Making light,
Of the guttering candle.

The sitter embraces reality,
And attempts to kill the flame,
With force of lung.

Inhaling,
He prepares,
For the extinguishing outrush,
But his lungs,
Are empty,
Shriveled,
And old.

A horrible wheeze,
Is heard,
Over the birds' cheery chirping,
As the candle burns down,
Past noon.

Berserker

Berserker,
Where does your blood flow?

In your mass savagery,
Crazed with passion,
It streams within.

Berserker,
What do you kill for?

Splitting flesh asunder,
In a foreign name,
Your rage quenches all.

Berserker,
Your Vikings have fled,
And your enemies have charged,
With lust in their eyes.

Berserker,
What will you do?

Cling with trembling hands,
Veins bulging,
To a scrap of life?

Berserker,
You are ill prepared,
For death.

Truth in Life

Truth in Life,
Enjoys teasing the living.
Hiding in an unseemly crevasse,
Unseen yet vaguely sensed,
It cannot be felt,
For more than a moment.

Truth in Life,
Brazenly knocks at no one's door,
Boldly taps at no one's window,
For it truly is the shyest of creatures.

Those who avidly search,
For Truth in Life,
Will be stricken blind,
By their own sunshine zeal,
Radioactive in its shimmering nature.

And in their darkness,
They will imagine enlightenment,
And falsely feel that they behold,
Substance,
While Truth in Life's lonely chuckles,
Echo in the searching night.


Others,
May find it flitting about,
At the bottom a beer can,
At the point between sleep,
And wakefulness,
Mid-sentence or mid-breath,
At a traffic light,
In a loved one's eyes,
Or at the center of a rotten nectarine,
Kniddling the cocooned seed.

Because Truth in Life is in all places,
And all things,
Like a Brahmanic jigsaw,
Whose disjointed molecular pieces,
Assemble and reassemble,
In ever surprising forms.

But heed these words,
Young searcher,
No one ever has,
Nor ever will,
Behold Truth in Life's mocking face.

The wisest may only glimpse its exiting back,
And the lucky may only catch a whiff,
Of its lingering perfumes.

Essence of Le Douche

All new Essence of Le Douche from the makers of Hussy Spirit.

Meticulously bottled in the vivacious and enigmatic atmosphere of Cal U by expert fraternity men. Its pure, fraternal spirit will inflame women's heartfelt desire, and they will fall upon you like a fresh and desirous spring rain.

Essence of Le Douche.

Feel its bolstering influence infuse your sensibilities. Experience the pervasive passion. Apply twice a day for favorable results.

Essence of Le Douche.
Available at all Hollister and American Eagle locations.

Wretched Implosion

Have you ever felt your brain stagnate
When the distracting plane,
Duly flies over the world,
And drops its sweeping dope rain?

Consciousness cessates,
Wearied, dull, untroubled,
Though your alarm bells ring,
And internal warnings have doubled.

Expression recedes,
Imploded by force,
The strange and peculiar,
Now banished and coarse.

It's the wretched implosion,
Nothing will be saved,
But I'll clasp our debris,
To the end of my days.

The Land of The Shadow

The great stones are cracked,
For the indignant earth,
Has finally attacked,
The timeless tomb.

What human lies within,
Whose preservation,
Whose missed presence,
Is fervently maintained,
In the world's shadow?

Is not the land of the shadow,
The intention,
Of preservation?

Enter,
Seeking science,
The structure of myth,
And probe,
With profane fingers,
Forbidden secrecy.

Whatever you find,
Cannot cease,
To satisfy.

Compression

Compression,
Low and fierce,
Pressures the world.

Let us let loose,
Or we will be let down,
And our letters marked in red,
For simple abetting,
Has fallen far,
And has,
Almost,
Disappeared.

The Strange and Peculiar

I've an appetite,
For the strange and peculiar.
I feed upon them,
Thrice a day.

Their taste,
Will never fade.
Their nutrition,
Infinitely invigorates.

Great secrets,
May be found,
Once the strange and the peculiar,
Whisper at your ear.

They waken your mind,
And churn your thoughts,
With the filling sensation,
Of realization.

The Rollicking Cylinder

Sweat clouds my brow,

In the heated churner,

Hellish and intense.

Round and round,

It rolls relentlessly.

While rocky grinding sounds,

Mirror,

The upheaval in my belly.

No balance or footing,

And continual disorientation,

In the rollicking cylinder.

I make my way,

To one of the two exits,

But have neither the drive nor stamina,

To make it there.

And so I tumble over,

Through the dizzy evening.

Solace for the Weary

Solace for the weary,
The call is bugled out,
Focussed and feverish,
In the shivers of fatigue.

Tremulous and pale,
The heart's echo,
Thumps with impudence,
In the mysterious evening.

A Charged Laugh

The laugh is charged.

A desperate peel,
For humor,
For enjoyment.

Heads turn,
At its high pitched cackle,
And people wonder,
At the issuer's mental stability.

The laugh is charged.

A wry response,
To grim surroundings,
That tickle,
One's strange insides.

Heaven is a Bar

Heaven is a bar,
Tumbledown and familiar,
Where everybody knows your name,
And your tab is forever at zero.

The doors swing open at your approach.

You can socialize,
Or be left alone,
For your mood is sensed,
And is respected.

You walk in with weighted steps,
But as you sit in the familiar seats,
Breath comes easier.

Heaven is a bar,
Where your mood lightens,
As drink coats your throat,
And the night unwinds the day.

Her

Why doesn’t the moon appear,

And burnish her smooth olive skin?

Its clay light makes a goddess of her,

She lives in the mystical evening.

Her expansive mind shines,

From her demanding eyes.

They demand,

And my heart palpitates.

Her mouth issues scorn,

Barbs that wound me,

That call me out,

That intensify my feelings.

We are much alike.

The slow roasting torture of the unsure,

Is my curse and pain.

Yet I willfully sit,

Tense in the licking fire,

Because it stings and surprises,

The life within me.

Risk.

Risk.

Advanced by the waning sun.

For fear.

For worry.

Risk.