The Glue is Melting.

The glue is melting. Its gooey body unsealed and hugged my thumb. The glue is old, and it is melting. Did you really think that it would last forever? That it could withstand the heat you subject it to? It is melting now and can hardly fasten your construction together. In a moment, nature's forceful enforcer will cake it off, and then there will be rubble.

I am the watcher, and I am waiting for the pieces to fall. I am waiting for the righteous to burn down the old with ignorant ease and then become one with the ashes, leaving barrenness and isolation as their legacy.

I am the passive observer, an object of scorn. I stand selfishly out of time with my left hand cupped over my mouth to hide a smile, but if you met my shaded eyes you might see my concern. My right hand holds a tube of glue--not much but enough for an innovative mind to work with. I will yield it to those who are able to break history's circular curse. And I will know them when I see them from my rude, rocky heights.

To Search

Your heart shakes,
As your eyes search,
For the object at hand.

Your anticipation clamors,
As you feel its breath,
Disturb your mind's nape.

Yet your query continues,
And your spine wilts,
As you search,
But do not find.

Sense of Smell

The smell of age,
That stench of loss,
Is sweeter than decay,
Is a rust that clings,
With the grip of years.

The smell of youth,
That stench of hope,
Is sourer than decay,
Is a fickle breeze,
With weak fingers.

The testing nose,
Whose sense dictates,
Seeks balance,
In the decaying scene.

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The amused glint in the old man's knowing eyes drew my fascination and, as I walked past, I gazed into them from behind my dark sunglasses. He was shorter than I and walked with the aid of a black, t-shaped cane. He was dressed all in black. His mouth twitched into a small smile as he continued to stare mysteriously at me. The whole strange scene had an aura of deja vu about it.

In an instant the dreamy bubble popped and I was far past him, but the memory of his eyes remains burned in my imagination. His face was a blur, an inconsequential slab of aged skin and bone. But his eyes were recognition itself. They were chillingly familiar and dangerously animated. It was as if time's linear string had been bungled, and the old and young Brian Looney had met by some impossible chance.

I can now only reach for lost meaning as the evening's rosy film drips from the falling skies and limits the light.

Give Water

Give water to the weary for their fish mouths gape and their desert tongues loll. Give water to the weary because the people moan and your privileged tanks brim. Give water to the weary for their terrible fatigue is felt and their proletarian thirst is hardly just. Give water to the weary because their misery rises from your liver's logic. Give the weary their water. They waste away at your sturdy steppes with dirtied hands and red, red minds.

My Pen's Epitaph

My pen is dying. See how splotchy and uneven the ink has become? Here I regretfully mourn its passing. Just look at all the stained pages it has helped me through! Together we've surmounted godhood and struck pure, cerebral bliss.

I have overused my faithful friend and here he spits his last. Let this be your epitaph, my bosom brother. You will be replaced, but remembered. I write this with you to you as you die. It is a last salute to your loyalty. True, your replacement lays idly by, mocking you, but know that it too will be brought as low as you one day. And on that day it will understand.

Now I bid you farewell as I set your broken body to rest. You have pleased your master and may go to your god with my blessings.

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The brown spider ascended. Its eight legs pulled its hanging body up. Its shadow moved slowly up my door. The distant roar of cars reached my ears as I watched its steady progress. After a moment of indecision, I chose to let it live for another day.

Renewing Sunshower

Today I found peace in a spring rain. The sun was shining hotly onto me as I walked. Then the fresh drops came and woke my skin with their startling greetings. They brought an innocent smile and a contented glint to my unshaven face. They gently washed away the dirt I had been carrying like a sensitive friend who shoulders your woes without being asked. I stood in the sun-driven rain until it passed me by and then blew a heartfelt kiss toward its cheery memory. Never before had nature been so compassionate. Never before had I felt so fresh.

Cow Eyes

Cow eyes in the crowd,
They multiply rapidly.

Cow eyes are fixed,
Blankly wandering.

Cow eyes are glowing,
Horribly vacant.

Cow eyes are moving,
Pitifully confused.

Cow eyes are killing,
Bile rises.

Cow eyes are staring,
Straight into mine.

Society's Logic

We started at A but moved on to C before we got to B. We kept moving on in this manner until we got to Z. Then we stopped, looked behind us, and tried to connect the dots. Instead we drew tangled, scrawling scribbles all across the page. Our failure looked up at us and laughed.

Murder in Space

Feel the weak stars beckon, darling? Feel their black brothers drowning in the city's lights? The proud survivors are visible in the still silent void, and their ancient voices will whisper to us if we have the will to listen.

Raise your youngish oval face and meet the oracles' steady gazes. Let them unclog your mind with their wispy words. Listen with all your soul to their fading voices as the city's loud lights heighten and expand.

Nights of Fun.

There are nights of fun where the bed beckons and mayhem hates. There are nights of wreckage where sanity shirks and strangeness rules. There are nights of uncertainty where loneliness lurks and love lingers. There are nights of innocence where neighbors greet eachother with timid enjoyment. There are nights of hunger where minds burn and stomachs growl. Yet through all these nights, there looms a giant morning, that nags and judges with the steadiness of seconds.

The City's Treasures

Treasures in the city's gutters,
Are dulled by dirty rainwater,
That trickles the quiet night,
Into sucking storm drains.

Treasures in the city,
Present but forsaken,
Are becoming lackluster,
Are depreciating in value.

Treasures of the city,
Collect dust out of sight,
Because they couldn't be given away,
And the owners couldn't throw them away.

The treasures of the city,
Will be loved when lost,
Missed when needed,
Grudged when wanted.

The treasures of the city,
Should disappear before your faded eyes,
Into regions unknown,
To owners more worthy.

The Pressing Ceiling

The pressing ceiling gets lower the longer I stare. I feel I can touch it now. I remember when the pressing ceiling was one-hundred feet high, unreachable and nonthreatening. Those days were free from shadows. Today the pressing ceiling is growing spikes. I see them, sharp and jagged, jut evilly overhead. They may impale my fragile skull and spill its precious fluids down to the unassuming floor. Then my life will spread out onto its patient face like a massive mosaic to be seen only by those who stare at the ground when they're alone.

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The quickest way to a drunkard's heart is through his liver.

Bare

Bare,
In the crystalline evening.

Bare,
Under a sad moon.

Bare,
Before bleached bones.

Bare,
And shivering,
Within winter's grabbing chill.

Bare,
And spilling,
From youth's shattered egg.

I Need Some Honey

I need some honey.
I need its slow, sweet consistency,
Golden and generous,
To drip onto my driven tongue.

I need some honey.
I need its constant promise,
Bold and unfaltering,
To enervate my starving spirit.

I need some honey.
I need its bee-born regality,
Fresh from the comb,
To raise my blood sugar,
And banish my bitterness.

I need some honey,
And I wish its lasting love,
Could descend from the heavens,
And coat the world.

The Mind's Pressure

When you waken in the lustery mornings, don't forget to check your mind's pressure in the truthful bathroom mirror. Accept the results as you would accept the outside weather and adjust yourself to compensate. For the mind's pressure predicts the mind's weather. You may have to steel yourself against a hurricane, or you may be blessed with the promise of sunshine and blue skies. In the end, equilibrium must be attained or instability results, and your internal colors will shift at rootless speeds toward insanity.

Dreadful Suspense

Dreadfulness inside the bound stomach.
Dreadful anticipation boiled by frantic hope's cruel, depressive poison.
Dreadful suspense as threat's shadow nears.
Dreadful reality that hardens once-hopeful veins.

Insomnia.

The wheels keep turning when they should be silent. Their dry creaking persists even when the alarm bells ring and the red lights flash. Where has the repairman run? His jean overalls emptily hang on the listless wall, caked black by machine blood, as the sirens continue to scream for relief.

Your Fire

I love your fire--the way it swirls and flickers and grows on demand. I love the way it burns my skin and singes my hair whenever I get close to its licking beauty. Despite the pain, I am drawn like a moth. Some day I will be hopelessly enveloped in the red-orange center and, screaming in deranged ecstasy, will feel its consuming heat invade my lofty shape and destroy my sanity. My wings' ashes will then be a shrine to your fire's power, and my singed remains will be its loyal overseer. They will make sure that the flames never die.

The Affection Spring

I stole all the affection from the sparkling spring. I took it without even asking. I took it even though I was told not to. The spring has become a trickle now because I took too much.

My skin has bulged; the seams have been selfishly stretched. Parched children with lost eyes laugh angrily at my discomfiture. I drank from the stream to gain affection. Instead I reaped a sweeping shame.

And now the spring's waters have drowned out my insides and rush forth ruby redness from newly opened veins. I will watch the tainted stream return home as I wait for the river to subside.

Forgotten Lives

The chest's thousand hearts beat violently, forgotten beneath a thousand slabs, pushed away by a thousand fresh waves.

Lives out of focus beneath the imposing camera lens. Not even the lightning flash can illuminate them.

Lives lost in time's eyeblink, fallen into the crag's jagged cracks that devour the outdated old with mechanical abuse.

Lives evaporate under the timeline's baking sun.

Their vapors assuredly waft into the upper hemispheres-never to be seen again by the world's naked eyes.

Ten More Minutes

Ten more minutes before the steel doors are thrust apart and exodus freely welcomes trapped minds. Ten more minutes before the torturers are appeased and the pain recedes. Ten more minutes before boredom's slow decay reverses. Ten more minutes before my legs can run. As the ten minutes drag, my nervous feet make anxious tapping sounds on the tile floor. Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes before I own myself again.