No Writing For Awhile

No writing for awhile,
Smoldered by creative denial,
Burning whiles the dial,
Ticks in horrid style.

No writing for awhile,
My brain bleeds in beguile,
Inebriated in untempered trial,
Curving like the snake-like Nile.

No writing for awhile,
To cry with those who rile,
Who vomit grief, screeching bile,
Moved with them who defile,
The romance of a writer's mile.

Bent down by a dreamish stance,
As the empty rhymes do not advance,
I look at art in askance,
As I merrily aim its flameful lance,
To defend the harpy's baseless chance.

I must wonder when the writing will begin,

And begin mint-fresh again.

Untitled

A bar of soap.
Orange, rectangular, scented.
Crafted by chemistry; molded by man.
Promising purity, but lying in depth.
The classical repeat of supply and demand.

Lives of loss,
And a bar of soap.

Scrub with a vigorous hand,
But biased blood must be bled.

I await a transfusion,
But it's all so fucking tainted.

To Those Who Love Rhyme.

I hate rhyme. Rhyme brings the boundaries of expression to the most superficial proximity. The rhymers have never been able to overstep the limitations of syntax. Handcuffed to their syllabic rhythm, true meaning buckles in the terrible tempest of false creativity. To express without rules: this is the purest, basest form of the spoken word. I end your giants' rhythmic progress in a sentence: Let a rhyme occur if it is spontaneous, for spontaneity is the backbone of literary genius. End rhyme because it teaches incorrectly. It's too musical, too fun, too laughable. It undermines all seriousness in favor of acoustic entertainment. And art should never be undermined. Kill rhyme because it is overstudied, overanalyzed, overproduced. Kill rhyme because it cripples the creative mentality. Kill rhyme because it distracts and discombobulates. Kill rhyme because it's already dead.

Gray Logic is Death.

Gray logic is death. Emotion's swirling pattern is life. Its logic runs well: To feel, to move, to be. This is the livelihood of the living. Death surrounds the monetary drive.

Their prepared death, their prepared graves, dug by those who love cash, blessed by those who have forgotten how to feel.

Have you forgotten how to feel?
I ask this because your antennae lay limply.
I liken it to the dumb beasts with sparkling identifications,
Whose will is to persecute and destroy.

'Tis true that bias runs well with the swirl.
To let the truth's swirling bias digest you is your duty.
We must not shirk our calling.

The rambling poetic drive lays in all humanity's exhale.
Most haven't the nose to detect its sour stench,
But some of us need to clothespin our nasal passages,
In order to kill its hot, singing entry.

Lamination.

Laminate the hands.

Laminate the arms.

Laminate the legs.

Laminate the torso.

Laminate the neck.

Laminate the face.


Now put them on display,
And watch the soul bleed free,
For your art suffers want.

The Purging Silence, and the City's Lights.

The purging silence, and the city's lights.
Thousands of worlds glowing in the night.
Hear the two hum, strangely bright.
The purging silence, and the city's lights.

Oh, the many concerns that enervate the moment!
Anonymous peace in the cloaking dark.
The purging silence, and the city's lights.
Everything matters in the useless void.
The creeping cold is our reality check.
The purging silence, and the city's lights.
I hear its captivating droll:

Rushing currents and meditation.
Police discretion and mediation.
Dramatic opinions and transformation.
Stilled illusions and realization.
The glowing flame and cauterization.

The purging silence, and the city's lights.

Where does the negativity flow?
I feel it bring us down so low.
So here's the event, here's the show.
But only if you have the money to blow.

The purging silence, and the city's lights.
Put us to bed and set things right.
The purging silence, and the city's lights.

Know of our frowns; know they're contrite.
The purging silence, and the city's lights.
To kill the head and kill the fright.

I Whistled.

I whistled but no heads turned.
I whistled but the ears were stopped.
I whistled and it echoed horribly.
I whistled and it sounded lonesome.
I just whistled until it hurt my ears.
Then I knew that Jiminy Cricket was wrong.

The Strength of the Season

The clouds pitch their flurries with the strength of the season. Their arms swell, taut and frozen. They grow gray and haughty with their sense of power: the kings of nature as long as they harness the skies. Long forgotten are the doughy, gentle wisps that have titillated our fantasies. They have metamorphosed into frowning, silent besiegers. At this moment, they are relentless.

Riding through the slushy streets in the black of night. I run the diamond without a stumble, steady and sure. My chilled lungs purr and pull until home base is reached. And who do I thank for my fortunate return? None but luck and trained caution.

Lend Me Your Love

Lend me your love for the space of an evening.
I want to borrow it for an Utopian hour.
You can have it back tomorrow.

I know your love is not given freely.
I know you cannot make your love last.
I know it's all make-believe.
So let's play pretend.

Lend me your love because order bores.
I need its wounding chaos to provoke adolescence.
You're too cold to miss it anyhow.

Lend me your love in my lonely youth.
Your heart is not nearly big enough for two.
Yet mine is not big enough for one.
So let me hold it awhile as the seconds tick by.
Let me pretend my heart is whole until the timer strikes.

Stuffing in Your Head

What stuffing in your head!

It fairly foams and frills with common sense.

How did it get there?

I want to meet the hand that packed it.

What stuffing in your head!

It's bursting out your ears.

Splash Damage

Splash damage rips the skin, opens it to drifting data. And you never know when the word-shrapnel will hit.

Mental Muscles

Why do I exercise the same mental muscles until they are so specialized, so overbearing that the others atrophy and decay? Where has the balance run? It huddles in rags-the dirty forgotten child in the corner, beaten when it begs for a morsel.

Untitled

Shirk social inhibition and enter the world of expression.

Self-esteem

Self-esteem at the wheel.
Self-esteem driving, reckless.
A self-esteem with a vengeance.

Die, Hope, Die!

When hope dies, decisions become easier. Hope is a handcuff, and its prisoners always await the keys. When we resolve ourselves to indifference, the doubt disappears and new opportunities organically arise. Cautioned detachment is for We The Wounded. For it is hope that keeps us illogically mesmerized. And this mesmerization is one of the many forms of intellectual imprisonment. The faithful should watch for it and beware.

The Fallen Eyelash

The eyelash fell from my open eye, dead and tragic. It lies on the white card table black and awful. Some folks place it delicately on their finger, dream a wish, and send it to the winds. I don't want to touch it. How can a person find hope in a fallen eyelash? It is lifeless. It no longer serves a function. It's a piece of trash, litter.

Where do all the fallen eyelashes go? How many have heedlessly floated forth from the human race's infinite eyes? Do they end up in the sea? Is there a fallen eyelash fairy working full time to secure the lashes? No. There is nothing so cozy and imaginative. They flit about on a lonely journey until they decompose. Only cruel science at work.

It sits still and unmoving on the table. And my throat chokes when I see it. So send your Sunday school teachers over here to remove it.

Viper Amongst Children

Haven't you seen the viper in your country's nurseries?
Its eyes are sharp, its fangs slaver, its body is coiled and tense. Its poison is potent, but nobody cares.

Haven't you seen the viper in your country's nurseries?
What will happen to your babies once its mouth suckles upon their Achilles heels? Do you think the serpent is here to protect?

Haven't you seen the viper in your country's nurseries?
Its dead skin litters sterile hospital floors. Its eggs share human cradles. Just wait until they hatch.

Haven't you seen the viper in your country's nurseries?
I squeeze my eyes and scream, but your attention is transfixed upon the mundane, and you do not hear.

I see a viper in your country's nurseries.
I hear its gleeful hiss.
But I have no Power to stop it,
Though the children wail with fear.

End Power

The need for power is at the source of all fight and also the source of all triumph. And what is egalitarianism but the balance of power? The powerless feel powerless and grasp whatever nuggets they can claim. They create countercultures to assimilate control in order meet the powerful with an equal gaze. The powerful defend their holdings in every way they can. They use force, sophistry, religion, politics, and all the icy facets of their frozen convention. For who is so noble as to relinquish power? It is the simplest desire of the human condition.

Power meanders in the caverns of human interaction, unseen and unacknowledged but always intrinsically felt. Power manifests itself in every conceivable relation. Everything from romance to fashion to economics is soiled by it. The soil is particularly filthy because it weds itself to the soul. And everyone knows or should know that the soul cannot be cleansed.

Power finds its way even in the pursuit of knowledge. Surely it is always the ignorant who are the most powerless, the most easily swayed by the powerful elite. And the truly educated are either a danger to the status quo or are instrumental in maintaining it, no matter what the cost. It is this latter group that is bought by the current state of affairs.

Power finds its way into love. It is the same, tiring game that even the animals play in order to gain dominance.

It's always about dominance. Emotional dominance. Intellectual dominance. Economic dominance. Political dominance. Technological dominance. It is the whisper of a savage world and its sound drives one mad. Dominance and dominance and dominance....

Now the great question nags, horrifies, keeps listeners awake at nights. "What is to be done?" And the irrevocable voice plays over and over in the brain a dismal and unsatisfactory answer: "NOTHING."

My Star

My star came out tonight. It looked like a dead vessel in a sea of space. The star was stationary, of course, and kindled all my suppressed hopes and desires for this life. Mesmerized, I stared and felt my soul’s light reflected back at me from the cosmic looking glass. I mentally channeled my story into its winding recorder so that the next time I see it out I will remember the moment and reflect all over again. This is the way that I grow.

Untitled

Why am I so hungry? I've been feeding myself so well. What sustenance does my body pine for? The desperate need illogically consumes me, seeking satisfaction. Like the vampire, I must need something wholly different to sustain me. And I shudder to think on what hallowed grounds it may be found, or what profane conquests await me there.

Stormy Feelings

Stormy feelings are the poet's tainted curse; the poet's blessed power. They control emotion's random ecstasies and unlooked for glooms. Stormy feelings may break your back or levitate your heart. There are no scientific laws to explain their movements. Stormy feelings have been the cause of terrible injustices but brilliant expressions. They are the infants of art, and the seeds of strife. They are the well of humanity, and those who do not draw from it are slowly dying of dehydration.