Easy Enough.

Easy enough,
They say.

Easy enough,
They say,
To those,
Who have fulfilled their horror.

But,
Our horror is a mystery.

Us,
Who have lived beyond desperation.

This horror is the one that lies beneath your desperate laughter.

You throw your head back and laugh,
But the horror is there,
And only the horridly sensitive can sense it.

Where Did the Bullet Come From?

Where did the bullet come from?

Its instant zang whipped through the air and into our backs. Our learned Kevlar vests were not enough to stop its entry. No distance was wide enough to shake it, no movement was abrupt enough to dodge it. It was honed in: skillfully aimed, skillfully shot.

Where did the ambulance come from?

Its response rate was thrilling. We were ferried away, patched, released. But the sniper still roams, estranged in the heart. We forever fear foreign rooftops.

Where did the fear come from?

Society's puss, and the awful experience. Society's plague, and its awful contagion. Society's feces, and the contented exploited. Society's somnambulance, and the sleeping brains.

Lassitude.

Everybody wants to be a rebel. They romanticize from within their lovely bubbles about the things they would like to change. They lay in bed at night and pretend that they are the beautiful, historical martyrs who were righteous enough to risk all that they had for their beliefs.

But in reality,
We still work our jobs.

But in reality,
We still watch our televisions.

But in reality,
We still play our video games.

But in reality,
We still seek escape.

I wait for the future to hit,
I wait with trepidation,
For when no one wants to fight,
For when no one is defiant,
For when the government has our power,
And all of our guns.

The Writer's Dam

I'm dreamin,
Just dreamin,
Because I can feel,
My soul again.

My heart has untwisted,
But writer's block,
Still dams my thoughts.

Fortunately the waters,
Are rising,
And it only takes time,
Before the synthetic dam,
Cracks and bursts,
From the insane pressure,
Of the pristine water.

Then the flow,
Should flood,
The dull lives,
Of the indifferent.

Beer, Beans, and Bologna.

Beer, beans, and bologna.
I'm living the high life.
Just living the dream.
A minimalist's diet.
Fun, fiber, protein.

The Judicial System.

Justice is a joke.

Its face is pristine, but its organs are rotten. They perform their function, but their process is cancerous. It is slow and torturous. And the chemotherapy involved is expensive and life-threatening.

Business as usual.

The joke is known to all of the salaried individuals who work for the state. It is known to all who have ever been processed. The mechanical rape is based on profit. Money flows into mocking coffers.

No more honor.

All is false. Philosophy is gone, replaced by sophistry. The titles, the robes, the atmosphere is designed to intimidate the poor and ignorant. They pay more readily when they respect the state.

Love of Self.

The ruling elite sip self-righteous cocktails. Power is the liqueur they enjoy. And they make their laws only when their particular inebriation is at its highest.

The Long Day

It was a long day, worrisome and weary. The sun rose early and fried my senses. My eyes were ringed and forlorn. Dread dwelled within my stomach. Concern bent my back. But overseeing it all was the mind-numbing fatigue. Such a strong fatigue. Such a slow, roasting torture.

The afternoon was warm, windy, and more relieving than the morning. Yet it was full of sad choices and awful remorse. It bled by slowly; it ran through the streets. And there was pain everywhere I looked.

The day is over now, and the sun has set. Night's soothing anonymity has fallen once more. It is a time when the world's overwhelming woes are put on hold, a time when cold beer washes the blood away, cauterizes wounds, and reinstitutes equilibrium. It is a time when the long day's poison filters through the shiftless memory and becomes harmless.

My Mind's Splooge.

I'm sick to death of seeing miserable people, poor and horrible, with their starving children--when their dogs are merely hungry.

I'm sick to death of seeing apeshit richies roaming about the streets acting hard. One punch would lay them out.

I'm sick to death of seeing ignorance manifested in disgusting schools. The system favors self-gratifying self-destruction. If only idiots knew this.

I'm sick to death of seeing blank brains trying to act like geniuses. They have nothing to say, and their breath stinks.

I'm just sick to death of seeing.

This is the splurge shooting out from my mind's penis. I need the release. Just let its white hot energy stain your monitor screen.

I am the skinny psychopath, white and weird, that stalks about at strange paces with fists clenched and back straight. I talk to myself everywhere I go.

Look askance at me and I'll fry you with words.

I Want

I want to drink,
But enjoy the hangover.

I want to laugh,
But enjoy the aftermath.

I want to live,
But enjoy my death.

Poetry is Dead

Poetry is dead.

The world is on the television, and no one appreciates unbridled expression. My eyes are numb; my breathe comes short. Society stands upon a peg.

Poetry is dead.

Even the artists have abandoned its arcane art. They feel that the magic is spent, that it has become antique. How small their minds must be. For the greatest wisdom lies in Lady Poetry's bosom.

Poetry is dead.

She is not quite buried yet, but her corpse is cold and horrible and ugly to look at. Even the maggots turn to avoid her. And this is why she has not decayed. She is preserved by bacteria's utter distaste in her.

But I love her with all my soul. And her body comes alive when my lips brush across hers. Then I feel the faintest heartbeat, the most minuscule warmth reenter her body. She responds to my entrance.

I have temporarily brung her back from the dead. It is then that I know that I am one of her lovers and that our love flies higher than ordinary humans can even see.

The Fire Danger

There's a fire danger in my brain,
It once was green but now it's yellow,
The threat has escalated, is no longer mellow.

There's a fire danger in my brain,
The drought has dried it out,
It's put rationale to rout.

There's a fire danger in my brain,
People flee when it's alight,
Because the rage is much more bright.

There's a fire danger in my brain,
I need the streaming, cleansing rain,
To lower its despairing pain.

Now,
Before the threat turns red,
And a misplaced spark,
Kills my head.

The Store Was Brightly Lit

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

The moon glowed high and stray cars passed. The adjacent windows were blacker than death. It was a beacon to the easily offended.

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

Its merchandise was on display. Yet its lively business appearance was offset by the uncompromisingly red 'CLOSED' sign in the window.

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

It welcomed onlookers and discouraged thieves. Mother Earth groans while their electronic money flows.

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

The mannequins stood behind the glass, and their gaze was hostile. They mimicked life; they are plastic lies.

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

The electrical industry worked hard to satisfy their demand. The coal was dug and is ever burning in order to power their profit.

The store was brightly lit in the center of the night.

The empowering rocks called to my mind. Then my hand extended, and my fingers twitched with fire. To break the store's face was my only desire.

Strong Fatigue

Strong fatigue,
Weighting my veins,
Barbing my breath,
Lowering my lids,
Swirling my brain,
Taxing my heart,
Testing my patience,
Sapping my humor,
Stabbing my temper,
Pushing me hard.

Strong fatigue,
That fears sleep,
And relishes its power.

Protection

I want to bury her in my body,
And shield her from the warring world.

And I will let its savage spears,
Pick my flesh to pieces,
While she stays sensitive,
And painlessly petite,
Inside my arms.

Youth's Last Lament

Youth's last lament,
Shivers at its eulogy,
Suffers at new prospects,
Wipes the sweat from its brow,
Weeps over loss,
And stares amazedly into the distance.

The Sad Day

That day was a sad day. One filled with strange emotions, empty efforts, shattered hearts. Your right ventricle now lays in the toilet bowl; it is completely submerged. The clear water is colored, red. I can only envision its awful taint and smell its putrid pain.

But what a cleansing flush it could be! Your heart was festering, I recognize the feeling. Let the blue water sterilize and renew. Let your bout with death open your psyche and bring you peace. Let your depressive disease rot in the city's sewers along with the woes of all those who feel pain as strongly as you.

Flush your right ventricle down the pipes. I know you can make do with the left one.

Those who grapple with death understand life. And only those who understand life behold the roots of the universe. It is true that the roots are sickly, shriveled, and plague-ridden. It is true that the dirt that nourishes them is filled with maggots, over-nourished maggots who writhe in spasmodic horror.

Yet we must breathe it in, we must taste the mud, we must digest that putrescence. It is a duty unconsciously placed upon our shoulders by the unenlightened. It is our duty as responsible, intelligent citizens of Earth. What we have is a blessed curse. It is the unasked-for power of the poet. Its unending burn blisters the soul.

We are all buzzing flies in the stagnant air. But there is a web that was spun by who knows what, and a Black Widow lurks at the very center. And some of us get caught in the net and struggle and struggle. The more we struggle the more entangled we become, and our buzzing cries are ignored by the world at large. Some of us stop struggling and will the eight-legged predator to descend and drain our lifeblood with her painless fangs. We are fearful and enervated at the same time, and her poison deadens our senses at the very end. We smile as consciousness languidly slips away. Reality becomes nothing but a bad dream.

But us flies can sense a threat; it is our communal duty to save our kin. And so we slash the web with the most natural love beating in our hearts. It is a love that should be louder than thunder and is lightninged by the moment.

The Vacationer's Outlook

I want the vacationer's outlook to take hold of me again. It is light and airy. It is filled with buoyant promise. It makes one glad to be young and joyful to be alive. You feel life's color and are awestruck by its beauty. There is a joke beneath every grimace, a sun behind every cloud. You owe everything to yourself and are obligated to no one. You are free of society's claws. You can laugh like a maniac and effortlessly shrug off public disdain, urinating wherever you please.

Happiness?

I am going to write of happiness.

Of children laughing and rainbows blooming,
Of lovers living and suns smiling,
Of candy raining and colors golden,
Of linear houses and pearl teeth,
Of Christian minds and ignorant options,
Of dirty money and awful laws,
Of grim slavery and social hells.

Happiness lies at the top of a beer.

Laughter

Laughter, intelligent laughter.

I feel it tickle my face and swell my stomach. It feels transient, but I know it could last if the vengeful fates only granted it. I smile and look to the skies, and see the stars, and their light crinkles my eyes.

Laughter, lovely laughter.

It's the medicine that the country needs. It's the balm the working class lacks, for the rich have monopolized it. Their lazy laughter is stung by dollar signs. Let it lift the woes away.

Laughter, orgasmic laughter.

Light as a feather, but sunk in premonition. Fearful of the future. I feel happiness at last. Let it last, and last, and last, and last.

To Hide Behind Shelter...

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. For the wind freezes the bones and strips the skin. When the skin is stripped the bones are bare. The homeless know this. See their rags.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Have you ever ran before its might? It chases me wherever it goes. My hair is ever ruffled.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Huddle against the concrete column; feel the dying warmth of the sleeping sun as the night's dramatic wings flap with anguish.

To hide behind shelter is to seek safety from the wind. Let the shelter stand until the body can't feel. Then the wind may buffet me as much as it wants, my teeth won't chatter, and my Heart will slow.

I Return Again.

My heater is finally working. I had sat, trembling, willing the machine to function. I had sat, staring, hating its unwillingness to respond. It was the impotence that disturbed me. That frustrating helplessness is the first stage of despair, and the start of incompetence. Incompetence is the muddy bog one trods through when dumped in the land of depression. It feels endless, and it often is.

But my heater is finally working. I feel my lifeblood resurfacing. My eyes have opened. My brain is ticking. My breath is fruitful.

I am the Prince of the Deep. And I have emerged from a scorched landscape to come here now. Gaze into my eyes and see my far off pain. Paint my portrait and catch the craters in the background but don't forget the foreground's laughter.

I am the Prince of the Deep because my heater runs once more. I return from the grave with a smile on my face and a glow on my skin. Come to me for warmth. Stretch your hands toward me and absorb the comforting hum--now while it lasts.

I am the Prince of the Deep. My name is irrelevant; my presence is critical. I am at war with the Czar's Army of the Shallow. I am meticulous in my bloodlust. My glimmering sword points to the capitol. It thirsts for oppression.

I am the Prince of the Deep. I am both magician and teacher. I smile forever and hate no more. My scorn is comical; my laughter lies just below the murky surface.

I am the Prince of the Deep, and I return again because I have regained my equilibrium.