Always Healing.

Always healing is the body. This process is the source of aging; the result of the world’s tempering anvil. The hammer beats us back to shape in the eerie smithy, whose walls are reddened by the smoldering coals. And the settling smoke deafens our confused senses. Once healed, our re-woven forms step out into the slashing chaos daring history to repeat itself: though we internally disbelieve in that possibility until it occurs again.

When the body stops healing, the corpse appears. The corpse lurks at the pit of our worries. Cold and patient, it neither laughs nor frowns. The corpse is certainty embodied--and nothing besides. It holds no emotion but provokes a rainbow of feeling. And this particular rainbow will remain when the foreboding clouds clear.

I Am the Lesser Man.

I am the lesser man. I travel west along the plain, as the great blazing sun whispers its reincarnant death theme in my ear, reddening the cartilage.

I am the lesser man. My legs burn as I run from the clamor. My body will punish me in the morning.

I am the lesser man. The betters use me as an example, disdaining my existence with detached decadence.

I am the lesser man. My clothes show it; my fuzzed cheeks reek it, my baggy eyes reveal it. I sag beneath the tired totem pole.

I am the lesser man. I feel it in my fiber; I tag it in the mirror.

I am the lesser man.

My flaws are displayed upon my face,
They disturb the better man's grace,
It is his peace that they debase,
Forced to consider the lesser man's case,
They kill his quiet, they burn his lace,
And all that's left is an awful disgrace.

Sitting in the Dark.

I'm sitting in the dark waiting for my pupils to adjust, and I feel Alright.

My brain is glowing coals--it is red and distant within the encroaching black. The colors blend to satisfy my mood. In this cave, time is irrelevant. The past's choke-hold is loose, and the future's Full Nelson does not entrap. So I inhale freely and stand upright.

I'm sitting in the dark waiting for my pupils to adjust, and I am Patient.

I see things the normals reject, for the conjurer is in my head this silent eve. The conjurer: the bliss and bane of my body. It animates desire and maximizes the urge of expression. The conjurer's lidless darkness has always suggested...possibility. I eat it for dinner this empty night.

I'm sitting in the dark waiting for my pupils to adjust, and I am Dissatisfied.

The night and I are one, but we now have nothing to say. Mystery has deserted our relationship and all that remains is bleak familiarity. It is a routine that fries our soul in gasoline.

To burn hotly is the aim.

Give Me Fullness

Fullness in the gloom.

The fullness of thought.
The fullness of memory.
The fullness of security.

Locked doors, stable cells, happy logic.

Fullness equals satisfaction,
And it is desire that requires fullness.

Fulfillment chomps at the gut of all humanity.
It is a need that is sated temporarily.
It becomes hungry again in a whirling moment.

The want for fulfillment requires an infinite supply,
And an irrational imagination.

The latter I have in abundance.

I know that,
To attain fulfillment is a dream,
To feel it is a lie,
To do without it is a joke.

I know that,
The unstable do smile,
While the intelligentsia do frown,
While the steady are stoic.

Let's Be Hungry Together

Let's be hungry together,

Out empty bodies in sync.

Let's feel our need press us equally,

Our mind mortared by mutualism.

Let's live with want,

Knowing that hunger is murder.

Leap into the New Year.

Leap into the new year.

Feel its scented robes wrap around your thighs and across your torso--the rouge of royalty. Oh the new year and its possibilities! Youth's complex hope shines a light on the future. The younger the light, the brighter it shines. And how blindingly strong its beam can be!

Leap into the new year.

Where new tests tell of a character's muscle; where new trials tell of a character's resilience; where the written past drives the creator's ambition.

Leap into the new year.

We celebrate to purge ourselves of the previous year: To baptize ourselves in inebriation and awaken the next day with the sludge burned out of our bodies, flushed down all the cold and depressing toilets laying at the quiet corners of every madly euphoric party.

Leap into the new year.

The lines on its face are growing much deeper. I remember when the new year had the unweathered skin of the newborn baby. Yet each wrinkle on father time's face speaks of consternation and woe. I now see the new year's face as I see father time's: a book to be read and then mourned.

Leap into the new year.

Leap like a frog to the pond, ruffling the surface, sending insignificant ripples across the flat establishment. In the quiet morning, the splash of the world's billions may be heard as they fill their lungs with old air and plunge beneath another year's ocean. I wonder how deep they'll dive this time?

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.

Coddle the Flame

Coddle the flame because the wind is attacking.
Coddle the flame because death blows strongly.
Coddle the flame because it's afraid and quavering.
Coddle the flame, small as it is.
Coddle the flame because it just might go out.

War Against Work

Work is a waste of brain power. Its levels lessen as the mundane saps its strength. One must rage electrically in order to maintain the critical energies. One must toxify in order to recharge. Work lessens the IQ. How can a mind flourish if its attentions are continually tyrannized? Better to be dead than feel the mind implode. It's the vacancy, the volatile vacancy. It's the loss, the lonesome loss. It's the crash, the craftless crash. We must war against their routine. We must war against their money. We must war against their work. It's war that we should feel. Indignant war.

Put your stethoscope to the world's breast and hear its stertorous heart struggle. Our neglect is the viral culprit.

Instant Intellect.

Just add water.

Available at your local Walmart.

Untitled

Her flaxen hair silhouettes her face like a golden halo. The tresses drape her Quaker features. Blessed by Mona Lisa's detachment, she is oblivious to my covert eyes. I admire her from afar because she belongs in a live art gallery. Does she have a voice? I have never heard her speak. But her silence intrigues, and I wish it to last so that her mystique maintains its sacred glamor and infuses this dim world with mystery.

The Scank Moon...Again.

Where was the moon tonite? I saw it only briefly on the vulgar double-vision-drive homeward. It looked molested, half eaten, and I wished that I had taken that bitter bite out of its hurtful crescent before gluttonous nature swelled her steel belly. Jealousy inflamed!

I felt betrayed by the moon tonite.

Tonite, I wished the sun had shone fully, if only briefly. I kept looking behind my back expecting its intemperate appearance, but I only met with blackness---and then feminine scorn. I hate its seasonal disturbance, and if I controlled motion I would ensure its oval eternity.

Art and God

Art and God are ancient enemies, crossing swords for the possession of man. Art bestows us with the power of creation; the artist worships himself. God bestows us with the power of anonymity. Worshiping God minimizes the ego. Without identity, peace laces life. I have walked both paths until my legs burned, and my body hurt. In the end I chose the one that hurt me the best. And I will never turn back.

Fire Extinguisher

The old extinguisher is spilling dust onto the living fire. It is finally empty and no replacement is near. And the flame feeds on. The fire slowly drags its eager fingers along my panicked skin as it senses my vulnerability, and I curse the traitorous tool cackling at my feet. No sirens bring hope to the fray, and the temperature steadily rises. My lungs char, and I chant my death poem as my body turns to ash.

Untitled

Loving girl: dry your eyes and hand over your grief. I'll lock it away and jailbreak joy. It will give you the buoyant will to fight gravity's lowering tug. May you flash golden smiles that spite your mind's pain.

Untitled

Live well.

Age well.

Die well.

Decay well.

Impending Failure

Craft a mold for my impending failure. Fire it until it glosses and the flaming 'F' sears my esteem. Place the inverted trophy on the mantle next to its shimmering brethren. Place it carefully in plain view, and solder a molten piece to my makeshift ego. I want to feel it weigh me down when I abandon ship and swim for shore.

Nest

Where have you chosen to nest, young sparrow? What roost calls your instinct? Or will you remain forever aloft and forever itinerant, guided by the sky? As the winds bear your airy body, the cold will creep into your hollow bones without a sound.

Listen to your instinct. Its gut-wrenching speech fairly drips with common sense. Find a nest and fortify it with the debris of ages. Build a haven inside a life. Safe within its protective circle, you can let the seasons commence.

Untitled

When the moon stops shining its loving light on my upturned face. When the moon's acne beauty explodes into a jagged mosaic. When the moon's voluptuous body exposes its mundane entrails to masked, dead men. When the moon's romantic promise fades out with the day. When the moon's white turns permanently to black. When the moon's love stagnantly devolves. When the moon's mystery buckles before humans.

This is the day that I die.

Broken

The deja vu subsided and the pencil lay snapped in half. Its sound still ricocheted in the halls, a portent. There it was on the desk with a broken spine. The tan flesh coated its black marrow, and the graphite wept in derision. The jagged edges of detachment carried in them the premonition of violence. It loomed, gracefully vengeful, like velvet. The antagonist loafed, comfortably unaware. The event made me wish that the inanimate could rise up and punish their smug oppressors.

Untitled

When I put the world in cruise control, a rush enters my brain and enervates my sense of life. To take your foot off the accelerator and feel your life's vehicle speed forward of its own accord is a sacred experience. It is a feeling of joyful despair: a smiling hopelessness. You realize that time is a heedless instrument of nature. It ferociously gushes down the ditch of infinity, a stream with no discernible beginning or end.

Untitled

Would you recognize me after I smiled at you?

The River of Innocence

Today I waded through a river of children. I was making my way through the swamp of adults when their sound first cascaded across my intrigued ears adding youth to earth's old morning. I heard the pitched current attack the selfish environment as I approached. Then I beheld it. Chaotic as a tempest; wide as the Mississippi. Moving swiftly at points and languidly at others. The river reached waist high. Intimidated, I stood and studied its pouring patterns until I felt secure enough to cross.

Then I began to ford the broiling mass. The first step was the most difficult because the waters felt foreign. But the second and third steps came with increased ease as the river washed the quagmire's mud off of my beaten boots. Now, with half my body submerged, I felt the current's tug threaten my stance. But I resisted its pull and persevered even though my heart almost gave.

When I was finally across I turned and looked back with a feeling of loss. Though I was bodily sound, I could not shake the feeling that something had dislodged from within and been swept away by the cherubic flow. I sighed and continued on through the adultian marsh with the gait and posture of a broken old man. The sounds of the river grew dimmer as the distance increased until they blended completely with those of the pragmatic landscape ahead.

Days

Days,
In isolation.
Sentenced by nature for careless crimes.

Days,
Alone.
Pining for contact and sequestered by illness.

Days,
Of hermitage.
A self analytical loneliness.

Days,
Of delirium.
Boiling in pain.

Days,
Imprisoned.
Keeping an eye on the keys.

Days,
Sunless.
Electronically lit in the the robot emporium.

Days,
Indistinguishable from nights.

Scales

Blue, silver, purple scales are snaking beneath the torpid ocean surface, flickering in the dreary realm of lovelessness. They are here, in this hour of hours, fascinating we who sit alone and stare deeply into the dark depths looking for will and wisdom.

Untitled

The ice cubes have melted. They warmed and watered down my drink. The pristine glass now holds liquid unfit for consumption. Proof that I should be drinking it faster.

Election Day.

You can change the smiley mask, but the unreadable face is still concealed. A very few are aware that the unreadable face shades the political mind's sneering grimace. And the political mind's grimace has remain unchanged since the beginning of government. The unreadable face was not always unreadable, however. There came a time when the face became slack and unregistering, and the smiley mask became necessary. There came a time when people began to read shallow deception. The smiley mask was molded then.

There will come a day when the people will be able to read behind all faces straight into the bare brains of the deceivers. There will come a day when the people will stop, listen, and think. There will come a day when bullshit is smelt, seen, and even stepped in. On that day, the powerful will tremble, forever after.

Divine Guitar

The guitar jutted down from the heavens; the head and neck split the highest clouds. And what magnificent music it played for the earth and skies. But the guitarist could not reach the lowest notes and so hell was not appeased. The denizens stood by with their tortures on their shoulders, bent and waiting for the blissful release music renders. They waited eons for their dark, mournful tunes to carry into the underground. But the musician's arms were simply too short, and he could not play their desire. They have since slipped back into the jealous shadows listening unseen. The artist, discontented, disappeared long ago. The divine guitar returned to the skies and has not been heard since. Before his absence the artist prophesied the coming of a great musician who could play equally well for heaven, earth, or hell. And, on his arrival, the guitar will return once more to thrill all three hemispheres with its auditory therapy.

Tribute to Black Hawk

I read the life of a man in the space of two hours. I absorbed the cultural opinions of a dead man in 120 minutes. For one-twelfth of a day, I felt his vibrant life beat against my fingers.

And my ringing ears heard his just pain yell deafeningly in history.

You will live on, Black Hawk, behind my pale face and inside my crinkled brain. You will live on longer than was your destiny. Your dry bones may rest, unmoved, in your grave. But your life is left in a book entitled, The Life of Black Hawk--and in a mind entitled, BCL.

Little Words

Little words in a big city gazing at all the buildings. Little words with necks craned jostled by the locals. Little words, sick and sad, lost in the sweeping traffic. Little words out of place but full of life yet homeless and overlooked. Little words in the overcast world breeded out by screaming polysyllables. Little words, simple and unrefined, now silent, emotional watchers through the child's absorbing eyes. Little words trodden on by muddy adulthood's everlasting boots.

Just Say Yes

Just say yes to every question perched to you. Just say yes when they all shake their heads no. Just say yes when askance nags. Just say yes when the gray tombstone glares. Just say yes as the IV trickles. Say yes for the sake of desire. Say yes for the sake of hypnosis. Say yes for the sake of nothing.

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.

Untitled

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.

Untitled

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.

Untitled

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.

The Crew of Expendables

Hail the captains and their crew of expendables, haughtily sailing the slow seas south toward Mexico where cargo waits to be unloaded and tequila waits to be drunk. The bright sun glimmers on the waving waters over which pristine seagulls glide, crying their lonely cries. The crew of expendables silently work and are ignored by the dutiful captains who diligently discuss the business at hand.

The clouds hug the harmless horizon, afraid to let go and be transported back up to their boring blue homes. The crew of expendables grasp the helm in similar manner. For they are like the horizon’s clouds, searching for newness in places where none is likely to be found. The lofty clouds explore the forbidden earth; the land loving crew explores the mysterious seas. Not so the captains, who are wise enough to recognize that newness is merely a trick of the underdeveloped mind.

The crew of expendables live in either the future or the past, but never, never the present. The present they fear because of its impulsive immediacy. The present is for the trilingual captains to face and interpret. For them, the present is like a condemned building, unsightly and unlivable, that will malevolently collapse upon the brink of entry.

Because.

Because,
I'm a stupid guy,
With a smart brain,
That cannot comprehend,
The word,
Because.

So Long.

So long as the money is printing,
So long as the green color blinds,
So long as the paper flowingly crumbles,
Into million-dollar wallets.

So long as the worthless insignia,
Is packed,
Into countless bombs.

So long,
As they march with crocked knees,
Crooked in mind.

So long,
As they fire bought bullets,
Into human targets,
We must say it.

So long,
We must say it without luck,
And you must say it with your last breath.

"So long..."

Silenced

How alone is the silence when it has no ears to hear?

Evening.

I stare,
Through a glaucoma telescope,
Toward the future,
In an evening that resounds,
With morbid sighs,
Who protest,
Consolation,
And her lackluster,
Philosophy.

Never to Be Dislodged

Dust rode in on the clouded air, stopping on the way down to the lungs. Dry dust that coats the throat like a sandy slicker. The pestering grains riddle its reflexes, and the driest cough shudders the air. But the unharmed dust, unmoved, perches unworried in the most unreachable centers of the unhappy esophagus--never to be dislodged.

The Machine God

The people dig through their pockets, bring out their leather wallets, and place their earnings in the patient machine's famished mouth. Its green lights display its unsleeping hunger, and its emptiness arouses the emptiness in others.

The devoted pay homage to their everlasting idol(one of ruin, no doubt) as they traipse by with practised poise. It accepts with engineered stoicism--like the golden calf of ancient myth. It towers, nine feet tall, a droll hum rumbling from within its monetary breast, affecting the thoughts of all who glimpse its immobile body.

Some pray with wanton fingers, tap-tapping on the sacred number pad, praising the puppet whenever their selfish stomachs grumble. The buttons are shiny white and make pleasant beeping sounds when depressed: a bleep that causes conditioned mouths to water.

The machine god always produces with blunt precision any time it is correctly hailed, and there are few who have incurred its absent-minded wrath. It reacts to requests with punctual predictability. This is why their worship is wildly reactive and forever involuntary.

Take It Slow.

Take it slow,
Because life moves fast.

Slowly,
Inside the swirl's,
Ingenuity.

Slowly,
Inside the hurricane's,
Cliche eye.

Slowly,
While the world's instruments,
Swiftly speed.

Taking it slow,
While life moves fast.

Blink your watery pupils,
Against the rapid blur.

Unclench your fists,
In the midst of chaos.

Silence priority,
With a firm will.

Take it slow.

Let's take it slow,
Because we're all in motion,
Always motion.

Flush It Out

To flush forth the riddled past,
Purging for the demanding present.

To flush with rushing waters,
And feel their streaming passage,
Whoosh with hope.

Let the fluids make their way,
Through clammy corridors,
Plagued pastures,
And locust dens,
To the awaiting exit.

Out it surges,
Blackly cluttered at first,
Squirming with gaseous debris,
Then lightening,
Into a clear and unassuming,
Purity.

My Laughter.

My laughter
Is always
Just below
The murky surface.

Take your pin
And set it free.

Away From Another Day

I walked off into the night,
Black as it was,
Away from another day.

I walked away,
Feeling my hamstrings pull,
And my fists clench.

I drove off into the night,
Black as it was,
With my headlights on.

I drove away,
Squinting at the lights,
Comfortably blind,
Away from my newest friends.

Untitled.

Frozen in the rock's cracks,
Invading its insides,
Kniddling it apart,
In innocent destruction,
Are the seeping waters,
Of the shifting seasons.

The reeling stone contemplates the pain,
Body in decay,
When the wintry seizures strike,
And baldly break its granite brethren.

Use Your Words

"Use your words,"
The enchanted voice said.

Its tone warmed the senses,
And crinkled my eyes,
Into strange laughter.

For I had unwittingly experienced,
The best advice,
Of my time.

The Sounds of Thought

The sounds of thought come in unceasing waves. Harsh bombarding waves. Light, subtle waves. Waves that can cluster or annoy. As their noise resounds, I feel the dramatic echo and then wait for the repetitive cry to bounce and warp within the caves of my distracted brain. As it does, my foundations are upset, and I frantically work to bolster the supports.

Yet sometimes the sounds do not reverberate. The slimy algae absorbs the shock, the echo dies, and all is undisturbed. Although the building stands strong, it feels artistically incomplete. It becomes savage and vulgar, nasty to any worthy onlooker, and repugnant to the frustrated architect. One can only listen with head-cocked in the fray, and await for a chance recurrence.

It takes a special sort of ear to hear the sounds of thought. It is the eternal internal ear, and its auditory canal is purged of wax. The sounds pour across the eardrum. The cerebral cortex struggles to interpret. This is the prophet's informer, and he is never silent. All information gained engenders the seeds of power whose deceptive chutes eagerly blossom and ominously sway--to The Sounds of Thought.

Chivalry is Dead.

Tiredly tell the immolating gentleman that chivalry is dead and classify this foreign contempt. Tell him that hollow manners should never flatter; that elitist jargon should never enchant. Tell him about the sterility of generalized and widespread affection: how its thin, weak, strained spread loses all emphasis with time. Tell him that it cannot replace lost or stale attributes.

Chivalry is dead because the wise have killed it. Those who are able to love and hate have kept it dead and promote its decay. You would use your medieval charms to resurrect it from its unmarked graves, but what you uncover may not be what you wish.

The Vacant Vessel

The shores on each side of the flurried river are littered with fallen trees. They are rotten and soggy, and the etch of insects have tattooed the trunks. They have all died, bent by the wind, and now return to their eager mother. Step over and around them as you make your way to the water.

The river's waves are gentle now and kind to the beaten canoe that aimlessly drifts with the current. Stand and watch it as you've done in past dreams. It grows larger as it approaches from the East(nut brown, sleek, and narrow), made of the very same trees that tangle the shores. The oar lays at one side, waiting for a pilot. Your legs stand firmly planted on the hard dirt, but your fingers and arms twitch for the wooden instrument. The waters are gentle, the approach is leisurely, but the distance is great. The canoe nears and your decision is made. You will brave the icy waters, and the shifting currents to reach the vacant vessel. But you must swim without fatigue in order to overcome the gap. When you reach the vacant vessel, grasp the oar, and you will be in command when the deceiving waters shift and begin to change color.

Rest Your Head

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
Close your red-rimmed eyes,
Still your frantic nerves,
Breath softly.

Rest your head,
On the living support,
Give up some of the pain,
That lurks in living.

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
And be thankful,
That it exists.

Rest your head,
And ignore the whistles,
The cries,
The jeers of the race.

Rest your head,
With welcoming warmth,
And put the marathon on hold.

Untitled

The quivering scrawls on the pitiful page are the result of the elder's quavering hand. Once strong, it barely obeys the will of its owner, and then only weakly. The letters gawk and mock. They destroy the hopes of the lively by reminding them of their own imminent, omni-present demise. How the aged heart must palpitate once youth is dismissed. When strength abandons, the world becomes hostile. And lucky will be those who have companions in decline.

Lady Reality's Dogs

When Lady Reality's dogs bark, feline instincts flare. Their hoary voices drown the morning's sleep-touched peace; their pitch casts a spell of depressed duty on the ears they disturb. Why can't Lady Reality keep her dogs quiet and well-mannered? Is that so much to hope for? They bark at the worst of times, and when I leave the house they stalk my shadow, growling and guttural. I try and keep casual, but my adrenaline soars, and my fear ignites. For I have heard that the ill-tempered, uncollared brutes will tear out a man's throat with their clamping jaws and yellow, razor teeth. Don't arouse their hackles. Docility is what the situation calls for. Docility before dogs.

It is true that Lady Reality's dogs have me cowering. I am afraid of their drive. I am haunted by their hunt. I am terrified by the things they have done to humanity, and the things they will timelessly do until the timeline's end with such simple and ferocious detachment.

I now find myself covering my scent and ducking into dark alleys whenever I spy the four legged demons in the distance. They tasted my flesh once; they must not taste it again. But I know that they are in a frenzy, and I can only dodge them for so long before they find me. For bloodlust now drives these savage creatures; their eyes are glossed by it. In hiding I hear the Lady, their master, chuckling at my fear.

Down to the Catacombs

Let us descend,
Down to the catacombs,
And listen to the century's waters,
Nostalgically drip.

The sound of stones' blood and tears.

Down to the catacombs,
You and I,
Where darkness rides,
On neglect's saddle,
Through the submerged kingdom,
Beaten leathers bleating.

Where the hollow skulls stare,
And the air reeks of moss.

Let us wander,
Lost and forgotten,
Through the winding corridors,
Trailing our young fingers along ancient walls,
And around mysterious corners,
In the steely depths.

Our perspiring palms are together,
And our minds enlarge as our bodies explore.

Inside the city's black bowels,
Let us lose the will,
To surface.

The Flying Comet

The comet's semen-tail,
Trails and flurries,
Whipping the mysterious skies,
Tickling the stunned stars,
As the smoldering center flares,
Buried within.

Fiery, whirring,
Life outbursting,
Boundless to simple eyes,
As it creases faster,
Fastest.

The planets lay below,
Dead, stationary, and unappealing.

But down the comet,
Must fall,
When the energies give in,
To gravity's call.

A short lived streak,
To the world below,
Where the new comet rock,
Cools amongst the old,
Who lay supine,
Who died untold.

Untitled

I am amazed at the speed in which we scrape our red and smoking wreckage off the unforgettable pavement; at how normal life appears when the mess is cleared, the violence purged, the problems hidden by routine's warm, drab blanket. Whenever the twisted carnage is pushed within its safe folds life continues, obliviously anew. The vehicles single-mindedly speed on, unworried and unimpeded, toward their respective destinations. Whatever will we do when the clean up crew fails to arrive? What will we do when the smoke lingers, the bloodstains darken, and the bodies start to rot? How many desperate horns will dumbly honk in the future's bedlam?

Untitled

Let us forget in order to regain the simplest thrills and sorrows of the learning and experience which classify life. Let us touch the flame to see whether its body yet burns, and then doubt all over again, though our infant fingers still smart. Let us thus keep our minds innocent and inquisitive.

In this way our youth will never be lost, and age shall not embitter and harden our aspiring hearts, even when our skin creases and dries, our bones creak and crack, and our breath comes shallow and tired.

The Intellectual Care Bear.

Hear it talk,
The intellectual care bear,
To the crowd of creatures.

Its quiet voice,
Charged with timid confidence,
Occupies the hall.

Emotionless, toneless,
It drones and drones,
Full of uncolored opinion.

My intellect is unmoved,
My interest is repulsed,
My ears stop,
Inexplicably,
As the emotionless opinions,
Rack my lungs.

They are filled to the brink.

I cough and cough,
Convulsively,
But the obstructions,
Still refuse,
To surface.