Brittle by Dawn

The music blared, our emotions flickered, and we moved like magma, gripping each other as only the dying do. We were a viscous sludge, slow and painstaking, that purposefully flows, busting apart American homes. How little we cared amidst the heat, drawing breath and diving in: melting instantly. You must remember.

You cooed and cawed, but our blood began to cool, and our flow began to cease. We sensed an end but pointedly ignored it.

The soaring temperatures plummet, the great passions turn obsidian: shimmering and voluptuous, coldly elegant, a petrified whisper.

And in our deadness, we bitterly clashed, shedding sediment, brittle by dawn.

The Overactive Imagination

The wicked eyes pierce your marrow, and you glance around, hyperactive. You just can't shake that portentous feeling, and your enemies abound, blades athirst. You know their histories; you know their intent; you feel your own shortcomings grind your guts. And when they draw blood, it hurts so good.

Look into your life, confined fiend, and question the way your mind swings. Damned to sway, damned to quest, a wanderer without roots, sorely tolerated but always unwanted. You think of all the places you've slept on this horrid pilgrimage, trudging your way to the final resting place, that leaves this aching life behind, and transports you into harmony's pure embrace.

Your hands shoot out, dying for love, but meet projection's glowing mist, and you feel yourself sinking. Familiar, all too familiar. And though you fall, your legs continue to push your body along the gravelly road while the moon breathes its faithful breath against your bared back, and for a minute, you aren't alone, although your purpose escapes you.

What are you searching for, fallen man? Blow the smoke from your lungs. You can't elude those eyes forever.

Outta Hell, Outta Heaven

The wheel turns as I run, an endless carpet, spinning faster and faster. And the energy I expend exudes from within, evaporating in the skies. Heaven's in the distance; on the horizon I see it, melting my eyes.

Fatigue grips me, but I don't rest. I push myself, though I get nowhere. Because I've always pushed myself where the compass points, rain or shine. Running, running, though the bearings age and immolate.

Suddenly I look behind me, and the rage spreads like cancer, while I smirk and pant a curse. I slow to a snail's pace and reflect, bitterness contorting. The curtains lift, and I step out from beneath the scented veil: the velvet makes me shudder with disgust.

They were holding hands in heaven, carefree, their perfect skin untainted, watching me with comic distaste as I stood by my wheel, eight months outta hell, burned and boiled, scarred so visibly, dirty with darkness.

My vision clears, and I abandon the wheel, to die forever, for I know my home is here, beneath isolation's neglected wing, whose smudged feathers shimmer still, murky and lifeless. I poke around the dank dark, pupils widening, perceiving the rugged landscape stretching out around me.

And again I abandon heaven,
And again I tread the tundra,
And again I tremble before the flame,
That flares and flickers in distress.

And again I huddle here,
While time blows its wrinkly breath,
Until hell is just a memory,
Until heaven is just a myth,
Until my hungry smile,
Returns to me again.

Bludgeoned by his fading hopes, his cold reality, the tired man slumps, shoulders hunching. The straining mind, taut with pressure, yields and begins to buckle. A dam cracks, a flood gallops; drowning memories, waters white and savage. They spit and foam as sanity surrenders, as blindness consumes.

The man trembles, frantic. "Oh, hell," he whispers, and the temperature spurts.

An Attack on Indifference

The internet has got to be the greatest invention of our generation. It offers an unlimited range of information to the average person. PHD quality material is available to anyone who cares to access it. Project Gutenberg(gutenberg.org) is a prime example of this.

Yet intellectual poverty continues to persist in this country on a widespread level, despite this expansive wealth of knowledge, causing rag-tag intellectuals like myself to ponder this issue with anger and indignation.

Is it due to the media's unrelenting barrage, with its showy commercials and cheap stimulations? Do the government and its cohorts actively expend time, money, and energy in suppressing a person's higher impulses? Perhaps, perhaps not.

It is much more likely that an unconscious bureaucratic process is taking place: one that is necessary if the governing institution is to maintain its control(and ultimately its life); a process that is rudely compartmentalized, and thus difficult to upset.

Or perhaps the ruck of men are simply crass and fickle creatures, who willfully persist in an apathetic state until death claims their undeveloped identities. This last is all too easy to embrace with a scholar's arrogance; a favored opinion infesting the intelligentsia, a fatalistic aristocrat's brassy romanticism, and the outlook which every social revolution in history has attempted to combat, but has fallen short of.

I write this because it's been clanking around my foggy brain, clamoring for expression, because progress is perpetually on the horizon, but goes unrealized. Isn't anyone angry? Or are we too distracted by Dexter and reality TV to voice our opinions? It is easy to become distracted. It's only human, and thus forgivable. Unpleasant realities are difficult to digest but must be faced soon, or moderation will simply die out, and socially conscious individuals will be forced to turn militant--a dangerous prospect.

A prominent opinion these days is that voting is useless, that politicians are corrupt, that the system is broken and, as a result, that change is ephemeral. But that is no justification for political indifference. Rather, it is a call to arms, an indication that the traditional channels of change aren't up to snuff and need to be replaced by more meaningful action.

Calamity is in the air, and we have to right to avoid asphyxiation.

-Brian Looney

The Great White Night

Her phosphorescent face, emotive and glowing, breathes out surreal life-rays, the whitish blue irises, the astrological mana. Then, through a breezy smirk, "Let there be night" resounds upon the hardening tundra, equal in all areas, from the deepest cave to the highest tree.

The great white night finds us final in all of our decisions; finds us reserved and implacable; finds us able to withstand its seashore strength. It finds our gaze connected, our knees unshaking, our wills intertwined. It rears in fear, hoofs clashing, jaws gnashing, eyes gushing anger. Now circling and darting, surveying its foe, as we glare back, impregnable.

White. White is its shallow converse, the exchange of the universe, slashing its canvas across the slab that beckons and beckons. White pigment to be seen with rapture, in circular flotation, battered but unmolested.

We float within its fog; we electrify within its cloud, our actions manifest within its dusty sword beams that slash and slay, wavering in the morning.

Treacherous Hearts

A drop of water ripples the screen; her face flutters: a frozen vision, a melancholy freedom. Praising disloyalty, the freedom of choice, the will to desist.

How accusing is her face when one's heart is unclean, when the civil muck clogs and conglomerates in its percolating ventricles. I stare back and quiver, muttering oaths, my knees shaking uncontrollably, bladder pulsing.

A purging pilgrimage, the flame's orange dance, howling faces, sadistic warpaint. Handles wilting, stripped screws, swamp stained steel, appendages whipped and whittled. Viewed, with cocked eyebrows, by ascetic scrutiny.

She's left the gas on, and abandoned the house. Its creaking heat intensifies, and the cabinets sweat, while she occupies her deaf hole in the sky. So senseless is she, staked aboard in the pitch of night, the ship's glue old and rotting as it decrepitly drifts forward, forward, the past smoking in the distance, away from explosions and treacherous hearts.

The Highway

The wind sweeps across the brigand desert and rams us, body and all, sections slicing through our plastic hair, whose greasy arms dramatically flail and flake. Buffeting in the silent night, across illusory lanes, a savage whisper in silky silence, a solemn wail, an ashen gasp, a muffled gurgle.

As the roadside flies, the black tongue lolls, a carpet winding and whirling, gyrating its frazzled dance toward our dreamy destination, whose noise and lights hum specifically for us in this lamplit purgatory. Spirits playfully prance at the edge of vision, their laughing lanterns archedly pouting, pettish from lack of love.

The engine chuckles in its bed, yoked to the frame, guffawing in rotation, gleaming gears grinding, whose intemperate teeth crunch, shimmering heat, fluid swirling. Casting away misuse and the clamors of age, it gains its wind and races from sight.

Quiet Moon

Quiet, quiet moon.

Transported to your ebullient bosom, I inhale the silence, gazing at the unconcerned world from this specious vantage point-- a costly pinprick, the stoic woman. Whose barriers dismay, whose disconnection grieves. Mousy voices undercut the heavy silence, heard at the edge of vision, scrambling like a swarm of insects outside the ear's periphery.

Here I am. Poisoned and cloaked in loneliness, toasting mute grief. I stand, suspended, as the stars unravel, stringing essences trailing, trailing, dissolving, dissolving.

Quiet, quiet moon.

You loom from my scrambled eyes; your grave peace solemnly reflective; acling with devotees. Rebukingly, rebukingly, yet witholding judgment.

We stand entranced, the traffic gushes by, streaming, streaming, fibs of breathing laughter killed in the new, new moon.

The Midnight Lover

Her icy face sparkled palely, the cratered moon. My loving fingers timidly quivered on her sapphire neck, frigid stings in the flashback eve. Sadness fogs her breath as it droops from her mouth in a tired sigh. Her sapped, sea-breeze skin is taut and unreactive, absolutely timeless.

I remember her eyes. She had pools of them swimming and swaying in isolated trenches. All staring out, imperious and impassive, sharply superior. But tonight, tonight they were sheathed and tender, and they were looking at me.

With an impassioned heave she went limp in the sky, my craning body aching with effort. Fading, fading, blink by blink, as the stars winked through her busty bodice, stabbing pinholes at the speed of light. From these beaded blood: black blood that blanketed her without a whisper, spiriting her from my desperate embrace.

My eyes continued to project her image onto the depthless canvass well after her scent had gone, and her blood had caked the sheets.

Dust

Faded and gray speckles a used face. A dull sheen, an aged expanse, are neglect's resentful styles. The particles settle and congeal, stilled in death, shrouding freshness. Withered is the room that houses these.

And yet, and yet.

A solitary streak dispels the stupor. It glares from the scene, parting the deadlands. What a trail it makes amidst the rot. A showy core peeps from beneath. See its youth brazenly shout, "I have beauty still!"

Recapture clarity, idle souls!

As we wipe the dust away and toss our years aside.

Our fears greet us,
Our joys reclaim us,
And the dappled veil,
Slowly shifts.

Shelter the skeletons, their fragile joints. Shelter them whole, their tensile infra. Shelter the cartilage, soft and caustic. Shelter the tendons, uncorrupted by the sun. Shelter the skulls, unbleached and misloved.

Yogurt

This delicious jell is refrigerated and sealed in a plastic cylinder. The foil peels off; the culture spits and burps. You dip your spoon in and pull it out.

On it is a blubbering mass with chunks of fruit encased within. Strawberries stare at you like red eyes as it enters your mouth. It looks like a great chasm when you open it to admit entry. Stalactites and stalagmites hang at the tips of the cave.

The yogurt slops inside. But you don't chew. You just slurp it around for a few seconds, enjoying its chilled refreshment. Then you swallow. And it just slithers down your throat, uncaring.

For it is the most indifferent of all the foods, since its milk body was warped by bacteria. Afflicted with sickness, disfigured beyond recognition, the former milk now wishes for death. You should be only too happy to oblige.

Peeling the Orange

I held the orange in the palm of my hand. It was of a deep, lusty hue. My mouth watered in anticipation of its luscious center. It had something I desperately needed--rejuvenation.

My fingers dug into its crust, prying away the peel like some strange predator unhousing its prey. The orange made sickly squishing sounds as I rent the skin, my nails delving into its marrow. A crisply sweet citrus smell wafted up my nose. I lay the pieces off to one side. The work was slow, but steady. I came to the north and south poles of the sphere and went to work on them.

The stem was unearthed--a limp, stringy tentacle that threatened to encircle my finger and choke it. Fortunately, it remained lifeless, dangling and swaying insipidly.

Eventually the outer layer lay in a jumbled heap on the counter top, looking like a shattered orange-white jigsaw: a grizzly puzzle even for the most gifted surgeon. The skinless body stood, undead. White arteries trailed all over its hulk: veiny, crawling things that pulsed sickeningly.

Still hungry, I brought myself to separate the sections, telling myself that this is the way of things. Slowly, I dug my thumbs into the quavering flesh and ripped the body in twain. It sprayed its viscera helter skelter, droplets rained on my hands and fingers, and the tissue resisted with an awful friction. There is no sound so abnormal, so nauseating, so excruciatingly unbearable as the sound flesh makes when violently rent asunder.

I stood there, quickened in breath and failing in health, staring at the result of my labors. My hands were sticky, stinking, dripping. And the corpse lay there accusingly: tortured, violated, molested beyond recognition.

Slowly I backed away: overcome with revulsion, dazed with misgiving. And, waiting for the sirens to come take me away, I thought about what I had done.

A Brush with Fatigue

I heard an automated audience choke, livid with laughter, as I pushed the stage button in memory lane. And the obscene sea roared in response.

Their insipid waves are necessary to ease my pain while the reaper, Fatigue, licks me dry. How he crowds me; how I wish to slaughter his haunting form.

My fists beat boomingly on his crab shell, which returns unsatisfactory raps to my enraged ears.

How he clings, claws clasping my heart and throat. Shrieking oranges fade to purple and then to red, and the pressure steams upward from my abdomen.

Beady, black, crustacean eyes stare back into mine, black with the sleep I crave, but cannot earn. Its antennae drift, lazily across my skin, slowly as if submerged, drawing shudders from my breast and goosebumps to my suffocating skin.

As I implore my higher powers to brush him off, pleading face teared, the audience just roars dumbly back.

Untitled

I'm tired of the razors that cut my face, causing little beads of blood to pearl and gurgle. Pinpricks of guilt that burn but don't clot. I want safer razors to sweep across my cheeks, clearing them of yesterday's shadows.

But the blame lays in my unsteady hands.

How Tired.

How tired I am,
Of insecure women,
Though society makes them wrong,
Who don't desire our dirty work.

But we throw our dishes,
At their Mexican heads,
And abuse them greenly.

Oh what a graveyard,
Lonely and somnolent,
What a song it rings,
So sleepy.

they never wanted the alarm to ring,
We hated in the darkness,
but darkness grew,
With us.

they held us,
But we bit,
and bloody teeth,
Proved,
they hate theirs.

How easy it is for you to sway within the hammock of health.

You shift and swing with balance and rhythm,
As your god pushes you with imaginary hands,
And you rejoice with zeal,
Afraid while you feel.

But me, I fall because I've lost my balance,
I can't sway like a sealed cocoon, like you,
back and forth.

I fall because I've accidentally rent that cocoon with my freakish toenail. It is overly sharp;

I never trimmed it.
My leg kicked as I slept. It rent the barrier, slim but earnest, the somnolent heart, and the blood, flew into my face.

How I drank it;
Oh...how I drank it.

Can I Snatch a Second

Can I snatch a second of eternity,
To analyze uncertainty,
To grow in comprehension,
And lessen testy tensions?

Eternity is always jealous,
Of the moments humans relish,
Of the instants they hold dear,
Though entrapment loiters near.

I wish to bask within the bubble,
Let the world reduce to rubble,
Drifting without weight,
Upon the palm of fate.

But when I over-linger,
It will clench its hateful fingers,
My tranquility will be burst,
And I will know great thirst.

Letter to a Loved One

Be careful that you don't confuse courage and masochism. The two can sometimes appear as one. The utter disdain of bodily pain, that savage lack of fear in the face of harm, is often attributed to bravery.

But let my laden clouds douse, for a moment, your perspective with mine. Holster your umbrella and bare to me your naked nape. Feel my didactic kiss coldly pepper your skin and summon goosebumps.

Humans are infinitely complex creatures beneath our simple routines. Sometimes we are pushed, but other times we thrust ourselves into the scalding fire. The natural, human reaction is to withdraw, but at times we do not. We like the pain; the stinging tears it brings.

We mutely watch as our flesh boils, like fascinated students of anatomy. We watch the scars form on our bodies from a neighboring perspective, though it is ourselves we mutilate. Pride, abhorrence, self-pity weld together into a high-browed romanticism that is sweetly poisonous to reason. It is a deadly nectar.

Oh, the liberation this nectar brings! What release there is in tragic downfall! How easy it is to shirk responsibility and cloak the soul in ennobled scorn! There lives a fear that causes one to wholeheartedly leap, frantic with adrenaline, into the very maw of despair. Its appetite is insatiable; it rarely frees its prey. Its nectar is its appeal, and death is never enough.

Sensation

Sensation,
Is a wintry whore,
That covers her breasts,
But exposes her core.

I'd stumbled into,
Her lusty den,
She was waiting to cloud,
My mind again.

I wasn't drunk,
Or in between,
Just utterly misled,
By a pensive spleen.

My thoughts were a puzzle,
Broken and scattered,
And morality's picture,
Was confusedly shattered.

My eyes met hers,
And unable to remove,
I stood rooted in place,
When she started to move.

She rose with dignity,
And I stood there mute,
My body responding,
My mind in dispute.

She laid me to rest,
With premeditation,
But my head spinned round,
With mortification.

I swooned in a daze,
Fluid with fright,
Sad recollections,
Did painfully alight.

But Sensation just smiled,
As she pursed her lips,
And her rosebud descended,
And my hands grasped her hips.

When the Lights Stop Flashing

When the lights stop flashing, my countenance sinks. I feel an ebbing life wisp through the air, ruffling my mind. Someone's granddad just died.

When the lights stop flashing, I sigh as I drive. I'm heading somewhere important, but my presence lags behind. Someone's wife just died.

When the lights stop flashing, I hear my mom's voice. Her sensitive lilting irritates my conscience, and I rage it away. Someone's mother just died.

When the lights stop flashing, I think of my youth. I wonder when it left and adulthood came. Someone's child just died.

When the lights stop flashing, a smile tugs at my cheek. A profane contentment warms me within, and I feel gratitude. I am very much alive.

The Iceberg

On the other side of the mirror is an iceberg where backward souls have come to roost. The ocean streaks her fingers across its belly every chance she sees, catching the tireless beneath her fingernails and scraping them down to her palpitating chest.

Resignation is in their stranded hearts as they indifferently loiter, their idle fingers aimlessly doodling in the sun-burnt snows, and no cry of fear or remorse escapes their thickened throats.

It is their accusing eyes that shiver back at you from the icy glass as the freezing waters fill their lungs and stain their onion skins blue. It is their blurry faces that haunt your murky reflections and disturb your jealous admiration.

The iceberg is slowly melting under the sun's reflection. The freezing waters have begun to rise--are now flooding through the mirror, urgent and crystalline. The ocean throws her whole weight behind the supreme flow.

She carries forgotten bodies through with her, littering living rooms, an undignified intrusion. They float on the currents, bleached debris, and are pitched to the floor like frozen lumber where they infect the carpets and stain the furniture.

Gray Skies

I love the gray shroud that buries the head and demands nothing. Sunny days boss one around like a perky supervisor. You can't meet its eye because it blinds. It hands you a schedule with a million tasks on it. And I always forget to clock in.

I love the unappreciated sludge that weighs down the active and buoys up the tentative. Its lethargy compliments me. It doesn't care whether I stand or sit. It doesn't bash its yellow boots through my windows if I choose to stay indoors.

I love the nonchalant vapor that banishes the clear blue with moody gusto. For blue is too innocent a color for me to live under. It smacks of senselessness. Give me the clouds' loaded pollution, and I'll inhale its harmony.

I love the low-lying, slothful miser who is both willful and stubborn. It is like a bruised old man who refuses to die in order to dismay his vulturous offspring. He knows he'll never get a proper funeral, and so he intends to live indefinitely.

Banners

Banners are unfurled,
Marked with hasty ink,
And brandished above the mob.

Banners are unfurled,
That lead the way,
To blood and change.

Banners are unfurled,
Whose meanings are felt,
But rarely understood.

Banners are unfurled,
By thinkers that yelp,
Like hungry dogs.

Rust

A sinister memory,
Wrenched the reins,
From the driver's grasp,
And sent the horses mad,
Foaming and shrieking,
Eyes rolling.

And then I was off,
Lashed by odd feelings,
Menaced and moaning,
Assaulted by the senses,
Whose refined weaponry,
Had hurriedly displaced me.

Old and undone,
I had lost my way,
In a conjurer's fog,
Where the sound clotted,
Where the light bled,
In hazy eddies.

Something,
Was sludging,
Through the murk,
Dreamily detached,
Druggedly vacant.

Something,
Was wandering,
Senseless,
Directionless,
Emotionless.

Something,
Was suckling,
Through the baleful swamp,
Studied in despair,
Steadied in step.

Then the Rust,
Lodged in my nostrils,
Stopped up my ears,
Coated my eyelids,
And coarsened my throat.

The Blessed

The world's face is a strange motley of comely and homely features whose reality betokens barbarism. The blemishes are repugnant and distracting, but the amiable qualities are equally arousing. Here is a face to be loved or hated. None cursed to behold it may feel indifferent or in between for long. The world's face is such.

Those who hate it view it closely--mere inches from its posterior. Their pupils dilate as they register all the grotesque imperfections their detailed inquiry yields. They process data individually, weighing and judging piecemeal using sophisticated instruments, then move on to the next subject with the thorough precision(though not the detachment) of a scientist.

Those who love it view it from afar. They relish the figure as a connoisseur would a work of art. They are able to appreciate the whole because they do not linger on the specific. They use their emotive senses, absorbing the world's face in a breath and letting it fill their bodies with the most sanguine appreciation.

Society requires both haters and lovers in order to maintain balance. For all skewed societies are totalitarian in nature. This is undeniable.

The world shows its face to few. Most people will live out their time compartmentalized, with no inkling that such a thing exists. As a result, the blessed(or cursed) minority face the hardship of isolation. It is the individual's constitution that determines whether (s)he will overcome or be overrun.

Fewer still are those whose nature forces them to transist from love to hate or vise versa. And once set, the transition is by no means permanent. But during the reversal's timespan, the feeling is absolute. These are the most dangerous of the gifted because their temperament is a tempest. They are fiery hosts to absurd bouts of irrational behavior. They shift from each extreme whenever their plagued reason wills it. This is because they have viewed the world's face from both angles, and the knowledge has driven them mad.

Our peace is a whorish mistress. We are ever searching for that gray purgatory that lies between ecstasy and despair. Our exhausted brains are on the verge of fainting.

The fortunate pitch their gypsy tents at the crossroads between both worlds and are swept to each extreme amidst brief periods of meditation. We sell our wares to rash travelers. Yet we see them off with a dark knowledge brooding in our hearts, with our souls imploring them to flee.

We are the ones who will never find comfort in the words, "Thy will be done."

My Negatives

This is a list of imperfections I have found in myself to date. As time marches, the list will be modified as I address my flaws and divine new ones. This list was made for the purposes of self-improvement. I have tried to be as honest as possible with myself and hope to grow accordingly.

1) I am an alcoholic.

2) I set standards for people that no one, including myself, can possibly meet.

3) I push away everyone that loves me, then feel sorry for myself when I am lonely.

4) My sexual experiences have been unsatisfactory because they occur infrequently and because I have been too drunk to cherish any of them.

5) I am an escapist by nature. I throw myself toward anything or anyone that can divert my attentions.

6) Sometimes I am overly confrontational. At other times, I shy away from it.

7) I am often arrogant to the point of intolerance.

8) I play video games too much.

9) I am overly critical of my own as well as others' actions.

10) I find it difficult to apologize, even when the fault is mine.

11) I have dandruff.

12) I am dissatisfied with society but am too jaded to do anything about it.

13) I am one to hold a grudge.

14) I have ascetic tendencies.

15) I take too much pride in my own intelligence.

16) I never read contemporary authors, always sticking to the 'classics.'

17) I let minor things irritate me.

18) I place too much stock in other people's appearance.

The Meaningless

The Meaningless,
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.

Its shadow,
Makes one shiver,
As it pricks the pride,
Unnaturally.

It lives above earth,
In our upright institutions,
And in minds that smile,
Pointedly.

The Meaningless,
Is a culmination,
Of abused privilege,
And fallen ideals.

It inhabits,
Drunk bedrooms,
On pale, empty mornings,
Whispering drowning oaths.

Its honeyed despair,
Winks from the eyes
Of The Meaningless brain,
Slumping smiles.

The Meaningless now bang,
Their bloody knuckles,
On the underground's,
Velvet door.

And already a fool,
Has cracked it open.

Stranded Eyes

My hand,
It likes to be forced,
When it hovers,
Indecisively,
In the vacant air.

To reach a dead end,
And backtrack,
To the remaining path,
Is the surety,
That evokes the security,
To press on.

Why look back,
When all paths,
Have been explored?

Forward,
Is where stranded eyes,
Must stay fixed.

Carrots

They lay in the plastic,
Helter skelter,
Destined for consumption,
Blurred in containment.

I open the packet,
It stretches and gives,
A jagged tear gapes at me,
And a baby root beckons me.

Its moist body,
Chills my lips,
As it juts,
From their pursed bouquet,
Like an orange cigarillo.

With a dry crack,
The stem is snapped,
Severed beneath the pressure,
Of my dutiful jaws.

Sweet crunching bits,
Rotate about my mouth,
Rhythmically churning,
Like snowflakes in season.

They disappear en masse,
Sinking into my gullet,
To be melted down,
An automatic reflex.

Such nutritions,
Are released,
Dormant,
In the womb,
When nature's goods are compressed!

My Universe

Why do you sigh, Universe?
Your icy breath scatters my stars,
And upsets my sense of time.

Your motherly chest is hollow,
What once was robust is now concaved,
And I am afraid for the future.

You are standing slumped,
I can feel your dejection,
You look tired, Universe.

But you can't rest yet,
You mustn't collapse now,
I still have many questions.

I hear your sigh, Universe,
Yet you are hardly of age,
And your flesh is ever renewing.



Come and take me by the hand,
And I will stroke your troubled face,
And divine the dire terrors,
That shine from your bottomless eyes.

It is time for me,
To undertake the burdens,
That cause you such distress,
That whip your wounded harmony red.

Now your blood flows coldly,
As you shut the rolling windows,
That shrink from your gaunt face,
While your fainting heart beats less.

My poor, poor Universe,
Your confession has cost you dearly,
But your death smile projects peace,
Onto your frame's beaten brow.

And as you dissipate,
You gracelessly untether,
Those loving knots,
That once bound me to you.

Doctor,

look down my endless throat. It wants light but how unnatural it would be to shine one on it. Deep down dark bile bubbles, threatening to surface.

In my throat there is tension and torture and swollen glands. At the bottom there is a frustrated heart. It is self-aware and stronger now. But it has filled the peaceful void.

My body has experienced life's natural realities and unnatural abuses. I have treated it to smoky extravagances and burning ravages. And I hope that one day it will forgive me for excess.

Already a green moss flourishes on once barren surfaces. Life grows where sterility provoked death. I see new promises sprout anew.

My prognosis is positive; what is yours, doctor?

Heavy Shoes

Heavy shoes make heavy prints,
Weighing down the wearers,
Tiring our legs.

We cannot lift our feet,
To travel the destined path.

We remain rooted,
As the seasons change.

Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter.
Our heavy shoes are holding us in place.

Fragile Melody

It is a fragile melody that walks nervously, barefoot on the loose sand, whose balance is at stake. Fragile is its humanity, fragile is its wit. It is fragile in its authentic composure. The melody must be out-poured or it breaks with purpose and repeats itself.

It is a fragile melody that takes residence in the pit of sensitive stomachs. It gnaws at the liner as anxiety hatches. It is our fragile fingers that twitch unconsciously, tap-tapping on oak tables in faceless libraries. We are melodious in the most silent spots.

It is a fragile melody that smiles sadly on quiet evenings, when the world is at rest and countries' flags lay limp. They are motionless symbols that speak to meditative hearts. For the trained organ can detect fragility's subtle sounds.

It is a fragile melody that increases mysteriously as I yearn toward dizzy heights--toward dizzy heights where concerns are dead, where harmony's wispy deity dances daintily. Intricate designs unravel the louder it grows. I can feel the room sway when my fragile head is given wings.

It is a fragile melody's mystique that fascinates poets. Inspiration's auditory illuminations arise from its genius.

It is a fragile melody that plays for the faithful deceased. It will play for me when I'm rolling toward my grave. It will play for my loved ones when I lay in meaningful silence. But will there be anyone fragile enough to stop and listen; to hear its song in a world that has grown thick?

Untitled

The storm flew through the isolated town. It was shockingly destructive, the more so because it was unexpected. It blasted buildings, uprooted trees, wrecked cars.

Broken glass shattered to the pavement and was camouflaged with the torrents of hail that buffeted the little world.

The victims had never seen such violence. Theirs was a life of dull peace. Routine's colorless comfort had always been king. Entropy was unheard of. Mother nature obviously took offense to this.

The storm was a wild frenzy. It frowned darkly from the heavens with black, glowering brows. One could feel its horrible anguish lift the neck's tiny hairs. An unsettling presence shrouded the town.

God had come home.

Devils Never Die

The aging mist is heavy on my shoulders. How old I feel when I meet my past's ferocious gaze. I see error and loss when I look into its eyes. There are so many strange confusions lurking in fatigue's misleading silence. They crop up at the edge of reason. They lurk with guilt and accusation.

How long does contentment last when it spawns from suffering? Pain's memory fades along with the thankful appreciation that arises from its absence. But an arrogance is often born as a result of time. It then grows and supplants humility. This is unhealthy. I must keep my arrogance in check. I have already fallen from hubris' grace.

Life's pains must be revived each day in order to ensure that mistakes are not relived. I must inject their memories into my heart when I feel invincible. Human weakness must never be forgotten, buried, or ignored. And so I rub my wounds to keep them fresh.

Because life's devils never die. They only wait and slumber. They are cunning, baffling, powerful. And if you turn out the lights they'll stab you in the dark.

The Ill Bliss

The evil thrill fluttered my heart,
And then coursed through my veins,
A demonic happiness inflated my lungs,
And my surprised chest heaved.

The wonderful devil was here,
And in bountiful force,
Forgotten by me,
But now dreadfully found.

He was here to drown the evening,
To black out tomorrow,
To thrust away humanity,
With burning banishment.

It was an ill bliss,
That fettered my head,
That distorted my soul,
That broke me within.

And I lay there,
In shards,

And the tears,

T
h
e
y

J
u
s
t

F
e
l
l

Guard Against the Brick

The collective and desperate desire,
Of the commonwealth.

The symbiotic attachment of the mass,
As it cleaves to an ideal.

They reverberate around the room,
Unseen but felt.

The self-hypnosis of spiritualism,
Is absorbed by our willing minds.

We wish for normality,
But must deal with disease.

I believe in fellowship.
I believe in goodwill.
I believe in faith.

I believe in a stranger's heartbeat,
Felt in the hollows of my palm,
As we clasp hands in union.

They are the products of a shared hope,
And create the magic,
That we need,
To combat a terrible evil.

My power grows,
With each passing day.

My sanity is strengthened,
With each passing day.

But my resolve remains,
A stained window,
That must be guarded,
Against the brick.

It Will Get Better

It will get better,
My heart told my soul,
As it crackled and withered,
And bled salty tears.

It will get better,
The words ruefully rang,
As the ground heaved,
And my knees wilted.

It will get better,
The asphault croaked,
As I saw stars,
And felt poison.

It will get better,
My insane throat screeched,
With a desperate hope.

It will get better,
The words echoed,
In the dark corners,
Of the cliche room.

It will get better,
My organs moaned,
As they blubbered,
And sobbed.

And the slow days passed,
And the dark haze lifted,
And then hell died,
Giving way to peace.

Alone

I clambered through the fire,
And saw the horizon.

The sun had set,
But I had missed it.

It felt like a heartbeat at first,
Pulsating in the strangest spot,
Of my unwilling body.

It felt like pain,
But I knew it wasn't cancerous,
Though its tone was grim.

It hurt,
Without warning.

Then I was alone again,
Without pain.

But it was still there,
When I wrote without will.

Then I was alone again,
With sleep nagging me.

The Artistic Vein

The white screen glares at me from the dark,
Burning into my heart,
And my breath becomes troubled,
Because my fingers have neglected,
Their keyboard lover.

My fingers are guilty,
But they twitch with ambition,
Due to their dormancy.

It was a hibernation,
That offers atrophy,
That corrodes the veins.

An artist's veins tend to stop up when the outlet is blocked.
An exodus is necessary for a strange brain to steam and rest.
A rest is essential for creation to right itself.

Time Wasted.

When my intent escapes me
I grow vexed.

I sit and ponder at its location
In my brain.

But the more I ponder
The less I know.

This goes on for some time.

Then my vision clears
And I realize how much time
I have wasted.

The Gumdrop Children

Look with imaginative eyes to the limitless horizon in the dead of winter at the peak of night. If you have creation's blessing, you will see the Gumdrop Children.

The Gumdrop Children will be dancing barefoot on the frosty mists but they never shiver. Their glowing faces are painted with youth's eternal smile. They are oblivious to mortality's envious scrutiny.

The Gumdrop Children will be singing with musical accents at the quietest climax of moonlit nights. Their red lips are curled in rhythmic O's. Their foggy breath stings the still, black air. The Sirens have learned their art from them.

The Gumdrop Children will be visible from afar but vanish when approached. They are shy angels in love with the mystique and disdainful of the mundane. They do not appear before any base presence. The contact would kill them.

The Gumdrop Children will be snuggling with the stars of the salted skies, which coat their skin like an astrological glitter. What wonderful promise they harbor in the eyes of the irreligious!

The Gumdrop Children will be baptizing themselves daily with their small, divine hands. They live continually devoid of guilt. Their skin is burnished and free of blemish.

The Gumdrop Children will be fasting without food; their nourishment is self-satisfaction; they are sustained by their philosophic intensity; their eyes see through vulgarity's transparency.

The Gumdrop Children keep the world pure, though it kills them slowly. They absorb our pain. and their ambivalent livers lovingly convert it. When they overcome their jaundice, they will beg for more.

Our waters fester, our stars die, and the moonlight's frozen peace has begun to disappear. But the Gumdrop Children restore balance and maintain peace at the cost of their bodies.

They will usher in a stronger equilibrium when the sun dies.
For they can withstand extreme cold.

And our apple cores will naturally grow because of it all.

This curse whips my temperament like an irate horse-rider with bloody spurs.

Untitled

The clean sand that rides the wind's whims drains down the hourglass's restrained neck. Its every particle is ambivalent, a heterogeneity that rules the desert, that mirrors the human race's collective complexity. The sand can sting the eyes or massage the feet. It is a neutral comrade. Circumstance alone determines its stance.

Did You Catch the Sun?

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and setting the carpet ablaze?

Its golden locks are fluffed in gorgeous disarray. They are draped across the globe like a soft, irradiating blanket, scorching those who are hopelessly enamored and caressing those who have been burned by love before but who have since gained the dousing pail of self-respect.

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and grabbing my soul with its fiery fingers?

Its accurate shafts cleave through flesh with no regard for convenience or comfort. The divine possession cannot be exorcised or willed. It rules on a whim; it arrives and departs at its own pleasure.

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and bringing laughter in its rippling wake?

The day is at its zenith; my smile is at its height. But as the sun starts to sink; by face begins to fall.

Even a Devil

Even a devil sleeps.
It slumbers spread-eagle on the ground.
Its tail is lax and curled,
Its red body heaves with ease,
And its pitchfork lays unbidden.

The devil's face is slack,
The lines of hate are less defined,
The hellish eyes are lidded,
And no remorse mars its figure.

Even a devil knows peace in sleep.
Even a nightmare is preferable,
To the tortures of wakefulness.

A night of horror can still bring rest.
Even a devil is spared insomnia's hell.

The Sea of Snot

Drowning in a sea of snot, the breath of life is tainted by its aqueous scent. The pool is clear, but slow and slimy. It rises past my eyeballs, and my mind begins to panic as my lungs begin to starve.

My mouth is agape like a fish out of water, vainly inhaling in panic. The sea widens in response, raging. The salty liquid slushes all around me, and my vision is blurred with slime.

I hold my breath and hope tomorrow's sun dries the flood and drains the fluid. I pray for a formidable drought. I want to feel the sea's floor break and bend like beef jerky.

Untitled

He raises his eyes to heaven in the chill evening. His identity hovers about his shell like a fog as he moves. What grand heights the day has wrung! Levitating now in the esoteric plane, his mind is buoyed by the force of art. It presently runs at full force but, like any fuel, it is slowly being consumed by well-oiled engines.

The descent is imminent.
Its proximity is feared.

We the Melancholy

We the melancholy,
Are restless and silent.
There is a rainy haze in every reflection.

We the melancholy,
Are tired and cold.
The shivers of age creep up our spines.

We the melancholy,
Lack stimulation.
An awful silence hums in our ears.

We the melancholy,
Are intelligent and deprived.
No challenges rise to meet us.

We the melancholy,
Know its transience,
And wait with forceful patience.

For we wish it to pass,
With an incomplete urge.

The Internal Weight

The internal weight grows heavy, but does not disturb my peace. I live in willful prostration before life's cares. My resignation is that of the elderly. It is a peaceful contentment tainted with regretful desires. It is a familiar dissatisfaction with reality.

The world's colors are brilliant, but I cannot see them. They shimmer and gleam at the corner of my eyes but vanish when I turn my head. All that is before me is a deceptive gray glass. It separates me from the rainbow. It is impervious to my fists.

My claw marks strangely streak across society's surface. The noise of their passage screamed in the lonely cave, deafening in intensity. There is desperation beneath my fingernails, which are cracked by my shifting moods. The desire for euphoric oblivion drives my cloudy ambition.

The internal weight drags like an anchor, and my ship struggles to move. I must wait for the weather to change, for moods to pass before I can sail on. I must bail my boat and suffer the sun before the evening brings peace and beauty to the sensual seas.

Then will I breathe,
Spiritually.

The Stooge

He sat there at the bench,
The early sun intruding,
Shining through stone walls,
Onto his black, black eyes,
That glittered obscenely.

His face was tired,
Slack and indifferent,
But the eyes shined,
Malignantly,
While his badge glittered,
Proudly.

My heart nearly froze,
As recognition bloomed,
And hatred pollinated,
Attracting strange insects,
To my revolting self.

Fear for the future,
Froze my soul,
And righteous defiance,
Fired my rage.

But I sat there prostrate,
Helpless before the bench.

The Sounds of Life

The sounds of life,
Are varied and random.

They intrude at odd moments,
They're exposed to subtle senses.

Let your significant brain,
Filter their loaded messages.

For there is meaning behind,
Every creak.


The sounds of life,
Are constant and suspect.

They embed themselves,
Into your routine.

Such that your inner ear,
Relies on their presence.

If they were silenced,
Their silence would kill.

The Movie in My Head

There was a movie screening in my slumberous brain this morning. It told of corruption and love, of abuse and insanity, of violence and retrobution, of falsehood and nobility, of wealth and addiction.

It could be called The False Enlightenment, or The Dark Deviance, or The Wasted Generation, or The Cavernous Youth, or The Divergent Intelligence. It could be called all those things, and more, if sufficient energies were expelled toward that end.

The movie in my head is rated NS(Never Show) because no eye will ever see it. Yet its dregs cling to my emotive garb like a stubborn stain that invokes one's memory. I, as the protagonist, murked through the mind-wrenching trenches of my scorched imagination. And a more colorful or vivid movie I have yet to behold.

The movie of my dream held intermissions. I would awaken in bed with its dialogue and its aesthetic qualities before me. And when I again drifted off, it would resume where it stopped. Thus the chronology was intact.

The movie in my head was a dramatic realism--I was unknowingly placed in disturbing situations, and my natural reactions were filmed. I think I shocked my live audience because no autographs were requested.

The movie had no ending and so could still be in production. The film crew undoubtedly waits for the moon to rise-for my body to rest.

Untitled

In an utter transfusion the world began.
Can you feel the waves battering your psyche in vulgar interruption?
The musical red light album flows unceasingly in the beer induced delirium.
What a hell to live when the deletion began.
A mind like a loaded shotgun.
The therapy of release and an end to power.
Feel the compression of a loaded heart and hear its report in the green burrough hills.
The day is dead, the night is empty, and my soul thirsts for stimulation in a river of intoxicants whose swaying distractions baptize my troubles away.

Stevie Ray

He is abhorrent,
His habits haunt,
His voice gnaws,
And his brain festers.

His Halloween face,
Scares women and children.

His name is Stevie Ray.

The glint in his eye,
Is of hellacious glee.

His ignorance is legendary,
His insanity runs rampant,
He possesses the survivor's,
Desperate knowledge.

His name is Stevie Ray.

His eyes are bloodshot,
His nose drools,
His face is a flotation device.

He uses Powerade,
To cleanse his crimes.

His name is Stevie Ray.

His presence is comical,
Clownish and odious,
Corrupt and vile,
Laughable and pathetic.

He walks without balance,
In insecure lurches,
When the sun is up,
And nastily shining.

His name is Stevie Ray.

He is the abuser of urinals,
The plumber's dread,
When the day is spent,
And his body is toxic.

Peace in Proximity

The low drone of passing vehicles lazily drifts on the air like the sound of the sea in coastal villages. There is peace in its inhabited constancy, peace in its proximity.

I once heard a heavy silence, unbroken in oblivion, that shrouds the brain like an awful force. Whispering thoughts disturb like thunderclaps; a beating heart is the rhythm they dance to. My self terrified me in the void. So I sought peace in distraction. And found it.

I love when the sun glimmers in the late afternoon, shining its living light through the blanket of leaves hanging from the American Elms in ordered disarray. They glow with the sun's heat, giving off a soft green light that inspires and encapsulates.

On rare days a slurry of droplets will fall from the skies at this sacred hour, shining like crystals as they descend from the heavens and shatter upon the earth. Their stream seems ceaseless, and one is tempted to save them before they hit the dirt.

I close my eyes,
Overwhelmed in ecstasy.

There are divine moments,
On an imperfect earth.

They are seen with the artist's eye,
And felt by the poet's heart.

This is the only magic I know to exist,
The only living god I've ever seen,
The only love that will never leave.

Meditations.

It behooves me now to ponder my minimalist ideals upon my most recent move. I once was grudgingly content to live in a small, roach infested studio apartment. Upon upgrading, I begin to appreciate a more aesthetically pleasing atmosphere. My ascetic appetite is slowly waning. This change worries me.

I feel like a supervillain whose powers are weakening, whose drive is gone, whose domestication is imminent...

I have always despised affluence and decadence because it is an injustice to have when others have not. Thus, a guilty dread overcomes me when I find myself enjoying my improved living conditions. It is a state that I have envisioned, but never thought would come to fruition.

Oh, the power of money! I can only hope that the steps I have taken will steer me away from miserly self-satisfaction and endless consumption. For the abyss of want is bottomless, and the fall is endless. I feel the current of consumerism tugging me downstream.

It is amazing how discontentment can manifest itself so intrinsically within a person's consciousness--such that its constancy defines normality. Normality, then, is merely an embedded routine that makes one comfortable, but not content.

The most disturbing aspect of this robotic mess is that the victim does not realize the source of negativity until it has been removed. Like an ignorant surgeon, I(with trembling hands) have unwittingly sliced away some of the pestilence surrounding the wound of life.

And the shock of recovery gnaws at my soul.

Take Me to the Land

Take me to the land
Where the words grow,
The music flows,
Where copulating prose,
Is the enchanted rose,
That pricks my toes,
When I walk in its garden.

Take me to the land
Where water is abundant,
The soil is nourishing,
Where the earth welcomes,
The soul’s roots,
Into its comely crust.

Take me to the land
Where virgins prance,
In innocent dance,
Where the military’s lance,
Forfeiting its stance,
Lays forgotten, rusted and weathered.

Take me to the land
Where old age is sweet,
Where death is a dream,
Where hearts are young,
Where amused lives,
Twinkle forth,
From the eyes that you meet.

Take me to the land
Where a smile tugs,
At the corner of your mouth,
Tickling in its mirth,
Until your restraint is spent,
And your figure blooms.

Lone Cat

There is a lone pussy
Wandering in the night.
It responds to my call.
But my nightmare voice
Puts it on guard.

Where will its spry legs
Pounce its young body to?

Hello Creativity

Hello creativity,
Is your whirlwind blowing?

My dirty hair is ruffled,
I just thought that it was you

Some spidery fingers,
Have sifted through my hair.


Hello creativity,
Is your whirlwind blowing?

I feel you in my blood,
You have increased its flow.

My brain is ready to pounce,
While my angry vision blurs.


Hello creativity,
Is your whirlwind blowing?

My windmill shudders,
And its Unstable structure shakes.

I need you to be strong,
And snap the seams.

The Dry Well

How does one replenish the will's well? My irresponsible thirst has sapped its reserve. I pull on the rope, but the bucket comes up dry. I toss down a coin, and it disturbs the dirt.

Without my will's luck, my habits wain. Without my will's water, my humanity wilts. Without my will's well, my soul becomes limp.

Untitled.

The dank street is empty and hostile; the rich couple strolls on guard and unaware. The cars zoom by, poor and awful, as they walk with insecurity in their lost steps. They avert their eyes from the drivers' seats as they probe their way back to their elusive hotel. The dark has caught a hold of their survival senses, and the adrenaline is ready to pump.

But they are no animals; their unseasoned reflexes quiver uncertainly. I can see they are ready to run.

Will they meet a savage this dreadful evening, and be brought, low and ugly, to the state we're in?

My Insanity

Keep it leashed,
Heavily bound,
Heavily scrutinized.

Keep it leashed,
For it bares its teeth,
For it gnaws the leather.

Keep it leashed,
As it lunges lustily,
As it seeks escape.

Keep it leashed,
While its eyes roll,
While its body quivers.

Keep it leashed,
When it screams release,
When it mourns captivity.

Keep it leashed,
With its intelligence maintained,
With its creativity controlled.

Keep it leashed,
Though the booze infests,
Though the hold weakens.

Keep it leashed,
Before the world implodes,
Before my mind speaks.

Keep it leashed,
Because people are hurt,
Because bridges are burned,
Because earthquakes happen,
Because the fall is constant.

The Title

And so my youth slipped,
Into the abyss,
Though I knew not,
What was amiss.

My youth fell for miles,
While my upstart,
Heart,
Dripped with denial.


Until it hit dirt,
And lay,
Crippled and hurt.


From the cliff I stared,
Down at its form,
The things we shared,
Now battered and torn.


No longer young,
Or free,
I cast my soul,
Into the sea.


I washed ashore,
Alive,
And toward nothing,
I now strive,
While power,
Derives,
Bad honey,
From my hive.

Desperate and dumb,
My lazy fingers strum,
The stiff chords of fate,
That have failed to titillate.

Hubris and the Lost Romance

I never bore you,
Ill will or malice,
And you never became,
My golden chalice.

I wanted your love,
To merge with mine,
But left alone,
All passion will pine.

You're tiny but strong,
And sometimes wrong,
And your catty song,
Was depressingly long.

Your brain is large,
But largely fettered,
I hope to meet it,
When it's more weathered.

When you see the world,
With a clearer eye,
I will be waiting,
So please stop by.

My hovel is humble,
And my head does fall,
For the girl who came,
And destroyed my all.

But I wait for your knock,
With despair in my heart,
Because I know we won't meet,
Before you depart.

I give you my luck.
In every endeavor,
Your lovely hand rests,
Upon your life's lever.

You're awful and wonderful,
You're talented and supreme,
It is I that has loved you,
It is I that has dreamed.

I am sad that my lips,
Never fell upon yours,
In a world that is bent,
By lovers and whores.

The Dishes are Dirty

The dishes are dirty,
And their smell punches me dead in the nose.

The dishes are dirty,
And the water is running, gaining in heat.

The dishes are dirty,
And soapy bubbles fill the sink.

The dishes are dirty,
And my hands are way too clean.

For it was my clean hands,
That made these dishes dirty.

Untitled

They day is sluggish, my head is heavy, my eyes are droopy. Time crawls when you're low and tired, when life slows you down and crumples your frame. I feel antsy but listless; alive but useless; young but hopeless.

I walk on a dangerous path. The scenery that once excited me now fills me with guilt. I hang my head and stare at my feet. I can no longer tell if I'm gaining elevation. For my legs report no burn, and I'm too scared to raise my eyes.

It's gotten dark now. The temperature has dropped. I've killed time, but I know that it will eventually have its vengeance.

Untitled

Sensitive and light-hearted, they have the polite fascination of the child, but the willful wisdom of the well-lived. Their eyes hold kindness and affection. Despite their age, a deep courage exudes from their core, a strength time usually sucks away. Generous and eccentric, they are blessed by the unashamed innocence of the altruist.

They've been brought low but still fly high.

They traipse through fire but are cool to touch.

They dance with death but enjoy the evening.

In the Ghost Town

In the ghost town your steps echo against walls whose paint is chipped and faded, whose molested fibers exude strange, musty smells. The wind is a worrisome companion, occupying the dark void behind shattered window panes.

In the ghost town, you hesitate to breathe, lest you disturb the nameless silence and attract Fear.

Fear's ghost mask is difficult to penetrate.

The air is dank and toxic; your lungs constrict of their own accord.

The ghost town is filled with broken memories that jaggedly litter the decaying streets, cutting through your leather boots into your soft, pink feet as you stumble and creep through its grayish desolation.

Hanging debris crashes near your ear and your senses scream with panic. Your heart suffers from the adrenal rush, aches beneath your exterior.

The heart of the ghost town is plagued with unsaturated animals who prowl with dripping fangs and lean bodies. Their savage hunger charges the overhanging air, electrifying your saturated core.



I am a lonely soul in a collapsing town.
The animals' fight is all around me.
But I am above them.
And I beat them when they attack.

Run back to civilization, human.
Run before your conscience hates you.
Run before you turn,
Animal.

Some Martyr's Beliefs.

The cell door will open; the cell door will close,
My hand dictates its stationary pose.

My helpless head,
Lays back and grows,
Staring transfixed,
For the image has froze.

As my eyes droop,
And my body goes,
I swear to things,
Only a martyr knows.

Hostile Armor

Be hostile toward things of love.

It is the only way to ensure protection.

Hostility is a thick armor,
That drives away,
The shallow hordes,
Who clamor,
And thirst,
For pure blood.

To realize the greedy,
Sawtooth pain,
That is pent in the souls,
Of the many.

Watch them idly thrust,
And then withdraw,
Hoping to find human weakness.

But hostility has no weakness,
Except lack of strength.

And lack of strength only comes with exertion.

Life exerts the body;
Love exerts the mind;
Hostility holds both in check.

The wise wait for the truthful love.

Truthful love pierces through hostility,
Despite ferocity,
And always enters the heart.

Unroll the Carpet

Unroll the carpet,
The royal feet are here,
And their soles mustn't touch,
The common pavement.

Unroll the carpet,
The royal feet are here,
And their soles mustn't reach,
Their decadent destination.

Unroll the carpet,
To hide the spiked pit,
And let the feet fall through,
To be savagely punctured.

My Countertop's Knives.

The sharp knives are crossed in an X,
Like a bad omen,
On my countertop.

Their blades are silver and clean,
Ominous but unused.

They are dormant, but violent,
Accidental, but artistic.

After viewing them,
My reluctant hand,
Pulled them apart,
And my fingers,
Typed this poem.

Outside the Tunnel.

Don't you hear the music,
Revving up our righteous hatred?
Feeding 5000 minds?

A pride emerges,
From our darkness.

A light to lead us,
From the putrid tunnel,
Into the realm of sight.

Exclusive and arrogant,
Our hearts pump,
With a sense of superiority,
As we blindly emerge.

We sing an ugly song,
Against the world,
Outside the tunnel.

But the fools,
Don't hear our beat,
Feel our heat,
Or understand the street.

Political Parasites.

Crawling up the giant's leg without reason. My antennae are whirling, my fat body is dragging, my legs are tickling. I wonder what lies at the giant's jugular?

The blood is flowing, the heart is pumping, the body is breathing.

I don't think about how it could kill me. I just walk upon it without fear. I know it is alive, but it smells like food. And I know then that life is good.

But you'll never see the executioners' palms,
Descend upon you en masse.

They will fall with rapid dexterity,
They will hit with murderous intent,
They will smash with a renewing end.

Roaches' Legs

Roaches' legs in the budding morning,
Tinkling on my sensitive skin.

Roaches when the sun is shining,
But the room is dark and hateful,
And the atmosphere is thick-plus-hot.

Roaches when the world is dusk,
And their blackness moves,
At the corner of our eyes.

They slink away rapidly,
Alarming everything,
Fearful and grotesque.

There's a roach that crawls,
Beneath ultimate tranquility's,
Deceiving blanket.


You may feel him,
In your sleep,
If his nightmare legs,
Are bold enough,
To scare you awake.

To Feel.

I wanted to feel,
A classic woman's breath on my lips,
As she tells me that she loves me,
As she melts into my arms,
And her eyes grow glazed,
On a hopeless romance.

What a sweet farce,
What an awful pang.

I Wanted.

I wanted to hold her in my arms,
And absorb her heat.

I wanted to stare into her eyes,
And devour her soul.

I wanted to lap up her youth,
With my insecure tongue.

I wanted to enjoy her talk,
As her sensitivity surfaced.

But then she smirked,
And walked off.

And I never saw her again.

July 4th

The distant war rages on,
It is controlled but wild,
Violent but peaceful,
Dazzling but inflammatory.

What manner of mayhem,
Clouds the streets tonight?

For the dark distance shimmers with light and fire,
And I hear shots ring out in the urban evening.

The screams of thousands reach me,
Are they wailing?

There are clouds overhead,
But I cannot tell if they are heavy.

I point my chin skyward,
And blindly wait,
For that first,
Extinguishing droplet,
To fall to the ground,
Louder than an explosion,
Before the next firefight,
Plunges a hole through my lonely chest,
And deadens my rebellious brain.

Rage

Rage in my blood,
Rage in my heart,
Rage in my soul,
Is torture in life.

Meditative.

Mesmerized in the moment. My brain feels weighted but free. I am submerged in an ethereal vortex that is refreshingly murky--a psychonaut's dream. The sounds of reality reach me and register, but I am joyfully indifferent to it all. I wait as the clock ticks, as the seconds pass. My soul is poised to sear through my skin, exiting through the seams, and stretch out through the unnatural universe.

My neglected stomach calls out in anger.

It pesters my insides.
I'll eat soon enough.

At the moment my mind is drawn within itself in the most sublime way. Basic concerns swirl around me but are minuscule in size. They can't penetrate my meditative state. I feel a power surging in my blood, riding on my breath, firing in my eyes.

Complete self-control.
Divine courage.
Perpetual victory.

My enemies are toppled, humbled in the dust, groveling at my feet, terrified of my strength. But in my sacred state I display mercy and clothe them in forgiveness.

I see Wisdom when I close my eyes,
Truth when they are opened,

Beauty in my brain.

How long can this sainthood last?

Fear

The stupid never fear. The flashing siren never wails in their adrenaline. They are oblivious to harm. Their skin rarely feels fire. And when it does the pain registers, but the experience evaporates.

Only the smart know fear. The memory sticks, the lesson is learned, the trauma is born. The experienced are cursed with an insane anticipation. They don't rush headlong into fearful scenarios. They run away with wisdom's legs.

Beware of the intelligent insane. For they are cautious, and their experienced rage has become focused. They are able to direct it logically. Its directed energy always hits its target and destroys it with much force.

Into Your Eyes

I look into your eyes,
And dislike what I see.

There's a flame beneath,
That dryly crackles,
Obscenely wavers,
Shiftlessly consumes.

Your eyes are parched,
Behind your eyes lays thirst.

The land behind your eyes,
Is inflicted with drought.
Your hope of rainfall affects me.

You know that I am heavy with rain.
It is this trait that brought you here.
Are you so sure you want this rain?
It would lift the drought but bring about pain.

If you choose that roasting pain,
Your thirst will exit,
But your mind may buckle.

Either pop your umbrella,
Or extend your cup,
Because my rain has begun to fall.

Mother Martyr.

She has the eyes of a martyr.

Glassy.
Far-seeing.
Vast.

The eyes that once held pain,
Now hold enchantment.

For there is an ethereal contentment,
Wedged behind those illuminating orbs.

She derives her joyful strength,
From the lovely life,
Hammocked in her cradle-arms.

It gurgles,
And coo-coos,
In tender adoration.

I wish you could live forever,
Mother Martyr.

Bored Women

What a ruckus they make, distracting my mind, interrupting my flow. So many tittering voices, loud and gut-wrenching. Infecting my ears, boiling my frustration. I can feel my annoyance take form in my head, a sweaty ball of panting emotions that demand attention.

They are like birds in the morning--tireless, ceaseless, painfully perky. They are like mewing cats--the one trying to outshine the other until the noise splits heads better than cop clubs. They are like Catholic children at recess, screaming out their suppressed identities at the designated hour. They have waited for this break with rigid minds and nervous fingers.

These are the bored office pets whose mundane stories and wrinkled calves populate day jobs. Their minds are old; their voices are loud. Too much coffee has revived their systems, and I wait for the silent crash with a half-smile.

They are quiet now, and my creative consciousness tentatively begins to churn again. Yet it remains fearful of another thunderous interruption. It hates to lose what it is in its grasp.

The span of solitude has lasted long. With every moment, I rely on its constancy. My strength returns. And on my confident face a full smile may be seen.

The Flow of Fluids

Feel the release,
As they rush with insistence.

Feel the relief,
At their happy egress.

Rushing currents,
Cleave the bodily landscape.

A healthy erosion,
A deposition of sediment.

The screaming waters,
Carry crosses on their backs.

They run to the basin,
To cast their religious burdens,
Into the toilets of today.

Then they are purified,
And I drink them again.

Let the Smoke Clear.

Let the smoke clear before you run.

It blocks your exit, but your situation is not yet critical. Stay put for the smoke billows thickly. It blocks your path.

Think of the men entrenched, waiting for your blind body to shapefully emerge from the fog!

Think of your steps, confused and stumbling, as you make your way through the black buffets to certain death.

Think of your eyes burning red, the salty pain wetting your lashes, tears holding there, afraid to drop to the terminal pavement.

Think of your lungs rebelling as your body inhales, as your pretty face bulges blue, lacking oxygen.

Wait with me,
Until the smoke clears.

Wait with me,
Until you can see ahead.

Wait with me,
Until your path is planned.

Wait with me,
Until your senses purge.

It Seeks the Nipple.

The wind blows her straw-like hair as her husband lays dead in the dirt, spilling out his essence, his eyes glazing as his lover's wails grow louder. She clings her silent babe to her breast in protection, but it seeks the nipple, eerily undisturbed by the father's decease. It hungers, for grief does not affect this developing human's demanding stomach.

Her tears drip onto the baby's bald nape as it lustily suckles her pink nipple. The babe grows as she drains, as her life melts into another, as her grief rules her mind. Her spawn's belly fills with delight and the body becomes sleepy. And the bags beneath our mother's eyes swell ever so slightly.

This is growth,
Our lovely thieving growth.
It is infinitely old,
And it is eternal.

The Catch

Today I fished the depths of my state and snagged a golden catch.

It flops, pristine and uncontrollable, for it has never seen the light. Its scales beautifully glow, for they have never experienced the sun's beams. It is obliging, for it knows that I must throw it back at the end of the study.

How small this fish is--no bigger than a guppy. Yet it is fully grown. If it had more sustenance it would surely thrive and multiply. But it is beautiful, small though it is, and my hook can't hurt it. How easily it breathes in the dry, desert air.

I can't help but smile at this small happiness held in my water-cupped hands. It rapidly darts about, seeking escape. So I place it back in its home and hope that it finds food soon.

The Red Light

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, waiting for it to turn green. We don't want to stare at that red eye, while our internal clocks superstitiously will it to change. Its gaze pricks us deep and sets our teeth on edge.

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, while our minds imagine themselves ahead. We want to be at our destinations; we want our travel times to seem as naught. We want our engines to work rather than idle, to live rather than sleep.

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, where blank fools twitter their noses and stare with empty eyes, where the corrupt world crookedly runs without us.

We were not meant for the red light.

We were meant to break the world.

The Heart of Hearts

It melted in the fire,

Whose rosy glow turned hostile,

Whose flagrant inflammation,

Violently whispered.

The blood boiled,

And splashed on the walls,

Staining the carpet,

Burning bare feet.

It was the heart of hearts.

It yearned more than most.

It was tormented and alone.

Its yearning heated quicksilver,

The thermometer broke,
And out splashed its entrails.

The heart of hearts,

Melted like wax,
Dripping hot and slow,
Like awful tears.

Its remains formed a pool,

That people trod through,

And scraped onto mats,

Or sprayed off with a hose.

Untitled.

Automated laughter echoes in my ears and sometimes emanates from my mouth. It sounds so recorded, so on cue, that I am shamed by the lack of individuality.

They never give me anything to remember. They never break the rules. They never show me a color that is singular or out of context. I have never had to bow my head in shocked submission.

Where did the revolution go? Into the alcoholic gutters, self-destructively sleeping while the greedy algae eats the stone. There are cracks on every sidewalk.

The revolution is dirtied now, soiled by profit and numb justice. We ran a hot bath, but the child wailed. We brought clean clothes, but the bum slept. We brought hot food, but the stomach had shrunk.

I wait for its caked-red eyes to open and grow clear again. I wait for its atrophied muscles to swell again. I wait for its strange posture to infect my soul again.

I wait with dread. Because on that day, I know I will follow it to hell.

Vileness on my breath.

Vileness on my breath.

Vileness on my breath.

Confusion's Clarity

Confusion has its victories,

In certain morbid stories.

But in this one it has finally lost.
Oh crooked confusion!

Your path is a maze.
But this maze is ended,
The walls have lifted,
The playing field is empty.

And I stand at the center,
Staring at the exit,
Afraid to take a step,
Wondering what mysteries it holds.

Your Traces

I hate your image in my memory. It is there that my longing sharpens and my loss burdens. My heart pumps brokenly.

You have no right to inhabit my brain, to invade my sleep. You parry my affection with rash judgment, unseemly fear, and bitter scorn. An amorous hussy, you devour my sensitivity. And cackle, lustily. Your yellow teeth are stained by use.

There you stand, a monster in drab. Cruel, cold, beautiful. Repulsing my reason. And so I forcefully shun every trace of you, fighting your scent from my senses.

But I will never forget your eyes that night when, moistening in the dim light, they watched me as I backed away.

Untitled

What will you have when they take it all away?
Gloom, doom, and the rotting Sunday.

Damn the Ritual.

Damn the ritual,
It freezes free thought.

Damn the ritual,
It predicts our acts.

Damn the ritual,
The government funds it.

Damn the ritual,
It feeds off our slumber.