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.

Easy Enough.

Easy enough,
They say.

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

But,
Our horror is a mystery.

Us,
Who have lived beyond desperation.

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

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

Where Did the Bullet Come From?

Where did the bullet come from?

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

Where did the ambulance come from?

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

Where did the fear come from?

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

Lassitude.

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

But in reality,
We still work our jobs.

But in reality,
We still watch our televisions.

But in reality,
We still play our video games.

But in reality,
We still seek escape.

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

The Writer's Dam

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

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

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

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

Beer, Beans, and Bologna.

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

The Judicial System.

Justice is a joke.

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

Business as usual.

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

No more honor.

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

Love of Self.

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

The Long Day

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

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

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

My Mind's Splooge.

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

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

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

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

I'm just sick to death of seeing.

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

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

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

I Want

I want to drink,
But enjoy the hangover.

I want to laugh,
But enjoy the aftermath.

I want to live,
But enjoy my death.

Poetry is Dead

Poetry is dead.

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

Poetry is dead.

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

Poetry is dead.

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

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

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

The Fire Danger

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

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

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

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

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

The Store Was Brightly Lit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strong Fatigue

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

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

Protection

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

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

Youth's Last Lament

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

The Sad Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Vacationer's Outlook

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

Happiness?

I am going to write of happiness.

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

Happiness lies at the top of a beer.

Laughter

Laughter, intelligent laughter.

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

Laughter, lovely laughter.

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

Laughter, orgasmic laughter.

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

To Hide Behind Shelter...

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

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

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

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

I Return Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Building.

I saw a building built,
As time marched.

I saw little men on rafters,
Walking on its skeleton.

When it was erected,
The machines hummed,
And the hammers clanged.

The lights are on,
It glows like a night bug,
Stationary and omnipotent,
Constricting my pupils,
Invading the evening.

What creature creates,
Something greater,
And larger,
Than its puny self?

Humans:
The animals of progress,
Always striving for more,
But ending with less.

Untitled

I talked to her after an eon,
Over the phone,
And her voice sounded shaky, charged.

The miles separated us,
Her beauty rode on sound waves.

She is a romantic,
Blessed, sensitive.

There are wrinkles below my eyes,
With her name underneath.

I absorbed her problems,
And my heart pumped harder,
With the added weight.

Only A Poet

Only a poet could sense the sea's emotion.

Only a poet could submerge and still breathe.

Only a poet drown himself and live.

Where's the Stimulation?

Where's the stimulation?

I'm back in the land,
Where the wind blows dry sand into eyes,
Where sirens disturb sleep.

I'm back in the land,
Where the sun is weak,
Where the air is hostile.

I'm back in the land,
Where problems loom,
Where threats cackle,
Where temperament wavers.

I'm back in the land of dirty frowns,
Where sadness lodges behind the eyes,
And steps echo lonesomely,
In dark, hollow streets.

Our Connection

The ocean breathes like a proud mother,
Whose expansive breast,
Suckles the thirsty beach.

Her white fingers leap out,
And coldly tickle the hairs on my chest,
Welcoming me into her vibrant folds.

She is playful and innocent,
Though her power over me,
Is immense.

She could drown me
In her waving arms,
If she so chose.

I pray her mood holds,
So that her beauty lasts,
And our connection,
Remains constant.

Interested Eyes

Her eyes brush across mine roughly, like a stiff broom. And when they linger, she leaves red scratch marks on the whites of my eyes. Her rough face appeals to my future, and I am immediately pinpricked.

The bartender is beautiful, dumb, flirtatious: the perfect female. Her eyes are fake, and they melt against my barrier like butter to fire, drizzling slowly, predictably, unimpressively.

The other's eyes are watery and deceptive and tinged with drink. Her self-styled soul leers out from them at this time, but tomorrow it will be protected by the savage wrinkles in her bastard brain. I love and hate her terrible temperament.

And in the midst of it,
I bless myself,
With a semi-magical estrangement.

What Condition is Your Scab In?

The mind is a scab that should not be picked or prodded for it is thin and the fluids beneath are dying to burst. Yet there are not band-aids enough to protect it. It bursts and regrows and bursts and regrows. This is the life cycle of the mind until its demise.

Some people's scabs are ruptured rarely. Others are torn daily. Yet it is difficult to say who is better off. People with pristine scabs know nothing of the mind. It is forever in quarantine, layered by Neosporin. People with mean, pus-riddled scabs have seen the mind's insides spill forth into the daylight. And, like it or not, they have seen and even studied the contents. What condition is your scab in?

Raging Crickets

Tonight, the crickets rage.

Why on earth do they cry out at such a ripe hour? An insignificant assemblage of pitched voices, their grating, chaotic chorus has jarred me quite out of sleep. Together, they have created a sound loud enough to be heard in the subconscious world. It surrounds me, unseen, and cascades against the receiving walls, branding them badly.

The voices are filled with meaningless complaints that are superficial in content and arrogant in persistence. They have stolen my peace and deliberately destroyed their own. I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the evening and am indignant. What insolence!

The crickets sleep in the day, while I sleep night. They know this. Of that I am positive. Why can't they make their banter when the sun is shining and the world is alive? Because the imps take glee in pestering me. I called the police and ordered them to issue a noise ordinance to these unruly neighbors of mine, but they raged and hung up on me. They raged louder than the raging crickets, and there is now a ringing in my ear.

The night is waning fast, and my bloodshot eyes can just make out the insides of my domain. The crickets have finally stopped their raging and are settling down, I assume, in their cool, comfortable beds ready for sleep. They have had a long night of raging.

I'll wait until they are all asleep, and the sun is high. Then I'll walk outside and shout obscenities until the evening comes and my voice is shot.

The Daycare is Aflame

The daycare is aflame,
And the apple-red fire engine,
Is en route,
Wheels turning,
Bells clanging.

The children wail,
Lost in the smoke,
A cacophony of infant fear,
The simplest language in existence.

The daycare is aflame,
And the blood-red fire engine,
Arrives,
Wheels screeching,
Bells quavering.

But the children still wail,
Lost in the smoke,
Because they are alone,
Though rescue be near.

The New Day

A new day dawns in the world of man. It lacks in hope but glints with promise, whose subtle shimmer shortens our breath and quickens our hearts. Blood flows to our appendages with a beautiful speed, enlivening our limbs and animating our slouching, gray brains.

The new day is filled with the simple and understandable. There are few shadows for complexity to breed within. You can close your eyes and still see the light of day through the lids. Outstretch your arm, spread your fingers, and feel the unleavened air dancing upon the tips. It whirls with poetry, the most holy of the sacred arts.

Innocence turns the new day's world. Well-being stretches the sun's warm fingers down to the earth. Contentment throws clear-complexioned, half smiles on the faces of the people.

But it is doubt that brings the moon's lampshade over all. Doubt that the new day may never return. Fear that the zenith has been reached and that the familiar descent has finally begun.

My Will

My will is a wounded bird, whose broken wings twitch with pain and memory. On the gum encrusted pavement it lays beak down and trembling. It is susceptible to all awful predators on the prowl.

My will is a besieged fortress, whose walls are cracked and crumbling. The engines of war pepper it mercilessly. It is always on the brink of collapse.

My will is a starving child who devours all manner of meat thrown its way, regardless of putrefaction and disease. It never learns from painful experience for an irrational hunger bars its logic.

My will is a dying patient in ICU. It only clings to life because it fears what death may bring.

But its fate,

Looms,
On the foreboding horizon.

It came straight from the horse's mouth,

But then you kicked it in the teeth.

A pool of blood has stained the straw.

Untitled

This is the body of the working man,
Wiry and thin,
Muscled in strange places,
Aching and quaking,
Chronically fatigued.

This is the body of the working man,
Shiftless and needful,
Addicted and deprived,
Desperate and impulsive.

This is the body of the working man,
Branded by society,
Neglected in health,
Abused by self.

This is the body of the working man,
Breaking slowly,
Aging quickly,
Dying fast.

Dream Ahead

Dream ahead,
Realist,
And wait for the coming dawn.

Already the moon fades,
And uncertainty's veil lifts.

Dream ahead,
In youth and age,
Toward the oasis,
Beyond the swamp.

Ahead are the laughs life owes you,
Ahead depression's debts will be paid,
Ahead lays harmony and good health.

So dream ahead and not behind,
Because the past is dead and oft unkind,
Dream ahead til the end of time.

The Legal Whip

There is a time and a date that the whip will descend. Its daunting shadow grows larger on the marble floor. It approaches his back with every second. His body aches in submission; his knees are red and raw. He wishes he could stand with a proud back, but his posture has been altered.

The small of his soul worries over the future, but its indignant majority spits bile and rebels. The acid grows and grows until his stomach bulges and the lining thins. It'll wreak havoc in his blood soon enough. For the balance has vanished.

Fascism stomps on the fangless breed who hiss and moan and cry and wail before silent shame's sweaty tears taint the defamed faces.

Scarred sockets crater his gums, and a lawyer chews his food for him, smiling cleanly through golden canines before slopping it out onto the pristine plate before him.

I'll hold that sickly porcelain saliva sound within my mind's captive ears forever and ever.

The lawyer's glassy, barrel eyes freeze his blood as he picks up the fork, and brings the retched gruel to his resistant lips.

The jaw creaks open,
And I munch,
And I gag.

America's nylon flutters
And I munch,
And I gag.

I stare at freedom's flag,
And I munch,
And I gag.

Untitled

Until the wind blows clear,
And whispers in my ear,
"Never fear!"

I forgot what I was going to write.
Honesty is a bad trait...
I forgot what I was going to write.

It was so profound,
It spun me around,
I danced to its sound.

But I forgot what I was going to write.
A left handed habit kills.
I forgot what I was going to write.

Let Me Write of Joy.

Let me write of Joy.

Its wispy love lives above and graces one rarely. You cannot grasp it in your hands. It is ethereal and without substance. It rapes you for one glorious minute and then flies away with a wicked will. To renounce it is folly, to embrace it is impulsive.

Let me write of Joy.

Her scent clings to me like cigarette smoke.

Silent Execution

Deviance defines us, brings us to know ourselves. But how far beyond the social realm are we truly willing to travel? The walk is easy on the legs but rough on the mind. For the gentle path winds one way. Look at your compass, Artist, and view only one direction. You of true the breed know of what I speak. We see it everywhere in our rugged isolation. It is dizzy, chaotic, and groundless.

Travel the road. Social ties are the toll, and the price is social stability. Let it all ride upon the swift avalanche, whose snows billow and buster, and destroy and maim until the flat lands end their awful descent.

Then how still the white bed lays while it waits for the summer sun's silent execution!

Square Reality

THE WORLD WAS FLAT

NOW IT IS ROUND

I STILL THINK IT'S SQUARE.

Reverse Aristocrats

Reverse aristocrats roam the streets,
Reverse aristocrats with inverted power.

Reverse aristocrats savor the slums,
Tasting the denizens with greedy tongues.

Reverse aristocrats unleash their royalty,
Upon the despairing willing.

Reverse aristocrats are unacknowledged by the media,
But lurk beneath the mainstream at every angle.

Their shadows are seen in the background of every,
Official Photograph.

Pay homage to the reverse aristocrats,
Because they birth,
Your child vice.

Delirious.

Delirious in the mornings.

Delirious in the afternoons.

Delirious in the nights.

Delirious in these times.

Bad News

Bad news in the papers,
Bad news in the world.

Bad news and bad feelings,
Bad news and bad doings.

Bad news in the papers,
Bad news in the world.

Bad news and bad reality,
Bad news and bad sadness.

Valentine's Day.

Kill the flowers,

Make them wilt.

Kill the flowers,

Turn them brown.

Kill the flowers,

And empty the vase.

Kill the flowers,

And empty the feeling.

Four-hundred Poems.

Four-hundred poems are a leg to stand on.
Four-hundred poems are a shred of hubris.
Four-hundred poems are a satisfying hurdle.
Four-hundred poems are a smile on my face.

The Bug

Feel the bug writhe within.
Feel it tickle and pester and demand attention.
It boils my blood this very evening.

I had thought it was dead. I had thought I had killed it. I had thought I had starved it into submission. But it was merely dormant, like reptiles in winter, opening its evil eyes in the best of seasons and casting its shadowy gloom over any sunny feeling.

A plague rides upon disturbed minds' bloodstreams. It tickles them with their antennae. And we laugh, and we cry, and we rage in response.

Oh vulgar reality, the bug feeds on your body! It is a flesh that purifies and strengthens the need to escape. The exit signs flare up when the bug is active, and it is up to us to choose which path to take. There is only one correct path. The rest are simple and rotten and reek of decay. The smell of inebriation wafts forth from them, but it is a beacon to the hopeless.

The bug is older than humanity, is more vibrant than a newborn, is more persistent than death.

To exorcise it is folly,
To cultivate it is vice,
To ignore it is futile.

Unguided and Out of Control

The infant's cherubic hands spin the toy world on its axis. Faster and faster it rotates until the screech of strain emanates from the frame. It is a speech understood by those who comprehend abuse.

The countries all meld together on the whirring sphere. Greens, yellows, and blues form a geographic kaleidoscope.

What a toy to give a child! The model globe: a representation of humanity's politics, exploratory history, astronomical knowledge, and geographic cognizance. The world's endless complexity shrunk into a tiny trinket that responds to the slightest touch, to the smallest will.

The one who possesses the model globe unconsciously suffers from visions of godhood. This the fool's power: the power that swells the victim's sense of importance. It is the power that is popped by the pin of reason. It is the ignorant power that swells again and again with willful indignance.

The whirling globe has unhinged itself, but the child claps its hands and screams with mirth.

Watch as the world spirals across the room. Unguided and out of control.

We Poets Who Write

We poets who write try to paint the night's mournful skin within words. We poets who write try to recreate the picture of inspiration. We poets who write try to wrap ourselves in twilight.

And we always fall a little short.

The night's feminine arms are wrapped around our necks, and we can still taste her nicotine tongue at the top of our taste buds. But how long has her tongue dwelt inside our mouths, tainting us with her intoxifying affection?

Appearance only tells the outside scars. It is action that tells of scars within. But numb confusion is everlasting.

The Goddess

The goddess comes to those who wait. Laughable are those who actively seek her. Their hunt is always fruitless, for they miss her by the fraction of a moment. They never find her, but they eagerly herald her discards: a strip of cloth, some wasted incense, a wisp of perfume. Behold, a soulless triumph! Behold, a goddess's mirth!

The goddess comes to those who wait. Patience is an open door for her. Humility is the light that draws her near. And love prompts her entry. Bow your head, and let her take possession of your pride. You can feel her as she flows through you, as you swim within her essence.

Out of time, every molecule sings divinely.

And at that time, invulnerability

is yours.

And at that time, immortality

is yours.

And at that time, the power of creation

is yours.

Who Cares About Tomorrow?

Who cares about tomorrow?

The men with money, who love their income and their starling future.

Who cares about tomorrow?

The misled humans who believe in eternity.

Who cares about tomorrow?

The blooded killer whose prey is planned.

Who cares about tomorrow?

An animal's logic is all the wisdom we need.

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My eyes are bruised, and the blood is dripping from my shredded self. The red river expands on the glossy platform, hot and horrible. In my corner the screaming voices blur. Hatefulness's reassessment mocks me, just outside the whirlwind. Its evil self victoriously cackles.

But I'll teach it a lesson as soon as I regain my feet.

Love, You Ask?

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is a crack in my chest, jagged and angry, where the jet-black cockroaches roost. Their eggs are lain out of sight in the deep crevasse.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is the reality of imperfection, the loss of sanity, the revocation of rationale.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love is a sordid shelter, shot and leaky, and the rain drips from the ceiling into makeshift buckets. They overflow with every drip.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love brings tears to the weary, joy to the believer, and pain to the deceived. It is a force that tears through the emotions like a wolf to a lamb.

So it is love that you ask for.

Your love's roaches roam in the dusk. They consume without concern, they breed incessantly, they invade the moment. I feel hundreds of prickly legs all upon my spine, and their angry nest sits inside my heart.

I must apply the pesticide before the parasites overwhelm.

It's Hard to Kill a Feeling

She is a porcelain doll, but when dropped she doesn't break. A cold blizzard seeps from her skin. I stare at her freezing face with love in my eyes and desperation in my heart.

The torture of a broken connection is the pain that nags, is the hell that haunts. It is the gremlin that scared away my sleep this awful night and put my health on hold.

It's hard to a kill a feeling after it has taken root. Immune to the hoe, augmented by poison, it is a most persistent weed.

It runs amok in the soul's garden and strangles the roses.

Since it can't be killed it must be fenced in a private corner and guarded by barren rock. There it may stay, waterless and unflourishing, while the other feelings continue their growth.

Only then will the porcelain doll lose its voodoo. Only then will it shatter when dropped upon the pavement of peace.

Why Run, Child?

Why are you running, child? Are you sure of the danger? You are young and naive and so you believe that you can run forever. But the time will pass and then your breath will come short and shallow. And where will you find yourself then?

Forsaken in a hostile land, matured by your fleeing habits, your rash sprint will turn you coward. You'll spring with fear when the gentle wind ruffles the laughing leaves.

You are human, child. Your desperate running will bring you scorn. Few can live peacefully with scorn, especially self-scorn. You will burn with unfulfillment. This is my prophecy to you.

Stop, stand, and stare at your surroundings. You may find them to be friendlier than you thought. You may realize that harmony lies at your feet. You may learn to live with the monster in your closet.

The Razor.

It is a sharp razor,
That cuts the soul,
Cleaving through flesh,
Piercing its jelled shell,
With surgical precision.

The razor,
Is the terror,
Of any thinker's dreams:
The emotional threat,
That promises insanity,
And breakdown.

I see its awful edge,
Glint at the foot of my bed,
And I quaver with fear,
For the blood of innocent souls,
Have stained its steel,
With engrossing permanence.

The Hole In My Head.

There's a hole in my head.
It's red and angry and an inch large.

It bleeds out at uneven intervals,
The words you see inscribed before you.

At present they are ash-black,
But they were once a shocking red.

Let me tell you of the gunmen, for this hole was not self-inflicted. They descended one Irish morning. I had the sadness when they crowded me, so I did not resist. The leader's muzzle was stuck to my temple. It felt such a part of me before it attacked. And then its awesome bite teared through my brain.

In the hospital I learned that medication kills a mind better than hatred, and I sat drooling for days on end. When I finally came to, I was killed again by condescension. The doctors enforced my role, and I lay awake and silent as a good patient does while my money ran into their pockets.

When the greenery was gone, they turned me loose. And so I roam the streets with a hole in my head. The strange looks I get infect my wound. It oozes sickly when their judgment pokes. So on it bleeds, a stream of life down my face. Its hot exodus makes me weary to the end.

As I lay my woozy head down in final resignation,
I feel a giant unfulfillment,
And I chuckle,
Knowingly,
In spite of it all.

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How secure are the self-righteous! I envy their confidence, their unswaggering adherence to opinion. Logic plays no role to the self-righteous. They are above it, beyond it. Freed from the garments of reason, they stand naked in the sunlight. And their imperfections are clear to everyone except them.

A bad sight are the self-righteous! Their dirty wounds invoke the past--a sad reminder of what has been. The used will always envy the past. Mournful and frozen, it is the gargoyle of our dreams. For the past is the winged flesh of the future. Watch it take flight into time's stormy skies.

Invulnerable.

Invulnerable in this mortal moment.

Invulnerable though they laugh.

Invulnerable though I age.

Invulnerable,
In a fit of destruction.

I Was Laughing.

I was laughing,
And then I thought of you.

I was laughing,
And then my arms longed for your embrace.

I was laughing,
And then I wished your face was pressed to me.

I was laughing,
And then I wished your hips were next to mine.

I was laughing,
And then I longed for your vivacious lips.

I was laughing,
And suddenly I became serious.


I was laughing,
And then my face fell,
Because you were away,
Swiftly wounding me with indifference.

Threat to Children

The snake is in the murky water. Its silvery, twisting form juts out of the black. It veers over the rim, searching for prey...any prey.

Your children have run to the riverbank.

Will it pounce,
While your head is turned,
And your lips flap?

Will it pounce,
While your biceps are exposed,
And your eyes wander?

Its neck is craned, and I'd shout in warning.

But my lips are sealed,
With fear.

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As we grow older, the artistic magic becomes a permanent fixture, but its constancy undermines its adrenal value. For experience's fingerprints streak across the chromatic luster of discovery. Once felt, we may never again be engulfed by the initial artistic force which encapsulates and dominates the untried, unbeaten mind. This is because nostalgia is for the old, and innovation is for the young. I understand this, now, at the age of 23.

Begone, Putrefaction!

We have awakened from our dreams,
With the smell of putrefaction,
Knocking at our nostrils.

Unseen is the putrefaction.

Still its proximity may be felt,
But with mixed reception.

The logical respect it,
The emotional deplore it,
The ignorant ignore it,
While the shrewd swear to it.

Today the winds of baptism,
Are choked by strange forces.

Today putrefaction has settled,
Unmoved in the stillness,
Lodged within the jagged cracks.

The winds are limp this helpless day,

Silent fixtures in spite of all,
While their nemesis roams the town,
Infecting the mood,
With its clammy scent.

You've won the day,
Putrefaction,
So enjoy your moment.

But our heroism is at work,
Revving the weather's engines,
And tomorrow the wind will descend,
With the anger of an army,
To drive your corruption to the dirt,
And the shrewd to the hills.

Too Much

The wind cracks dry leaves upon the unsuspecting pavement this hollow evening. I hear their haunting roar in the distance. Ghosts on the prowl. For the leaves were not given absolution. Their bodies roam and rustle until broken, unacknowledged and unblessed, except by jaded preachers like me who have utterly abandoned convention. Their pieces fly helter skelter, and their painful wails disturb my shallow sleep. I toss and turn, but their life stories persistently disturb my limp ears. I listen with resistance and forceful indifference. And I hear too much. And I learn...too much.

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A mind slowly roasts over the open fire. Its smell invades the moonless midnight like a flickering repellent.

To the north the familiar concrete ascends--crafted by man's meticulous hand. The ditch water looks like blood at this hour and reflects the fire's lights without remorse.

So still, so constant, so surreal,
While the freeze settles,
And the graffiti gains life.

The culture of the streets line up at the fire, single file, and individually leap in so that the rotating mind gets cooked evenly.

Little did they know what wonderful ingredients escaped in the heat! How little they knew about cuisine tactics! What tastes were freed this freezing eve!

The mind is finished, the fire burns low. Salivating tongues are ready to caress; rumbling bellies are ready to work.

A vegetable lays buried beneath the clay.
It breathes for a minute,
It sputters out,
And is then forgotten.

All Are Alive

So many dismal distractions,
Hiss in the world.

The blood flows,
And insanity's wings flap.

I feel the polluted air waver my scruffy shadow,
Down to the inelegant pavement.

The stains are stuck,
Petrified by the weather.

A parasite caws,
Camouflaged in the night.

Its sleek form,
Is recognizable,
By the moonlight.

Shoot the bird before its virginal talons function,
And redden the bottom of its nails,
Upon man's most sensitive spots.

Shoot it before its cuticles taste blood,
Though its eyes are not yet predatory.

For the birds have that unkilled youth,
That glints uncertainly,
From the hopeless optimist's,
Watery irises.

All are alive,
And expecting promise.

All are alive,
And aging wrongly.

I wait for the tears to arise,
But the unfeeling,
Are cursed with inhumanity,
And so I toast to the awful future,
With doubtful optimism.

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.