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.