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.

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.