Poetry: Philosophy Volume 3

Secrecy is pleasurable, in itself by definition

inherent, being a sneaky little guttersnipe

shines a joy for the ages, saying “I did this”

knowing full well that you didn’t is a carnival

festival drunk in daytime new year Christmas day

funeral of a bastard that we all loved, singing drunky loops

by the jukebox, swaying with our fists in the air,

that’s the kind of fun to be found in a lie, especially when

it doesn’t mean anything, because you’ll get it

done before the “authority” knows

the difference, and the pace is yours to decide,

so the fashioning of progress reports is the pit of a port-a-potty

at burning man, all hell smell and maggot

spirit clusters, which, to each his own but is not my idea

of a good time, so I need my box of trinkets

pills and hand-held mirrors, remnants of a freedom

long lamented, kept in a safe and buried.

 

To say lying is never moral is a lie, catch 22

Kant you motherfucker, intellectual Circe

looping logic like olympic rings, writing

as an asshole, but his ideas make weighted

sense, vitally decisive, that which is

categorically imperative, showing logic

is the only law, act only in such a way

that the maxim by which your actions are directed

should become a universal law, for the benefit of all,

which might be true, though we’ll never know

after all is pronounced, because people suck

the big one when it comes to self

control, so laws like these, carefully considered

though they might be, may never survive

the span of a three-day weekend, because

I dream of right angles, straight lines

easy choices just, for they are not

we must consider them, watch yourself.

Poetry: Philosophy Volume 3

Poem: Stone Faces

A warrior facade, that’s what they call it

in the daytime, the mask you put on, a scowling

bucket of crickets or something, crush in’ ‘em

to see killing as an art installation, scowl it off

the nothing you learn, tell yourself

the world is combat, in its heart and soul, if not

its bones, because it seems that some don’t have

to fight for everything, mirror eyes

are the only real

honest to god opponent, that you do and should fight

with pliers and a blowtorch, a couple pipe

hitters, the killer version, a phalanx

amassed on my borders, boxing me in

the tunnel to a nothing monster, I hope one day

I will grow past anger, for now it’s what’s there.

Poem: Stone Faces