Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Living in a boarded-up brothel, casting no aspersions

at all and ever on, or prayers to the holy

father casting judgement, for He has no hands to feel

eyes to see or heart to beat, being only

a fact of existence, that He’s done

what He did is a world worth living

for after all, I resent

the magic of it, the love expressed

among the infinite variations on one

three-chord structure, emotion seeped

in splattered paint, subliminally experienced

fractures of society, family and personality

existing as the background noises

of life, living is the background behavior

of death, whatever, the fact is

it’s fascinating to be alive, whatever happens

to this planet, so just pay attention.

 

While present, vigilance is warranted

for in the end, the truth,

it burns like a scar forever

joyous, horribly lovely

screeching pain forever, mangled organs

parade across bleating elephants

put butt-to-butt, but it’s funky

which is all that matters, because, joyful tranquility

is a salve, not a solution, the only option

available is a bullet, to speak truth

he loudest way possible to the powerful,

life and death being the only

things they understand, by the truckloads

we must die, randomly in tragic

happenstance or poisoned

by the groundwater blood, flood of death

come through merciful, hopefully

we’ll have made it count, in the end.

 

So if as we’ve surmised death is rendered

senseless by the fog, and our limbs could separate

at any moment, so to speak, or literally

because things that crazy have happened,

pointless chaos is the writ, but hope demands

clergy bound strong, chaining penitent

to the sky by their eyes is the way

to retain subservience, perhaps happy

songs jump to the ceiling, but as one

all dance alike in the church, into the future

without armor, knowing there is but one

way to be, hotshot, vulnerable

open and recording, for memory is all

that exists in the mind, malleably unreliable

as it is, existence can appear as a torture

storm or not, for the end is a mirror

of the past, showing that happiness

is a lie to yourself, until its not

behind you anymore, for it is always

there, just open the door to your soul.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Poem: Nothing

Vanity is the exile of the weirdo, breathing is for the damned,

screaming from the bottom of our souls is a desperate voice

we can’t hear, it says “help,” or it says “torture,” or it says the names of virtuous gods

we’ll never know, so crack a can, take a hit, and tomorrow will come

sooner than you thought it would.  This is a lesson

from the great god of nothing, as it rules everything having no eyes,

no hands, no voice, no identity

other than that it is not not, all else bursting

from within will bring a cataclysm.  So pray to this genderless mass

by going home, or stay out, and kill yourself, or build a church

with an orgy chamber in the basement, where the priests wear nothing

save gloves of two different colors, red and gold or blue and green

because the god of nothing knows it doesn’t matter, or maybe it does.

Poem: Nothing

Poem: Gross #1

Got a message from the future but it just said “sorry,” one kind of a thing

that fucks with your head on a Wednesday, to read that in the sunrise

with your tea in the smog, knowing that a hero never comes unless

it’s from within, feeling hollow is a way to avoid the effort stretch out for

a fruitful folly, but all you can smell is the sick scented fart of madman god.

Poem: Gross #1

Poem: Church

Barabas is blameless

like Pilate, Judas is a hero

who built your church,

pleasure is pleasing

so do it if it feels, god is not

a wanting, desire is yours

for righteousness,

selfish bleaching in a box

with a partner, how about just

no judging anymore,

chastity and abstinence

are the sins of an egotist,

selfish and stupid, if there is

a god he is snapping his fingers

in church, scoffing an eye roll.

Poem: Church

Poem: Oh Man

Who do you think you are?

it’s a good question, when you think about it,

me, I’m a massive living statue that shoots lasers from its face,

I guess, I’m a guardian of the realm,

perched on a rampart, black as ash on the sun,

ya know, basically, I stand watch is all,

they come in straight lines like space invaders,

and I make laser sounds with my lips pointing and pursing.

but do I, hit, anything, ever?

I wonder because I never know, or knew,

like all my kind I’m bound and blind,

it is an odd thing to call yourself guardian,

that which is not necessarily but could be,

am I on my side?  Or am I a spy?

 

Maybe poetry is poison.

I bet it’s odd to be the space between stanza’s,

to waver between conception and evincing,

does it think of itself in this way?

does the space between stanzas believe in existence?

No,

is the short answer, and the correct one also,

because it doesn’t believe anything, it’s a concept,

Is it everything?  Is it me?  Am I it?

I could believe one thing, or just as likely the other,

but who do I think I am?

 

To unveil the question I’ll start with the answer,

Andrew Halter, basically a nice guy,

I’m funny, obviously, as you can see, maybe,

but am I a crusader for justice?

no, I like justice, I don’t crusade, not yet I don’t,

maybe I’ll just crusade, figure it out later,

so as you can see I’m pretty unfocused,

if I had focus I would do great sad things,

speckle my lawn like soulless supermen,

they would haunt me like ghosts in The Wire,

but I’m glad and I don’t want to even know,

I could create a utopia with my loneliness.

 

there are no utopias,

nor were there nor will there be,

a spurious concept, utopia, like a miracle tonic,

step right up, step right up, everyone does their part,

I’m like please,

once there you try to hold, and mold stinks,

the ground decays, fear into hate, love into death,

heaven is constantly moving,

so that’s what I know, for the first thing anyway,

I am a pessimist, would be termed thus,

that’s the first thing, I’m also a philosopher,

allowing ideas to float, bubble pop and stick,

but I lack focus though, and so I’m left with this,

begin with no end, maybe see wisdom in the lines.

 

So is there a conclusion?

To the wisdom, does an end come?

smirking question mark wiseass,

I don’t know, what use are you?

I’m no use, breath and pause on a page, yammering in a desert,

piling words on each other, a sightless end,

this is all I am, an adventuring nothing,

going nowhere, questing thus.

 

And oh shit, I just read the earlier in this poem, and I sound like a dick,

like I think I’m the inspirational street magician, “just check your messages,”

and there’s just a voice on the phone saying “please don’t kill yourself,”

and it’s like “whoa I didn’t even tell anyone about the gun in my pocket,”

“the gun with but one bullet, you know the one,” my last bullet, you know,

but there I go again off on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known,

And bam, right there is a good end, oh shit I just fucked it up, again.

Poem: Oh Man