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: Lessons

A death-croaking prophet, and other terms I borrow

of Sexus, by Henry Miller, recreate the sentiments on Plato’s cave wall

with reckless abandon, disappear the frozen night

as it chatters, the mouth of the past pulls us down

bloody curtains, life stained satirically causeless

monster gods, holy heavens of horror

blinding the innocent vision quest, until I see

nothing at all, is inside the slide, undignified.

 

Capital L logic is the only course, is a curse uttered wordless

windswept sweeping plains, chugging like a festival

express train, drunken reveries abound

all day through the night, picture shaping landscapes

under florescent clouds, shining from behind

through the moist meat, all of all gloried

terms of definition, most plain at end

which comes to us all, before no sculpture of consequence.

 

Joy is just a portal, on the other side is fog

risking all of it, for there is no finish for fury

filling sacks of invention, mystery is timeless

limitless progress, rolling up a hill only to fall

victim of the sanctified, this is why we breathe

smoke of factories warring, building to fiery death of all

we have created in the mine, cures for impotence

rendered pointless, Sisyphan love is happiness, truly.

 

Argue, fuss and fight your way to the truth

that pain is a doorway, certainly evinced everyday

in different ways, on a pianola roll rotating

paranoia dots ever on, twinkling constellation stars

in a foreign language, barroom brawl music

portending troubling times, sounding cheerily ominous

for a moment remembered, ever on in dreams

good and bad, defeats are steps just the same.

Poem: Lessons