Poem: All the World

First of all

there is nothing, and nothing ever matters,

because your brain is nothing but sparks and dials and levers

going haywire on a loop

over and over, but what about beauty?

 

Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang is a story about friendship

where the two styles merge, choreography superior

fetishistic circus of movement, kung fu inferno

never translated with a meaning, iron eyepatch

villainy inherent, there is always more.

 

Nothing and more there is always there, behind

all time and space, depending on how you look

through one eye alone, see vapors evaporate

into joyful progress, every day a new door

made of candy, stars bursting chewable

red and blue and purple, but probably not.

 

That would be madness, panoramic obsessive

without paranoia, you’d be locked up

believing that, there never was tomorrow

in the first place, because all of us can feel

that we are the same, marrow and saliva

leaking out the folds, memories of pain becoming.

 

Shadows receding slowly, clearing your head

of detritus, nothing is ever at all

without a passion, stories die as reborn

becoming all places, characters and statements

at the same time popping a brain out your eyes.

 

Love is in everything, forever onward

omnipresent dreadfully looming

horrors of the dawn dusk in between and end,

search for a kernel of joy, that’s all there is

when it comes down to it.

Poem: All the World

Poem: Cloudcover

What if we couldn’t see the sky?

Ever, through the constant sheet

white water vapor, the sky is nothing

but blankness pervading, we couldn’t navigate

our way through the stories

of the night sky, no future above

or any hope below, in the capsule

world all existence is a shame, for the gods

all faceless, mirror nightmares

overtake us, we’d all be dead

probably, suffocating en masse.

 

Imagine a dreamless world, we might

be better off without the space above

making us believe, could the dreams be

simply different, stretching below

into our own dark souls, ocean colonies

would be tomorrow, probably

whales would be god

until we killed them, conquering the spirit

world shows us the end, without ever knowing

each other soulless, but we can assume

seeing nothing in the water.

 

Imagining this world, I can say

that love comes from the sky

in catastrophe, and that solar

is more than hope, energy from the sky

spelling the center soul

of the universe, the sun is the future

of god up above, never showing

its face, but hearing its heartbeat

makes us hope, for tomorrow to be raised

higher than has been ever

seen in the day, I anticipate

hotly the future burning above.

Poem: Cloudcover

Poem:The New Progressives

Where are the Correct Critics these days?

Guess the context importance we will render,

it’s obvious, think about it

honestly, searching all the time

for belonging being, denied again again

by tired pedantic chanting, which is the worst

or best band name ever

in a world where no one really cares.

 

The point is this:

All of us can and therefore ought to

live in peace forever, but we can’t,

why not?  The answer is,

in capital letters, BECAUSE,

you dummy, we were made to suffer

the tortures of the damned

though we did naught in error,

all judges are one day judged.

 

All these things are of course related.

In that hologram needlepoint, all is merging

subcultures of pure pop philosophy,

terming us blind, rotating on a spit

hogtied, but the battle can be joined

between the ears, we just have to

look and listen staying hard as well

as soft, with eyes to see texture

white shades, and every grade of rainbow

spilling through us, splitting our eyelids.

Poem:The New Progressives