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

Poem: Struggle

Make me an offer I can’t refuse and I’ll take it

up the ass, whatever you want, kaleidoscope possibilities

fracturing inscrutably, like abstract pointillism

which is just dots, searching for each one’s other

exit route, in the blood of blades or the bottle of pills

that would be fun in moderation, goofy like a loony

tune playing a ukelele, drinking whiskey from the bottle

until down to the flag, until I am empty of everything

but consciousness pervades, telling me that I’m dead

already inside, missing the harm of joy

burn like lye in the vein, but just a side step

out the window, resting in a coffin finally.

 

Slapping in the face, me with an ice cold shivering

hand of a god, scraping the air with frost

collecting in a vat, the lies of the world

they told me in school, though they still lie

still breathing, flowing life in and out

of stories that are touching, not enough can be

true, but their inspiration informs of the coming

in a blizzard of genius, we know we can never relent

the pursuit of joy, whether or not ever it comes

treasure chest inbound, on the other side

look into the mirror, be proud of yourself.

Poem: Struggle

Poem: Sharp and Bright

Sting sweet, bush sticker, you’ve so rarely taught me

anything at all, because you can’t compare to the crusher

of an empty sky, I’ve come regarding you

fondly in a way, as if you were the toys

of adolescence, flippant with a buzz-off

regard, curling my face in reaction to the madness

of all the observable things, particularly stoops

under the open doors, speckled red dots

from life above, laying warnings down

so no one with eyes will overlook, tattoo’s saying

“NEVER GET A TATTOO” in newsprint

capital letters, lower back burning

the sentiment into my flesh, so I won’t forget.

 

Real pain has no homeland, it bites the ass

from two months, years, decades ago, but it is

you, as you are pain, it is both the effect

and the cause, recline on the sizzle seeking comfort

in chaos, a factory explosion spreading

disease all across, plague of genocides,

wisdom detracting distractors, an orange balloon

float farting over pigs and sheep,

listen as they scream a limbless rage,

see from their reaction how it’s best not to

listen to the negative, instead just open

your heart, let the sun burn in

because bursting is better than starving,

Poem: Sharp and Bright

Poem: Flickering Light

It starts so soon, because the internet’s fucked

in the head sometimes, and as atrophy is death,

life is philosophy, churning water memories

boiling a steam line to the secrets

of the universe, pilot a model boat

home by nightfall, chugging soft quick

bubble pounding, an artistic metaphor

to be sure, but in myriad ways less

then meaningful, it’s pretty not import.

 

If consideration replaces boredom in my heart

I will be more, or less depending

on the breaks of the waves, fortune is a fire

tornado, leafing away buildings

to skeletal dissonance, so what’s the use

of reason at heart, justification turmoil is political

gamesmanship, my mind lies on

my tongue, introducing indistinguishable

ideals and setting them to a death duel.

 

The world is war, whether it outs

ever or not, for every pinprick is

a disaster waiting, coming in threes

fours and fives, or just never-ending,

so if life is pain what is the point of poetry?

Poetry is above points, obviously, but

there’s an intriguing question behind

the question, what is the point

of questioners, without a god above.

 

Who are they to listen to us?

My questions are not for loan

or lease, and less are they mine

at all in the first place, every question

is birth stone bestowed, left to be

discovered someday, smashed open

and scattered in dust, sprinkling onto

words, so all must be related, somehow.

Poem: Flickering Light

Poem: Violation

Booming red sky in my ears donging a dinner bell,

in hell the wolves pant breathless, beer batter brown

sharp and dripping with blood, and the pain when they bite

explodes like the sun at dawn of the breaking day,

in the end it’s your fault, you classless idiot.

 

If only, I had I a fork to plunge I would,

sepsis be damned is my sentiment scratching

the record losses catalog, mumbling a masochist

broken glass throttle, covered in Tabasco

salty with fire and shame for what you did.

 

She said she didn’t feel safe in your hearth

because you are a paper ball, kicked flat

and stinking because of the pain you visited

on us all, for now standing villainous

over yourself straining and weeping in the dirt.

 

Pain is a parable tornado, each lesson is

as well as never won’t be, for naught is to do

but suffer here altogether in a poison pit,

regret sizzling and sealing our flaps together

until you suffocate, peacefully dead alone.

Poem: Violation

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