Poem: The Future

At bottom is a gulf between, each and every

soul bent apart, twisted pygmy, reading eyelids

inner night vision, grasping hopeless horror

overlong listing in slumber, bored building blocks

bastardize violence, besmirch baritone drawls

deeply resonant, like a tuning

fork in the throat, bleeding us empty, helpless

plaintiff stemming with chopsticks, humanity falls away

in modern times, naught to be done.

 

OR, the holy 2-letter bite size

spit bubble, opening trapdoor politics with a hammer

sickle and sinister thought, rising tides horizon

settling a score as old as time, versus confusion

fakery, swat the flies, kill the beasts, trample the protestors

on the capitol steps, as do what thou wilt

is the only law, if you can afford it, that is

factual forces farm, blood fertilizing the soil

with souls of sinners, we will dance, hopefully.

Poem: The Future

Novelistic

This trashy beach novel, written sunbathing

about the future of our planet, which I found

on the shores of lake Minotanka, is pessimistic at best,

in its vision of the future, the pantsless emperor

is given a knife, and he’s running around the U.N.

stabbing at ghosts, because he was celebrating

the assassination of the previous emperor

and he did too much acid, it’s a hilarious romp

featuring a choreographed dance of death

with full penetration, it has everything.

Novelistic

Poem: Reason

A trashy beach manifesto written sunbathing

is the future of our planet, a kind skyscraper?  The free pass

house in the boarded-up brothel, casting no aspersions

on the future, judgements long past, 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 simply done

what He did is a world worth living

for, beautifully complex variations on one

three-chord structure, the feeling seeped

in splattered paint, subliminally experienced

fractures of society, family and personality

are the background noises

of life, living is the background behavior

of death, or whatever, the fact is

it’s fascinating to be alive, whatever happens

to this planet.

Poem: Reason

Poem: Down Low

Delicious, lovely happenings abound

around the area floating, if you look for them

in your imagination

that is, they reside on the slide

in the pride of losers clinging to each other

while the world changes behind their backs, again

just like before when it happened

to their fathers, grandfathers buddies cousins

boss’s bro’s and bandits, all of us a link

in a chain that knows nothing connects

really, which is sad

but only kind of, honestly.

 

Because Flavor is important, in all places

at once, preference being a fact of life

we express our spirits through, what we enjoy

is like a fingerprint, and could we catalog the world

in this way, as if compiling examples, or would our spirits be

like sand in water, or pliable

like Play-Doh fresh, and I think maybe all

simultaneously, meaning you could create

databases of libraries, so I guess it’s no use

considering impossibilities, but a sense is created

by what you’re a fan of, I guess.

 

All this is important because I am sickened

by what you people like, and this gives me comfort

unbelievably massive, cloaking all of us in a shadow

of spiteful noncompliance, is the consistent popularity

of 2 Broke Girls an eternal question

or just a fact, that most people are braying

assholes who think it’s funny to embarrass ugly people

in front of the others, which it often is

but still, you don’t wanna broadcast that shit

homie, gotta keep the devil

on the DL in more ways than one.

Poem: Down Low

Poetry: Nightmare 1

The world is a nightmare, this is plain

but it doesn’t have to be

anymore, since we’ve realized

one of the many ways out is suicide,

reliable and final forever.  Some chickens claim

cowardice shivers sniffles evacuations

bowel and otherwise, all are a mask

to the flowing of time becoming

all-knowing everything, which is what happens

possibly at the end, though who’s to know

this day and age.

Poetry: Nightmare 1

Poem: The First Chapter

Gangrenous is our sense of society, everyone knows

what is wrong can’t be spoken

because all we have is a sense of it, the sinister

in every smile, watch out, young man, watch out you’ll crack

thumper him on the head, down to a standing eight

count at least, a wallet richer

inspecting the contents, shattered by emptiness

cracking a ribcage with no facial feeling

just because you had a bad day, the dark of it

which spread from the knowing it could happen

someday into the world was born, hoofbeats patter

through the window from the street.

 

Perhaps is his name and he broke

free in the market, spreading the stench of war

unspoken, my neighbors fear my skin

as well, causing shouting at town halls

message boards full of misspelled capitals

exclamation points and question marks, all meaning

nothing at all important, but the electric mania

is what I call it, as well as the beginning of the end

possibly should things continue the way they are.

Poem: The First Chapter

Poem:New Day

To hear summer morning crack

open a storm, joyfully dawning

the new day with symbols mystifying

the senses, interested, like a regard

for the shapeless beauty

of everything, and it’s great, but he still he’s the president

for a long fucking time, not that long

really, but long enough

for me, certainly, Jesus Christ

can you fucking believe it, yes I can

you asshole, because what the fuck

does making sense matter?  And what the fuck

who cares if I’m not

creative with my word choices, it’s completely believable

inevitable and pointless, it’s the imagination that matters

to you, like when you were little.

 

Not that little, in the fancy rich park

with the shapes and colors, when we finally abandoned

the conceit, saying “okay, we’re wizards,”

me and my loser friends, agreeing that beforehand,

I’m a lightning or storm wizard

who lives in the swamp talking to everything

alive, like the fatalist

in those stories you wrote, where he was born

on a rope in the storm, which was the world

for us, I want to go back

inspecting the rubble, real horrorshow.

 

Me and my buddies, standing in a crowd

jaws hanging loose at the sight of the bombs

dropping, all silent subtext is not

in between the lines, wear it as a hat

folded newspaper scraps, make a fire in a trash can

for fun, write with blood

a manifesto, a goodbye speech

for the penitent, seeing the future

written in lipstick on a naked dead body,

just the word sorry, we didn’t know

it is floating away, forever.

Poem:New Day