Poem: Apocalypse

Shit

is was and will forever remain

fucked up, man seriously, all the airheads

blather in their sunken barges, the worst, most evil

seduction cast over the world like a zombie

apocalypse manifest, written

down.

Not a manifesto but a plan

of action written next to the numbers on maps

with colors and shapes, it will describe what’s about to happen

where there is no hero, probably, so things appear

as you scale it over again.

Don’t

underestimate yourself

this time, or you could reconsider your position

terminated with extreme prejudice, like misogyny of course

if the charge justified, you can war in your way

while standing alone

can’t.

So allies called respond

with a flash, separating heads into fading shapes

rotating slow, or so I wish, all we get is bullhorn honking

the return of what lingers, echoing from evil mirror

tactics, we aren’t innocent.

None

is the solution we come upon

feasible functioning, or farcically felonious for us all

open prostrate, catalog of orders immoral, Randian Objectivism

is the key potentially now, as what’s to gain drunken

permanently watching the door

lock.

Poem: Apocalypse

Poem: Ceiling Sketches

On our side we are always leaving

no matter what, we know the facts

that you don’t, and they tell us the truth

of what we would prefer to believe anyway, the fact is that

we are, and we know it

as a horse knows a gallop, we know to leave

indentations where we tread.

 

But we understand, don’t make a mistake, you can’t

know we have your best interests at heart, for we do

though in a roundabout way, wish you success

in all your endeavors, after you’ve eaten

all the shit mustered, prideful joy abounds

for surmounting such a crest, which we believe you could

jump high enough, barely for you can’t quite see it, the avalanche.

 

Waiting around the corner

raise a standard strategy, teaching savage

trickery creates competition, basics for expounding

whatever way one will, forget the rules

like smoke in wind, still go to church

eating vegetable desserts, it seems pointless

tipping a doom bowl over.

 

View an error, wishing you could correct come, large step

over the error after another and you’re nearly there, already

anticipating a victory, but each and every

time you are closer, and a gradual constant

accompanying no victory yet, though a shining sky

would signify a change, our blood runs black

tormented sludge, but it will never be exhausted, our will.

Poem: Ceiling Sketches

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: Election Day

Clear we are like like the sound

of singeing blades, through the tapestry

of life’s rich and poor, all are victims

all of us, simply, though there can be others

undoubtedly, steady philosophically, probably

reasonable, but who could tell with Ayn Rand

rousting people, because she grew

in extremes of injustice and horror, which arose because people know

their place, in the scheme of things

considered in wartime, but then they rejoice in joining

humanity’s final war, to join the elite.

 

The end of the world will not be supernatural,

it will take decades

beginning tonight, maybe.

 

Que sera sera, as they say

Poem: Election Day

Poem: Politics on November 3, 2016

Stare at blank

in a page, haunting reflection failures

stare back, beaming alike

with gods and machines’

waste piles, shining a headlamp sheen

wherefrom we know not, the sun and our ghosts,

in the screen of yesterday, must be

them that make it bright

with their droning, fliers of warwords

turning the cheeck of disdain, at least two

with deaf dumb cronies

alongside, not knowing that it won’t

make a difference, at all.

 

So what?  As in all pursuits

from effort is progress, there are days spent

over the furnace workshop

dank of sweat, to figure out that

some are good and some are bad

now as ever, but how can you tell

from the faces of the faithful

about what they know

and why, does it grow

like a fetus or flower

like a sickness, so that all eyes point

the same direction, the curious balance

humanity strikes is beautiful.

 

The scheme of things is speckled

with outliers wanting more, discipline and comfort

progress and spirit

love and death, they wear all disguises

though we know who they are

in the daylight, which will someday come

I hope, there is the knowledge

that god is a mean, nothing more

than energy, keeping us in a lane

to the abattoir, I feel a hope

is my spirit preserver, through boons and lulls.

 

The point is everything will happen

as it happens, then it will have happened

again and again, so the important thing

is a scoff denoting flippancy, signaling the end

of a long dark tunnel, finding graffiti

where you can and adding

to it a shining pegasus, imprinting

that feeling of triumph

in your dreams, it’s all in the becoming

who you are, the cool mellow dude

who can spin a story

of the 2016 presidential election, and the horror

or the heaven, and who can (know or) remember?

Poem: Politics on November 3, 2016

Zen Comedy: Exaggerated Reality

The Zen Comedian often ruminates about how every comedian uses the specifics of his or her own personal life as inspiration for their comedy.  He says that while not all comics reference events in their own lives specifically, all comedy naturally flows from ones own experiences.  “However,” he says, “Never simply describe anything.”  I believe that by this he means that it is a mistake to believe that the events of your life are ever on their own funny enough for a joke, and that the comedy rather comes from each comedian’s interpretation of the world.  Each comedian takes in the detritus of the world as he or she sees it, and regurgitates a skewed interpretation that is artfully hilarious.  One comedian who seems to take this advice and use it to its fullest potential is Patton Oswalt, and he shows the truth of it again and again in his exemplary album “Finest Hour.”

In one particularly hilarious section Patton describes his tendency to “jock rock” out the events of his life; that is, to invent simple sing-song narration to accompany the mundanities of everyday existence, accompanying each tune with a simple unexcited “yeah” at its end.  After a couple of increasingly silly ditties about buying stamps at the post office and eating a sleeve of saltines in his underwear, he ends the bit with a touch of self-recrimination.  “Jackin’ off to internet porn in my office while I should teach my daughter to read, yeah.”  This bit is fantastic in that it finds the humor in the tedious while at the same time including some sharp self criticism, (see “Zen Comedy: Getting Real” for additional examples of this) which imbues the bit with riotous truth.

Personally, I struggle with this principle, especially when attempting to describe things that might be funny on their face, though they can easily slip into simple indecency.  Recently, I suffered from the fact that I had a large, painful boil right next to my anus.  Fearing that it was a hemorrhoid, I did a bit of research, finding that the cause of hemorrhoids is the tendency some people (myself included) have to bear down and force out difficult bowel movements.  Upon discovering this (or so the joke claims) I was instantly dejected, as I have long found difficult and time-consuming bowel movements to be one of the few remaining aspects of my physical existence in which I can claim a consistent victory.

I believe this concept to be very funny and I have found with it some success in my standup, but in order for this bit to become exceptional, The Zen Comedian would tell me that I should try to exaggerate its reality.  Perhaps I should speak of achieving stillness in myself, focusing singularly on the bowel movement as I pass it, perhaps even placing my palms flat against one another as if in prayer.  Maybe I will grit my teeth, growling with faux effort before I describe hearing a single “plop” sound, and leaping into the air raising my fists in victory.  I feel that like Oswalt, I can potentially find in this bit and bits like it the opportunity to make my performance more expressive, hopefully making this into a truly great bit.  Whether or not I continue to perform this joke, the lessons I’ve learned about drawing hilarity from within and bringing it out into the world will be of great help in the future.

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Zen Comedy: Exaggerated Reality

Poem: Stone Faces

A warrior facade, that’s what they call it

in the daytime, the mask you put on, a scowling

bucket of crickets or something, crush in’ ‘em

to see killing as an art installation, scowl it off

the nothing you learn, tell yourself

the world is combat, in its heart and soul, if not

its bones, because it seems that some don’t have

to fight for everything, mirror eyes

are the only real

honest to god opponent, that you do and should fight

with pliers and a blowtorch, a couple pipe

hitters, the killer version, a phalanx

amassed on my borders, boxing me in

the tunnel to a nothing monster, I hope one day

I will grow past anger, for now it’s what’s there.

Poem: Stone Faces