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: Nightmare 2

I shock into the world everyday

at dawn, I’m surrounded by trenchcoats

surrendering to the past, flicking butts

from day to night, as the world turns

they learn not at all, as they are all fury

fear and fellowship, so to speak down

is knowing the time of day, the masses huddled

no more, girded by spiteful fury

depression draining life forever

Poem: Nightmare 2

Poem: In The Wartime

The battle was weeks of hell, baskets of mortar

dropped on a frozen rope, onto my friends trapped

with nothing to win, they are happy now

rendered headless, chopping off what we could

to drop into the sea, we are war machine screaming

merciless mantras, passing a chalice

boozy of humor, laughing with satan

at the suffering fireworks, burn the wound making

cauterized ruination, I fear sepsis

taking hold, for I will die before its done.

 

Pandemonium marketplace setups

selling soldiers to the bidder, elevated not

though square dealing on the level

with rules to follow, and malice aforethought

you understand, for a known game is just

talk of death to traitors and spies

wearing suits, costuming a new hell

in tatters as death in the mirror

again, the children are hungry

but nothing grows anymore period.

 

A cruel, merciless decision we made,

admittedly, to stand apart from fury

with sickly cowardice we turn away,

though we chastise ourselves and each other

for acting likewise, because flagellation feels

good when we use words, joy is diminishing

words we don’t like to use in public

but we still do, for wouldn’t you

if you had esteem waiting, but you don’t

because you only serve, like a lever.

 

Check marks, first thing is the first,

a nice fruity phosphate, Mountain Due

Condition Blue or something, tasting love

is sweet sunshine and comfort costs

money in peacetime, my arms rendered

useless but to pull a lever, push a lunger

off the edge, slipping into a dragon chase,

or maybe it’s a nightmare, but waking

in a box is a bad omen, I’ve heard.

 

Large in charge of the floor, big shot

all of a sudden, struggling still up against

a whiteboard colored in bullshit,

first buy the bonds, afterwards pay the piper

for the tolls that number sixteen

more than before, on the same street

all of a sudden, knowing there’s not a place

we could afford uptown, anyway

hunting a point out, precisely placed

because you might have just one chance.

 

Voltaire and Camus came together

to work on “All Quiet,” or whatever

it will be called, and directed by Dickens

with Gandhi producing, De Sade scripting

the tale of a lonely stable-boy in love

with a maiden of the conquered people,

but alas he is gutshot, and dies alone

in the dark, no dry eyes, best picture

contender at least, that’s for sure.

 

I feel like Django, dragging a coffin behind me

filled with my trespasses, and the yelping

victim wails that fell on deaf ears echo

in the night, haunting things I’ve done

rest in the unknown enemy’s moving tomb,

they would’ve done me as I did them,

but still they glare with hole eyes, sucking portals

sucking to a world of shit, so forever good night.

 

I wrote a book called “Push the Chips”

detailing my fall and rise, it was a whitewash

snow job poorly detailed emotional history,

just as devotees rise and shout praises

out of tune, paper away the detritus

pushing to next, and gearing up is the key

with a spiked helmet and chains,

you gotta mash the allies, tell no one

what you’ve done, it is a horror.

 

The movie’s have changed, and none remain

better then ever, though history clones are

all the rage bubbling, they disappoint

with cookie-cutter mechanics and terra cotta

characters, so open the door and pull ideas

off of the chaff pile, we will shield them

with complacency, I have to write

my new novel, the one to lift them up

by the heart, which is all there is.

 

The first time I attempted suicide

I woke up in the hospital, zippered

into my bed, joining rage and regret

in a blender, pushing pulse over again,

smearing pain and scrawling hate

on the wall, they started marking milestones

after a time, now not even a walker

with me, the sad kids get some hope.

 

This is my resignation not from chiefs

of executive office, in them a poison

growing from their heart through their pores,

making them seem soupy, and red

of brick and beet and tomato, but we know

what it really is, representing an ending

for everyone, I move to my forest cabin,

shut off, my kids won’t talk to me at all

now, maybe they’ll never, but I’m finally free.

 

The court calls me Notnow Neverwas

and they laugh, when I enter or leave,

they say it through a cone, long and loud

“Ladies and Gentlemen!  Boys and girls!”

then they lower the boom, pointing to me

a smiling finger, no, they cackle grimly

without humor, but they don’t even know

no one’s laughing, either and I have a knife

behind my back, time for some justice.

Poem: In The Wartime

Poem: Beacon

Hollow artifice, ironically surrendering, seriously

stationing paper doll houses, slinkily pointed snakebite

venom of eternity, puncturing the platitudinous

anchors chaining patriarchy, stone faces, mountain hollows

frakked for gold and frankincense, under the glower

cloudless blue forever, until it burns to see

what’s being done, that it is nothing until tomorrow

tornado sharks raining, spin one eighty

jesus christ it’s almost here, unstoppable endings.

 

Fear the fathomless hope, haunting dreams

whistling horror head holes, wicked banalities

whisper “never” sweetly, to be ignored

forever, fight with a smiling fist, into the mirror

frowning falsehoods, discover the dawn break

exterior startling, feelings dazzle the drunken

heart breakers, flash the bro faces blind

stumbling over footstools, existing as a hurricane

lighthouse unmoving, point the way to the soul.

Poem: Beacon

Poem: Survive

Brain storming idea flood, dropping in parts

perpetual dead eyed ubiquity, an albatross haze

chaining strangled instruction, interior chambers a-choking

hazard, pointed lavish amplitudes, scraping voice

rasping mutinous revision, mockery infused with petty

predestined inquisition, critical disquietude

formally veracious, pointlessly hilarious

sociopathic harmony, the world is but reason and death.

 

Fearsome future, fumbles at the goal

line segment, solitary abundance is a master

key molding missionary, Unbolt Kaiser the third

succession line straggler, pulling to pieces

protective parlances, demonic pandemonium

punch bowl poisons, guzzle gallons persisting

painfully oppressive, fritter away days of night

backhand parlor gaming, see the other side.

Poem: Survive

Poem: Fear

New year’s day of atonement, preceding many months

horrible hysterical history, presided over a shameful nocturne

disguised a blistering buffer zone, truth is high-pitched

whining decibels aplenty, neigh time is mine for sure, spitting seeds

into the earth, warm watered, expansion whispering “no”

directionless teeth shatter and rake, sparking a fire

down below the vision line, the nation’s tummy

churning singe scar flesh, we will eat each other

becoming demented sickness, what have we done?

 

But the stars shine through the air

we can breathe, hope is not beyond salvaging

until all hearts are cold, passionless pivot points

we fight to the dawn, bloody knuckles afire

free for all, pillage the past, wring of it passion droplets

burning through the doorway, making steel like ice

melting under heat guns, smell the smoke

coughing freedom, remember today tomorrow

is yesterday again, and maybe we will dance.

Poem: Fear

Poem: Dilemma

It’s a symptom, not the arbiter

of the end times, we sing songs and scream

from chaos into whatever comes next, it’s a transfer like birth

glowing in gloried pain, it acts as a swamp draining

big shots believing nothing now, posting ideas they can’t see

the ground as it comes, an accelerated future

explosion through the wall, into and through your eyes

you will see weeping, idiots who don’t understand

looking into a mirror, horrified by the face

they make without knowing that we are all puppets.

 

I want to escape, but my prison is within

jeering and cackling, horrid and joyous

at once when we join the fray, blood in our teeth

tasting of silvery vengeance, count the walls around

on four sides, boxing you in, a sad world

where you find yourself king.

Poem: Dilemma