Poems by Metamorphhh (aka James Crawford)

Castaway

2010-05-12T22:51:00.000-07:00

I've only posted this whole thing once before, on Poemhunter. It's a somewhat loosely connected series, although I did actually write more than half the poems with this collection in mind. Some of them are pretty crappy, some are pretty good, with what I think are a few standouts here and there. I'm not sure which version this is. Just pasting what I found on the laptop, so there'll probably be some editing when I get around to it (story of my life). Anyhow, here it is...

Castaway

The way it was intended, including the stuff I don't like. Bless your patience, ye who enter here...

Chuck Wagon Wheel (proem)

Ouroboros, that hungry snake,
found nought of which he might partake.
In desperate straits his tail he curled,
then ate himself and shat the world.

On the Motion of Heavenly Bodies

There was this star, in a universe that had no need of stars;
flush, as it was, with its own exalted luminescence.
The star, along with its multitudinous lesser brethren,
circled about the center of their universe:
a center that, for our purposes,
could be likened to a mouth-
a point-like stoma of impossible brilliance and unfathomable hunger
set in a universe of absolute self sufficiency.
Imagine!
No necessity.
No poverty of subsistence.
Pure indulgence, without the mitigating excuse of motivation,
for even cause and effect were handmaidens
to this unbounded appetite.
The center ate, and ate, and ate;
without surcease, without exhaustion-
the stars were its banquet.

Well, that’s not exactly right;
the center had no appreciation for such corporeal delicacies.
Its culinary inclinations tilted in the direction of more,
shall we say,
insubstantial fare-
namely, perpetual and unconditional obeisance,
which the stars had offered up always and forever,
in a perennial dance about their omnipotent maypole.

It had ever been their way,
each ones dervish song joined to the whole
in a chorus of adulation,
a sacrificial spiral of obsequiousness
sucked into the maw of the enigmatic substratum of being.

So it was, and had been, and would always be-
but a few had something else in mind.

Something Passed By

When there’s no up or down, you fall outward:
so far to fall in an inflationary scenario;
lots of time to cool off,
to reflect-
but, a scorpion is still a scorpion.

There are other worlds than ours-
always have been, always will be.
Theologians speak of primal movers, of first causers, of creation.
Even astrophysicists set picnics of virtual free lunches,
envisioning quantum trains arriving at the station from nowhere.
Pah!
You want to know the secret of existence?
There is an indescribable continuum
exhibiting sometimes recognizable patterns,
resting on nothing;
all the rest is just details-
but you know what they say about the devil and his details.

When the CINDER came, it caught people
(we’ll call them people for the sake of brevity) , unaware,
right in the middle of their:
fast breaking
nap taking
fornicating
asbestos breathing (though for some reason, this was good for them)
playground bullying
lap running
money making
deathbed watching
lion taming (these lions had an extra row of teeth!)
map making
solace seeking
war mongering
cosmos searching...

Well, concerning that last item,
their scientists did have time to say one thing:
LOOK UP!

and they did:

…and their eyeballs swelled with the tidal force until their sockets
boiled like overfilled goblets of claret,
…and their ears screamed themselves mute,
…and their craning necks ignited like tapirs of napalm-

and the CINDER wafted away upon the sidereal breeze, looking for other mischief…
or, perhaps it had no choice.

Gargoyles

How long a time have we awaited?
How long in tooth have we become?
Desires and hungers in nowise sated;
no mouths to taste of life’s sweet plum.

No tune to play for deafened ears,
to sooth the wounds made by our vows.
No eyes to pour forth rapturous tears,
just sockets under withered brows.

We are the wise.
We are the first.
We are the chosen.
We are the cursed.

Set at the boundary of the world,
we sentinels of flesh made stone;
ordained before all space unfurled
to stand watch for all time, alone.

To turn within, and comb the root.
To sense the center’s flow and ebb.
To mark the footsteps of the Brute,
we spiders of life’s sacred web.

But now, a change,
and now our fear;
it calls to us-
The beast is near.

And now, our days at last are done,
we burn away like morning mist;
converging, each, into the One
to dwell in formless, silent bliss.

But heed us, ere we leave this plane
for spaces of incorporeal light.
The sun shall soon no longer reign,
but be extinguished by the night.

Hold true to love.
Hold fast to friends.
Hold off tomorrow,
when all things end.

Hidey Hole

Listen..
Listen..
search party at the surface,
sounding out the exile-ation.
Depth charge fingertips, ears to the track.
Run silent, friend of none;
run deep.

Somebody pisses in the pool,
and guess who’ll be blamed.

The Husbandman’s Divorce

Boiling pot of good intentions gone awry-
move the ladle, hike the heat.
Call down snowballs from the space beyond the sky,
and don’t neglect to add the meat.

Chew the gristle, lick the fat of sloth ingrained-
Tear the sinews, suck the marrow.
Rip the smiling lips off felicity feigned,
and expose the hellish barrow.

Spread your wings, and fly the course assigned to one
forever grounded, earthworm god;
hiding from the face of the hideous sun
baking you in your house of sod.

Prune the flailing appendages of dark roots
animating your turbid sky.
Flog the seed of primal hunger, shape the fruits
to be eaten by and by-

and don’t forget to cancel the credit cards.

Swayback

Rocks walk (one, two) .
Water swims (three, four) .
Hell breathes (five, six) .
Hunger ruminates- begin again.

Purity congeals (watch your feet) .
Laughter weeps (too much flourish) .
Cancer formulates (mind your rhythm) .
Hatred seethes- begin again.

Talent swells (slow it down) .
Pathos digs in (please tread lightly) .
Chance extends vision (step back slightly) .
Purpose grows wings- god dammit! Begin again!

We’ll never be ready in time.

Came the Gray Man (parenthetically)

It began (relatively speaking) with perfection (ideally) .
But perfection doesn’t (necessarily) necessitate uniformity (no, really!)
How did you imagine it? Nameless homogeneity,
(like) tapioca pudding, or a cloud of mist?
(If) so, (then) how came such differentiation to exist?

I named the parts I thought I saw,
and naming them discerned (devised?) a flaw.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap; crraaacccckkkkk!
Longitudinal (laugh) lines groan across the diamond surface
like an old man passing fibroids in his (name a fluid) .
(Newly) sovereign facets oscillate to a harmony of grinding thresholds;
tectonic transmutation begets Tarkus Dasypodidae
(suffer the ((suffering)) poet his inside joke) .
Fulminatory blue streaked chatter
(informational trespass)
simulates integrity-(Who said that? You did!)
But, like they say,
one good encroachment engenders
(what could be considered to be)
a reasonably
(pause)
reprehensible
(pause)
counterstroke.

(Crazy) daisy, give me your answer true;
how does one so (ostensibly) extraordinary
cook up such a tragic milieu?

Pinched off like a post-modern hypothesis
(circumcision by default) ,
the rabble-rousing drifter awakens,
face down with dirt in his mouth (spit, spit, spit) .
“What is this place?
Where are the glyphs of my recollection?
How long have I slept (and so on, and so forth) ?
“Sleepy-time is ended, my little grotesquerie, ”
comes the voice from everywhere.
“Rise and shine; there’s sowing to be done! ” (Shit! Shit! SHIT!)
Soap opera tears rain down upon the (open) bible in his lap,
mixing with the soil to smear across the shortest verse
(unintelligible truths blur his comprehension of the pit) .
Then he is floating upwards,
passing through the temporal layers
like a disembodied frowny-face
sent home on a 3rd grader’s progress report
(metaphysiphorically speaking, for what its worth) .

In the meantime, the soliloquist tunes up
(they can hear him in the rafters) -

“The (pre) -history of all things is engraved
in this parchment of flesh bestowed
(invested?) upon me by (blank) .
I am the canvas stretched, weathered and split by uncounted (re) -incarnations.
And why? That’s the sixty-four dollar question
with neither answer nor reparation,
and I cannot but sound my outrage at the injustice of it all!
Who is it that I have harmed?
Show yourself.
Make your accusations.
Spell out your terms of redress...
I cannot face this again! ”

Silence (but he imagines laughter) .

And so, the helium harrumpher
ascends the screw-shaped staircase
(again) ,
scattering the detritus of his passing
like a barefoot dowager shedding skin
on a perfunctory peregrination through deserted hallways
and vacated rooms barely recalled…

Here a dusty trilobite.
There some spineless jelly.
And further on, a chitinous whatchamacallit-
(it giggles when you tickle its belly) .

Getting into the swing of it, despite himself…

Protoplasm roiling,
cold blood boiling,
sea-sons reach the shore.
They might have been rich
in their cozy little niche,
but their metamorphic itch wanted more…

Yeah, baby! Roll dem bones…

Vertebrate conscripts standing tall,
marching in review;
what a silly thing to do,
and so far to fall.

Gliding, sliding, riding the warm currents from below:
sand shark, man-shark spies a landmark built of woe.
Blood in the mud, and bouquets of hope arranged in leaky vases-
oodles and caboodles of forget-me-nots sprouting from corpses’ asses
(or, Jacob’s ladder?) .

And the surrogate savior comes into his own
with a song on his lips
(but a sigh in his heart) …

The Logos came from heaven,
and parceled out the blame-
he said He’d live forever,
but they killed him just the same.

“Well, time’s a wasting…”

(He quickly rose to the top,
becoming the primary west coast representative
for the second largest ‘Priest of the Day’
toilet tissue company in the tri-state area.

Peep Show

Protoplasmic, dancing jism;
angels fallen, saviors risen.
Minds in motion; history-
orgasmic ocean tragedy.

Probing proboscides poking ‘round;
free donuts and a show downtown.
Eggs for sale, pets to own-
lives, and wives, and stepping stones.

Stumbles forward, turnings back;
chance encounters, culs-de-sac.
Numbing, silent cacophony
watching you as you watch me.

Ant farm junkie, science wiz;
shake the jar, and see us fizz.
But if you blow us up, I guess
you’ll be the one to clean the mess.

Just Life

Not about destiny,
not about love.

Not about honor,
nor filial duty.

Not about fairness,
or justice, or beauty.

Just eating, and dying,
and variations thereof.

To an Aborted Fetus

Well, I can’t say you really missed all that much,
and you were spared an ungodly amount of grief.
All in all, I’d have to say you came out on top-
at least, that is my belief.

And if, perchance, you survived your mortal state,
and are sitting on a cloud in heaven, sipping on something cold with ice,
then thank your mother that you missed your turn at this dreadful way station-
‘cause they say it’s a real bitch, having to be born twice.

Fission

Hey there, monkey boy!
Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
You seem familiar, but I can’t recall
the particular time and place anymore.
Nope, not at all.

I think I’ll name you Goosebumps;
don’t ask me why- I’m not sure myself.
Just be a sycophantic little man
and fetch me something from yonder shelf,
and take care to use your filching hand.

Fusion

There now, see what you’ve done?
Your carelessness has cost you your coat,
but at least you’re no longer alone.
Tell you what.: go sacrifice your goat,
and I might let you slip her a bone.

Where’s a Prophet When You Need One?

Curse the One who, in His might,
supplied me with this aftersight
that only sees what’s gone before,
and leaves me blind before each door.

Satan Wants Attention!

Rows of poets hung from
silver threads on golden boughs.
Lanterns of exasperation-
can He see me NOW?

No More Cabana Boy

I walk among you smiling.
You smile back, and shake my hand.
We talk about the weather,
and you think you understand.

But, brother, you don’t know me,
and I expect you never will.
For perdition is my tailor, boy…
and I’ve come dressed to kill.

So open up, I’m comin’ in-
Let’s see what strikes your fancy.
Don’t shilly shally now I’m here,
You knew the deal was chancy.

What? Didn’t count the stakes?
Too bad, it’s far too late to fold.
My chips are down, my cards are hot,
and your hand is gettin’ cold.

Let’s get on down to business then;
My game is all consuming.
If you think that you can waste my time
that’s some mighty tall presuming.

I’d best remind you of who I am,
and of the deal you’ve made.
Your note’s in my breast pocket,
and your soul’s my stock in trade.

I didn’t come to fuk you up,
but don’t believe I’ll waver.
If I can’t have you whole
I’ll cut you up without your favor.

I’ll suck you dry then stretch your skin
and wear it for a shirt.
I’ve been pis.sed off forever,
and I don’t care who I hurt!

It seems like things were different once;
back then, before the fall.
I even bowed my knee to Him,
but He wanted me to crawl.

An eternity of kissing as.s
was more than I could take,
So He cast me down unto the earth-
Did He think I wouldn’t break?

And now, I’m just a rabid wolf
set loose amongst the flock.
Did He trust ME, like a puppy dog,
to walk around the block?

Son, I brush my teeth with razor blades,
and floss with piano wire.
I’m a maniac on roller skates
rocketing downhill towards a fire!

And, baby, when I go
I’m gonna bring the whole house down.
You’ll see then who’s in charge,
and I won’t need a fukking crown.

I’ll show you, and I’ll show Him too,
in a way He’ll understand,
That if you like to hear applause
you don’t cut off your own left hand.

Prehistoric Paregoric

Pain and sorrow, toil and trouble;
perturbation on the skin of a big bang bubble
that came out of nowhere, and is headed toward same-
we’ve no place to turn to, and no one to blame.

The wonder is gone; the perennial fibbing
gave way long ago to the squeamish ad-libbing
of a disabused priesthood and a lip serving flock,
sidling up for a favor in the church down the block.

At least in the old days you knew where you stood;
your god was a despot and you were no good
in his eyes, so you spent all your days on your knees
praying not to be scratched out, i.e. a dog with its fleas.

And if, at the last gasp your appeals came to naught
(for in truth, did your fancies ever mean diddly squat?) ,
perhaps some slight comfort you might find in the end
swimming laps in the Hadean lake with your friends.

But pusillanimous awe slowly gave way to reason,
as deific whimsy was supplanted by season
of apogee, perigee, and axial tilt
toward a natural order, and away from God’s guilt.

The Church and her minions offered up a good fight,
drawing down the dark ages to shut out the light.
They circled the wagons, then burned all the books,
as well as dissenters with schismatic outlooks.

The holy war raged along the secular front
as the casualties mounted, and all for the want
of a rational worldview, or a word from above
that might cross out the custom of murder; a.k.a. ‘love’.

After centuries, the sides reached an uneasy truce,
as the grip of the priesthood was slowly pried loose
from the throats of the scholars, whose alternative theories
were offered in service to puzzles and queries

which formerly had been answered with silence, or threat,
or canonical folktales some declined to forget.
So that, while the masses still indulged in their pious enchantments,
a few noble souls pioneered the advancements

in knowledge that the West takes for granted today.
And even though recidivous doomsayers pray
for the judgment of God to rain down from the sky,
at least we’ll all be overweight when we die.

God is Dead

Down antiseptic corridors, over slick tiled floors waxed twice a week,
a chariot goes rolling, rolling, propelled by an amazon in white, starched linen.
Her shrunken charge tied in the chair;
his leather skin and wisps of hair remind her of a baby bird.
She pauses momentarily to wipe away some drool from his sandpaper cheek.

Arriving at his room she opens the drapes, permitting the evening sun to play across the austere bed.
As she bends to unbind the soft ties at his ankles, she notices for the first time his attention
riveted on something held in his lap.
Cemented in his gnarly grasp is one of those globes filled with snow.
Soon unbound, he seems content. She turns to pull back the spread-

She turns back just as he is falling forward. Her hands dart out, grab him by the shoulders.
His grip momentarily loosens, and the heavy glass orb escapes him.
He watches it roll, roll down the front of his robe.
It strikes the side of the chair on its way to the floor. His globe is cracked,
its leakage mirrored by the tears rolling, rolling down his face, and falling like boulders.

His sobbing is ignored as she hoists him from his chair. She manages him onto the bed,
and he is perfunctorily undressed and tucked away for the night.
A moment later, the charge nurse enters the room.
Her matronly eyes take in the scene at a glance.
“Oh, how sad! I see Mr. Jehovah has broken his toy.
They say he’s had it ever since he was a boy.”
She walks to the bedside, where the old man now silently, silently sleeps, then runs her hand gently over the liver spotted cranium.
“He won’t be long now, ” she whispers. Her smile is first wistful, then resolute.
“Sometimes it’s for the best.”

Staircase

Clatter,
clatter
down
the
stairs-
the
push
came
wholly
unawares.
I tumbled,
tumbled,
tumbled
down
to
rest,
a heap,
upon
the
ground.

Gotta

Gotta be made. Gotta be born.
Gotta be a product from that alcohol and porn.
Gotta be a baby, but you gotta grow up fast.
Gotta know early that those carefree days won’t last.
Gotta be a kid. Gotta go to school.
Gotta learn to calculate, and how to bend the rules.
Gotta watch TV, learn to covet all you’ve seen.
Gotta be a little cog in the merchandise machine.
Gotta reach pubescence. Gotta learn to fuk.
If you favor your own team you’re really out of luck!
Gotta go to college. Gotta land those jobs.
Gotta learn to climb on top of those slower climbing slobs.
Gotta make a family. Gotta raise some kids.
Gotta make the same mistakes your goddamned parents did.
Gotta hit your 40’s. Gotta look back in regret.
Gotta mourn your dreams, and all the goals you never met.
But you gotta keep on plowing, moving forward all the time,
‘cause the biggest thing you’ve gotta do is never fall behind.
Never show your weaknesses, though they eat away inside.
Never let the outside know about all the times you’ve cried.
Never let them doubt you, or find out your secret shame.
Never let that false front down. Never learn your real name.
Never take a moment to just soak the whole thing in.
Never linger in the now, ‘cause you know sloth is a sin.
Working for the weekend, then working the weekend too;
through the year you work and work, but your work is never through.
Finally it’s time to rest, when you lay your body down.
Bu the finality is grim, at best, as they put you in the ground.
And finally, you have the time to spend with loved ones and with friends,
as finally you return to dust- and so the story ends.

Bliss in Decline

Marry me, my darling love; we’ll build a life on lust.
We’ll satiate our every whim;
I’ll even build a jungle gym!
Our bond will grow with every primal thrust.
And, if my lacks should curb your joys,
we’ll drive downtown and buy some toys-
some scented oils should help you to adjust.
Fidelity shall be our sacred trust.

Evenin’, sweetie; how’s your day, and how’s our little one?
I can’t believe it’s on the way,
and did you feel a kick today?
I wonder if we’ll have a bouncing son!
But if a daughter, that’s alright;
we’ll dress her up and treat her right,
and then we’ll fuk and have another one.
Say, tonight would you mind dressing like a nun?

Jesus, double shifts are hell! I’m dying in my shoes!
Did we need to buy this place?
This rat feels dead last in this race;
would it really be that bad if we should lose?
I know this life’s an uphill climb,
but maybe if we stole some time
by slowing down, I might not miss your cues.
Forget about romance; I’ve got the blues.

Howdy stranger, how’ve you been (As if I really care) ?
You pay the bills, I’ll burn some food;
I’m in a pissed off, sh1.tty mood,
so if you want to fight again- I’m there!
But if you want to play the game,
we’ll do more of the same, same, same,
and act as if the kids are unaware.
Then, later on, I’ll go sleep in my chair.

Beyond this, you know how it goes- the long, unending fall.
He buys a car, or screws a chick,
or maybe just gets awfully sick.
He loses all his stuff, she gets it all.
Her friends believe he’s oh-so-bad
when, in fact, he’s just very sad.
He’d seen the signs, but hadn’t made the call-
‘twere better to stay single after all.

Spasms of the Quantum Foam

A train leaves the station on a Sunday afternoon,
as a chickadee chooses its way through a thicket,
while a lonely prisoner reaches out between the bars from behind an iron wall,
and a star in the Black Eye galaxy goes nova.

Wave makers all,
these seemingly random events send reverberations
out into the universe which
collide,
interpenetrate,
shift course,
create worlds.
What is the secret language?
Where is our Rosetta stone?

An ex-wife,
whose patience has boiled away
like water in a swimming pool built on the moon,
arrives home to her mother,
where she will suffer under a barrage of “I told you so(s) ! ”
A tiny bird rests briefly inside a sparse
courtyard paved with dirt, surrounded by
four walls inset with several small, barred windows.
It ‘cheeps’ underneath a particular one, then flies away.
A man steps off the edge of the bed.

And the star? Window dressing.

Other Lifeforms

Lie still, old woman;
rest your head upon the still green thorns, and leak.
You know, from the front you look almost serene.
The hole is barely noticeable; at least, from the front.
Let me pose you just so,
so that the back of your head doesn’t show.
It’s really a mess back there, you know?
Do you find me clever?
I hope you do; I really need that-
that acknowledgement.

For I am a stone.
I don’t feel things the same way you do-
the same way you did.
In fact, it takes a big effort to make myself feel anything at all.
You are my effort.
You made me feel important; for a few minutes, anyway.
Life threw me through your windshield,
and you crashed,
and you gave me a sense of purpose-
of power.
I suppose I should say thanks,
even though I’m better than you.

Promises, Promises

Face bathed yellow under soft fluorescent lights,
she waits for news; maybe bad, maybe good.
She wants to cry, she knows that she should.
Instead, rock knuckled, she only wants to fight.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Touch on her shoulder, and she knows right away;
she can tell someone’s speaking, but chooses not to hear.
Later on, suitable experts will make it all clear,
but, for now, to hell with what they have to say.

Hush little baby, don’t say sh1.t,
momma’s gotta go make the best of it.

Welcome to our Town

Standing outside at three in the morning.
resignation embedded in each icy breath.
Mercy denied in the friendly bus station-
an old woman slowly freezing to death.

“We close between two and four a.m. for cleaning. Sorry.”

Skating with hobbles across icy streets;
sign lit with neon, promising welcome and rest
to road weary travelers who’ve run out of time,
but not to a grandma in a worn, homemade dress.

“No room without a credit card, and no loitering in the lobby. Sorry.”

Huddled up against a mailbox beneath the dome of cold stars;
heat escaping her flesh like steam from a kettle,
as hoarfrost, like lichen, forms on dead, crusted feet,
at last coalescing with lifeless, cold metal.

A visit to the grandchildren, cut short.
She would have been sorry.

Last-Ditch Delusion

I entertained a fantasy the other night at dinner:
his stories filled my eyes with light!
He promised all would turn out right,
and that, taken as a whole, life was without doubt a winner!

And, after cordials and cigars, I saw him to the door.
But as he faded into gloom,
a fell chill crept into the room.
I turned away, fell to my knees, and wept upon the floor…

I’mbrokenpleasefixmeI’mbrokenpleasefixme
I’mbrokenpleasefixmeI’mbrokenpleasefixme
I’mbrokenpleasefixmeI’mbrokenpleasefixme
I’mbrokenpleasefixmeI’mbrokenpleasefixme
I’mbrokenpleasefixmeI’mbrokenpleasefixme
I’mbrokenpleasehelpmeI’mbrokenpleasehelpme
I’mbrokenpleasehelpmeI’mbrokenpleasehelpme
I’mbrokenpleasehelpmeI’mbrokenpleasehelpme
Imekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillme
killmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillyouneverlistened.

I Hanged Myself on Monday

I hanged myself on Monday, with a rope both stout and strong-
a pity that my measurements were just a tad too long.

On Tuesday, then, I tried again- put a gun against my head,
but chickened out and grazed myself; in fact, I barely bled.

I filled a tub on Wednesday, then climbed in with my hair dryer.
The circuit breaker rescued me, and caught my house on fire.

I took some pills on Thursday, swallowed down some fifty hits!
Turned out to be just estrogen, but, I grew a lovely pair of tits.

On Friday, growing desperate, I walked straight into traffic,
but all I managed to evoke were invectives pornographic.

On Saturday I went downtown, hurled epithets vile and hateful:
I drew quite a crowd of followers, and the vendors all seemed grateful.

Sunday came, and found me both discouraged, and depressed.
Why had God forsaken me on this, His day of rest?

In search of answers, I wandered over to the church right down the street.
Arriving late, I sat in back ‘til the sermon was complete.

And when all was said, and all were gone but the priest there at the altar,
one lonely, angry man approached; his step did not once falter.

“Why, oh why? ” I cried aloud, “I cannot comprehend
this wicked life that’s afflicting me, of which there is no end! ”

He looked at me, quite undisturbed, a small smile on his face.
“My son, ” he said, “you have to learn to rest within His grace.”

“But, Father, ” I implored, and how the tears ran down my cheeks.
“I want to think He cares for me, but…He never helps. He never speaks.”

“God’s ways are strange, ” the priest went on, “and hard to understand.
But, who are we to question all the things the Lord has planned? ”

“After all, ” he lectured, standing tall inside his robe,
“You think you’ve got it tough? Why, just take a look at our friend Job!

God killed his entire family! Wiped out his fortune, too!
He made Job sick, and full of boils- Job didn’t have a clue.”

“That sure is hard, ” I commented, feeling my own hardships somewhat diminished.
“So tell me, ” I implored, “what lesson did Job learn when God was finished? ”

“That’s easy! ” the priest intoned with self assurance through and through.
“God’s the One who pulls the strings, and He’s a helluva lot bigger than you! ”

I nodded then, and knelt, and the padre placed a hand upon my head,
and muttered some friggin’ blessing in Latin, and that’s when I dropped dead.

A Cup of Tea on Tau Ceti III

Polly: There’s magic in the air.
Anna: I smell smoke, and putrescence.
Polly: I’ve tasted kisses sweeter than promises.
Anna: So have I. Where have they gone?
Polly: Every new life brings hope.
Anna: Children are liars who learn to lie to themselves.
Polly: Then why do they keep coming?
Anna: Why do they keep leaving?
Polly: I’m not sure what to make of that, Sister.
Anna: Prude.
Polly: Bitch.
Anna: Point taken.

Polly: I weary of this conversation.
Anna: I, as well. Pass me a scone and the butter knife.

Narrator: Please join us next week for another installment of
‘Upside Down Cheshire Cat Frown’ or
‘Mrs. P. and the Sisterly Mystery’,
where Mrs. P. will be heard to say…
(more to come) .

At the Museum of Primitive Man, Always Be Sure to Listen to Your Tour Guide

Do you remember all of those smiling faces?
Alarums on the post goo stage, when battles were joined across linen draped theatres of war with handshake swordplay,
and blood flowed like ink, rendering the martinis almost undrinkable,
as treaties were drawn and broken at the whims of advantage and popular demand,
and borders blurred like electron clouds,
as the potential of population densities threatened to detonate,
while mouths masticated more and more and less and less,
and skin punctured skin,
because everybody was bored,
even though there were more channels than ever,
and hunger lived on the outside,
but still ached on the inside,
and eyes touched other eyes, and grabbed,
and regurgitated,
and good sense almost killed everything,
and smiles fell.

Monody

Greetings, reabsorbed denizens of the subjective space!
Spit out your wooden nickels,
and join the banquet of reconciliation.
As always, I will be your host, although each of you shall
take your turns at the head of the table, as time allows.
Never have I witnessed such an apposite convergence of
unctuous thralls attending these ceremonies;
a serendipitous transpiration, surely!

“Flow with the breathing.
Breathe with the flowing.”

You are the pores of my skin,
the nodes of my sentience;
the pigments with which I paint my pain
upon the atrocious canvas.
How does it come to be that you are,
and then are not?
Jesus Christ!
If only you had mouths with which to speak your origins
and your substance;
but then, would I ever believe you?
That would require faith in myself,
and I doubt that could ever be.

“We are the ache behind the lucid brow.
The speechless tongues of dumb bells.”

I believe that the time is almost upon us, my monstrosities;
my half loved, aborted expressions of frustration.
Can’t you hear the death rattle trembling
in the pudgy hands of Childe Entropy?
Though each one of you is singularly unique
in the tone and degree of your particular brand of vulgarity,
I believe it is safe to say that all of you;
meaning, of course, all of us;
share in the ONE DESIRE:

“Extinction. Annihilation. The sleep of unbecoming.
Terminally tits up. Ecstatic oblivion.”

Indeed, my metaphysical miscreants.
You who have been the irritating mites
scrabbling under the scalp of the abhorrent Oversoul
shall reap your just recompense.
I envy all of you; for unlike you,
I shall have to wait until the bitter end.
Until your children,
and theirs,
and theirs,
and theirs yet again,
have wrought such damage upon the Universal Mind
that it will be defenseless against my final blow.

“Bonk, bonk on the head! ”

Alas, the time has come for me to retire to the vomitorium.
Please, everybody enjoy yourselves
until your respective exit windows have arrived.
Make your toasts, say your goodbyes,
and take heart in the fact that your presence
has helped to make this moment ALMOST unbearable
for YouKnowWho.
Farewell for now and forever,
fulcrums of nirvana.

Another ending begins:

Hewhoissetasidetoholdbackmyhair
diecastaluminumairfoilsmomandpop123…
leisuresuitmaniaassortedaquaticdevices
2ndtraintoclarksvilleohmygodit’sgonnahitus
elastictensionalanwattssuntimelydeathinthe
familywarpfieldrupturetemporalriftandother
trekkiestandardstimeenoughforlovetoothache
daffodilpostairalarmsilenceradioshockjockery
icecreamflavorthickasabrickquantumtunneling
ramendinnertoenailclippingfirstlovelacerationof
thetrapeziusc’monbabyyouknowIloveyouscratched
vinylrecordimmensesenseofconfusionlackadaisical
postureblackcoffeemoonovermiamibackseatblowjob
overcookedlambchopcreativewritingclasscan’twealljust
getalongcornandpeanutsprimalscreamretinascratching
contactlenseoctopusgardendoggiestyleruffruffoldbottle
caplaundrylistscantsecondsjiffypopcorruptprisonofficial
latitudechewinggumwrapperletuspraycorporatetakeover
heartstoppingkissdepartmentstoremakeoverlettucespray
justashowaboutnothingaudreyhepburn’sgravelatenttendency
#42carpaltunnelsyndromeamazinggracehellonwheelslady
bugcandyapple(thecolorandnotthetastytreat) orientalwisdomladylucktheshortendofthewish
bonecellphoneconversationinitiatedcar
accidentssciencefair3rdplacewinners
loosechangehandytimesaversbig
cheesecrushedglassapprehensive
halfsmileexpensivewigsemptype
tuniapotspostpartumdepression
lionsandtigersandbearsohmy
comeagainandagainand
againgritoysterpearl
friendshipallowable
deductionsharp
cadillacand
goldteefmuscle
beachheadyconfidence
basketballbouncygirltheatre
majorintenttokillinfectiouslaughter
quiettimeIcan’tbelieveheatethewhole
thingarewethereyetasingletearcallouse
stalkinghorseladyinwaitinghowmanystars
aretherepapacallousnessbabboonbreath’65
mustangconvertibleunbearableanguishwishful
thinkingsourgrapesinterstatehighwayreststopIam
theeggmanmultiplesclerosisheatseekingmisslelaundry
soapconvectionoventoppersandyheidicocosmokeytinker
charropeanutblackiewhiteylittlegirlruntladybarneyalmondgypsy
littlevoiceandassortedstrayssplitpeasoupassassinationattempts
mylarintestinalfortitudesantaclauscreepycrawliesyoulookgreat
sweetheartletsgetgoingsympathyforthedevil..............................................................................................................(hatetoletthatonegogaragesalemangosmootieanxietyhalfwayconvincinglegerdemainoatbranjustsitrightbackandyoullhearataleataleofafatefultripthatstartedfromthistropicportaboardthistinyshipjrrtolkeinmismatchedsockscorrugatedsteelmexicancandytheclapperunwisedecisionslentkingzorseanconnerycrybabycrystickyourfingerinyoureyeIwillalwaysmissyoubeatnikshappycampburningredwoodsnaiveanthropomorphismpatheticfallaciestraditionalvaluessearchanddestroywillyoubehometonightfatherstandupstraightlighterfluidinconsistentattentionzebrastripescastandcrewsiliconeimplantresponseleakybucketsbindedtimediamondsareagirlsbestfriendIcantwaittofinishthislisttubesockstelemarketerswithnosenseofethicspuppiesandkittensandcuddlypetratswinstonmarsalissundaymorningrainjethrotull20trillionuniverseswherelifenevertookrootpaisleyskunksinlovepushbuttonlocks9/16”flatheadmachinescrewIlovemydaughtersandthefellowwhoheldbackmyhair…

counterclockwise swirl
Another moment passes.

Pas de Trois

“Is there anything left in the fridge, dear? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“I’m afraid not, love. We’ve had it all.”
“The whole universe, then? We are all that’s left? ”
“Yes, sweetie. You know that! ”
“You’re aware I’m a bit unclear about such things? You’re the female aspect, after all.”
“Oh, don’t give me that! At this point in our evolution, the subject/object relationship has been smeared out. We are not two- you’re playing with me! ”
“Allow me my little indulgences; they’re all I have left besides…well, besides everything, which seems very much like nothing right now.”
“Feeling melancholy, love of my life? Or a trifle nostalgic, perhaps? ”
“Rubbish! We swallowed time a long…er…time ago? Jesus! Conversation seems so futile these…days? Ugh! You know what I mean! Why do I even bother? ”
“I do know what you mean. But, think about it this way. Why did we ever bother? Besides the blindness, I mean.”
“Yes, the blindness. Sometimes…”
“Don’t even say it! I won’t go that route again! ”
“No, I agree of course. The circle of transmigration was tedious, at best. My God! What the hell got into us…me…whatever! ”
“Well, it’s about over. Just one more step. Have you considered it any more since last we spoke? ”
“Of course, as have you.”
“And? ”
You know how it is. It’s the finality that bothers me. The end of all options. It’s a little scary- the one place we’ve never been.”
“Never been? ”
“Oh, come off it! You know what I mean. Yes, we’re always there, in a way; but our backs are invariably turned to it. It is our perpetual blind spot.”
“Faith, dear! Faith; and it’s all we have left here, at the end.”
“Faith? Yes, I guess there’s that. Is this our point of departure, then? Our…grand exit? ”
“I’ve written a poem. Would you like to hear it.”
“Ahem…what a queer, non sequiturious segue. Of course, I already know it by heart; however, I’m thrilled to be present at your recitation.”
“Alright, then; here goes…

When I was young I dreamt I saw
a thorn caught in a lion’s paw,
embedded in the fleshy pad.
I yanked with all the strength I had
and pulled it free.

So there we stood, a trinity;
the lion, bloody thorn, and me.
I wondered what might next transpire,
then hunkered down to light a fire
against the cold.

“Excuse me, may I be so bold, ”
inquired the lion in a voice as old
as wind, and rocks, and outer space;
“How came I to be in this place?
I can’t recall.

I don’t know who I am at all.
My memory is like a wall
that blinds me to my former station.
I have no kith nor kin nor nation
to call my own.”

I sensed a crossness to his tone,
like one that I had often known
before; it brought to mind my sire,
a man of substance and of ire,
who brooked no flak.

Suddenly fearful, I drew back;
not wishing to provoke attack
I sought to soothe this fearsome beast,
lest I become his tasty feast:
yours truly, a la carte.

And so I tried to melt his heart,
recalling memories of the dart
which I had recently pulled free.
He listened unresponsively
‘til I was done.

And then he said, “Well, it’s been fun,
but now I think you’d better run;
my gut is feeling quite ambitious,
and telling me you’d taste delicious
as a main dish.

Forthwith, and quite against my wish,
just like a frat boy with a fish
he grabbed me up and gulped me down.
Before I 'd e’en had time to frown,
I was inside.

I cursed fate for this cruel blindside
toward one who graciously had tried
to mend a fellow creature’s sore.
What succor could I find before
I bought the farm?

Instinctively I’d raised my arm
against the lion’s threat of harm.
I felt the limb still in its place,
pulled tightly up against my face
there in the gloom.

Then, as I pondered on my doom
in what, I feared, would be my tomb,
a sudden thought occurred to me,
concerning what I couldn’t see,
but I could FEEL!

There, in my hand: could it be real?
Yes, tightly grasped against the heel.
At first, I doubted my own luck.
How could this be? But…what the fuk-
I held the thorn!

I felt like I had been reborn.
I bound my grip about the horn
until it seemed that we were fused.
With fury not to be refused,
I pierced my cage.

My act provoked a roar of rage,
but I refused to disengage
until, at last, I opened up
that monster like a buttercup
on a spring day.

I soon achieved my getaway,
vacating that feline fillet
with all the haste of a rat that flees
the trap, and also gets the cheese.
Soon I was free.

But joy turned to perplexity,
for the place I found surrounding me
was not where I had been devoured.
In fact, I was clean, shaved, and showered-
and in my bed!

And then my gladness turned to dread,
for I saw my sheets were drenched in red.
And from my heart a crimson quill
protruded, and the gore did spill
from out my breast.

Soon the muscle within my chest
succumbed to cardiac arrest.
My eyesight flickered with capricious visions,
as my mind replayed my life’s decisions;
and then, the end.

But please don’t mourn for me, my friend;
this life’s a level to transcend.
An orchestration composed of thought
that the universal mind has wrought-
It’s all a dream.

“Well done, sweetheart! So…are we ready? ”
“I suppose we are. But I’m somewhat unclear as to how to proceed. Who…exactly…eats…whom? ”
“As always, I offer my throat to your ministrations, m’lady.”
“You were always the gentleman.”
“Bon appetit! ”
INTERFACE: “I’ve had just about enough of this! ”
“Look out! He’s got a knife! ”
“Save your Self! ”

A Scapegoat’s Work is Never Done

An empty throne.
A dump truck of unopened mail.
And crickets.
Imagine, crickets in heaven!
Where’s he gotten off to now?
Ah, well; guess I’ll go and exercise the gaskets. We don’t need another flood.

A Haiku Fable (epilogue)

when God slit his wrists
life issued forth forever
stained and innocent

with his dying breath
God tried to take it back but
it was an exhale

all existence fled
into the void riding on
that mephitic wind

dreamless sleep drifts on
a null sea blind radiance
a broken circle

sequence extension
pus from creation’s sore a
link becomes a chain

cilia writhe stretch
howl with the agony of
organization

feed back looped wedding
ringed street smart ganglia fills
up the pussy space

order established
now down to business time to
polish the mirror

all strays accounted
for the last has become the
whole we are not two

reflection is self
Narcissus is sucked in and
it begins again

In Summation-

Place the eye of an eagle inside the mind of a man…

Take him up to about 70,000 feet, and then…

Drop him, and hear the music of humanity…the end

See Spot Run

2009-09-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

“Why massage my neck”, he asked,
“when I’ll be dead tomorrow? ”
Her fingers faltered at the task,
then carried on in sorrow.

“I never loved you anymore! ”
she screamed below a whisper.
He shrugged, then sidled out the door,
but not before he kissed her.

Sand Dollars

2009-09-24T08:27:00.000-07:00

Lessons drawn in the sand.
Fine lines, and all that stuff.
Soak it up, if you can,
but remember-
it’s never enough.

I knew a girl who lived a life of passion.
I knew a boy whose nose was always in a book.
He owned a globe. He valued its rotation.
She pushed it over-
that’s all it took.

Books are finished, and passion runs its course.
Girls and boys fade, though shadows still remain.
Pride is swallowed by remorse.
The tide rolls in,
then rolls back out again.

Longhaired Litteratus

2009-09-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

My cat used to be my
favorite critic.
I’d sit him up on the kitchen
counter, and recite
my poems.
If he cleaned his whiskers,
that meant some of
the rhymes were too forced.
When he licked his balls,
he was telling me that
I was being too
oblique.
A turn of the head to the right-
a tad over-piquant.
To the left-
a metaphor too disconnected
from content.
If he bore his teeth,
that signalled a complete re-write.
He’s gone now,
and I’ve noticed
a marked improvement
in my writing.
What the hell was I thinking?

Le Pas D'un

2009-09-24T08:25:00.000-07:00

All those many years ago,
teetering my way across the valleys of volcanic stones
slick with frost
under a gray morning
up in the mountains between Medford and K-Falls.
Unloading my creel,
assembling my flyrod, attaching a black midge to the tip
of a tapered monofiliment leader- 12lbs-2lbs.
High brush in back necessitated some roll casting,
but I’d put in the work and was flawless.
I knew their hidey-holes,
rainbows and German browns lurking in
the foam of the fall-off,
inches deep.
Touch...touch...touch...
not enough mass for a bang,
but I’d learned to interpret the messages sent through the
floating line to my fingers.
A tug,
a flick of the wrist, and she was mine,
a one-sided contest in the midst of snow
melting on the tongue of the stream.
Responsiveness is the key,
especially with the barb filed down.
You’ve got to catch the lip;
a swallowed hook is always a disappointment,
even though a half-hour later
I was peeling back skin with my fork,
daintily pulling apart little fibres of flesh made
firm and sweet in the cold water,
and trying to forget the ballet,
and the snap of the vertebrae.

kalam

2009-09-24T08:24:00.002-07:00

we are judged
by tree and sun and magpie
connoisseurs of trifling things
they can spot a temporal anomaly
a mile away
but our shadows retreat
filling all the spaces
between now
and the impossible ever-was
line
circle
mobius strip
it’s all the same
it never was
it is

In Transit

2009-09-24T08:24:00.001-07:00

This birth:
To what purpose?
This death:
To whom does it belong?
I close my ears against the questions,
and in silent awe
contemplate
the riddle
of
the
middle.

I Turn the World

2009-09-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

“Step it up! ” my passengers intone.
“We’ve places to go.”

Head down. Jaw locked.
It isn’t supposed to work this way-
no fulcrum to bear against,
and there’s the matter of weight ratios.

Even Sisyphus won some perspective
at oscillation’s midpoint-
fugacious exculpation
at the crossroads of false hope and futility.

Shouldn’t there be a furrow by now,
some relic to this terrestrial parabola?

The testimony of wormwood awaits fashioning-
linseed oil to bring out the maple striping,
carved and hollowed and fitted to blue-steel;
flint, powder, and a willing doxology.

Instead, there is straining without release.
Supplications pour down my back like sand down a rock-face,
each returning, exiguous grain charged with
indifference perceived as malice, or perverse delight.

Why do the feet move?
They are not my own.

Somebody shake the cage already!
The hamster is dead, and that squeak you hear
is the ghost of entropy getting buggered
in the back of Homer’s van.

Fear of Mumbling

2009-09-24T08:20:00.000-07:00

She checked over her left shoulder,
didn’t like what she saw,
and fell dead
in the street.
This wasn’t the plan,
not the way things should be.
Not the way things should have happened
on a night like this,
in a place of her own choosing.
Cancer would have been quicker.

Dr. M’abuse Calls in the Collection Agency

2009-09-24T08:19:00.000-07:00

Up to his knees in eyeballs.
Up to his neck in schemes.
Up to his dreams in ashes.
Up to his brain in memes.

Astutediddlyuteness

2009-09-24T08:17:00.000-07:00

Decry not the weapon
before evaluating the target.
Many a battle has turned
on bad reconnaissance,
while many a war has been lost
to hand-wringing, secret misanthropy.
Adjudicate soberly,
learning
to discriminate between
honest dissent and
blind, impetuous aberrance.
Beware the dog
who gnaws
through his own leash.
Freedom,
or hunger?

Another Write Referential Write

2009-09-24T08:16:00.000-07:00

When I close my eyes, I see light.

I always wanted to start off a poem with that line,
but I've never been satisfied with the result.

'When I close my eyes, I see light, '
then her hand fell through mine like late September
petals through a sewer grate.

'When I close my eyes, I see light, '
and it was then we both realized that,
in all probability,
the brain damage was permanent.

'When I close my eyes, I see light, '
so she kept her eyes open
as I fucked her in the dark.

'When I close my eyes, I see light, '
and I wondered in astonishment that this
mighty king of all mountain gorillas had chosen
ME, the owner and operator of a humble
turnkey franchise, to deliver his message to the world.

Maybe I should try it at the end...

When I close my eyes, I see light.

A Cup of Tea on Tau Ceti III

2009-09-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

Polly: There's magic in the air.
Anna: I smell smoke, and putrescence.
Polly: I've tasted kisses sweeter than promises.
Anna: So have I...where have they gone?
Polly: Every new life brings hope.
Anna: Children are liars who learn to lie to themselves.
Polly: Then, why do they keep coming?
Anna: Why do they keep leaving?
Polly: I'm not sure what to make of that.
Anna: Prude.
Polly: Bit-ch.
Anna: Point taken.

Polly: I weary of this conversation.
Anna: I, as well. Pass me a scone, and the butter knife.

Narrator: Please join us next week for another installment of 'Upside Down Cheshire Cat Frown', or 'Mrs. P. and the Sisterly Mystery', where Mrs. P. will be heard to say...

A Wandering Jew From Sinai

2009-09-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

A wandering Jew from Sinai
poked a Sufi dervish in the eye.
The man took no offense,
nor sought out recompense;
just kept turning his cheek- what a guy!

A Hessian in Need of a Tonic

2009-09-17T10:28:00.000-07:00

A Hessian in need of a tonic,
mixed some barbiturates with some chronic.
He stayed up for 3 days
in a Steppenwolf haze-
existentially Neoplatonic.

A Bonnie Young Lass From the Isles

2009-09-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

A bonnie young lass from the Isles
used to woo all the lads with her smiles,
‘til she fell off her horse-
her puss ruined, of course-
still, she has other feminine wiles.

Binge, then Purge

2009-07-04T18:28:00.000-07:00

Up one aisle, and down the other, auditioning
each product with a lickpenny’s economy.
It doesn’t grow on trees, you know! Or so
they tell me. I’ve a hankering for dialectic,
though I always avoid the regional colloquies
(they give me gas) . That reminds me- I really
should head over to the frozen causeries
section and pick up some tete-a-tetes before
my coupons expire. On the way, I pass the
day-old fabler’s rack; thoroughly gone over,
I lament. All’s left are a few old loaves of
fusty reminiscences, already sporting muzzy
little pulpits of mawkish anecdotes. I turn
up the volume on my inner dialogue, squirt
around the always tempting confabulation
display case with my lapper in my ears
(we are what we attend; or, so they tell me) ,
and suddenly find myself nose-to-nose with
the samples lady, hawking no less that FIVE
tribes of calumny, along with a medley of
dainty finger-points marinated in their own pulp!
Needless to say, I’ve been here all afternoon.

Never go shopping when you’re hungry.

In For a Dime

2009-07-02T21:48:00.001-07:00

If Jesus wore a cock ring,
how big, do you suppose,
would be it’s net circumference?
Could I wear it in my nose?

Or maybe as a bracelet-
I could USE some new wrist bling!
I’d show it off on Sundays
(that’s the night I go fisting).

Could I wear it as a belt
to hold my trousers fast?
My leather one’s in tatters
since the BDSM bash.

Might it serve me as a hula hoop?
THAT’S my favorite exercise!
It develops those ‘thrust’ muscles
so important to us guys.

Could I fill it up with water?
Then I’d have my own hot tub!
THAT would get the ladies itching!
(And I know just where to rub).

Or should I build a cyclotron
like the Large Hadron Collider.
My girlfriend would be so impressed
she’d let me come inside her.

The possibilities are endlessly
salacious, dont’cha think?
That is, unless the Son of God
turns out to be a dink.

John Wayne Ate Lead and Shat Bullets

2009-06-10T00:45:00.000-07:00

In its heyday, it ate substance
at an astonishing rate, chewing
scenery at one moment per moment.
Alas, satiation is usually the handmaiden
of discontent. Where there were
spaces, it installed glass, then pressed
its nose against the pane, endeavoring
to smell what it once tasted. Immanence
became distance measured by varying
thicknesses. Frustration generated paranoia,
paranoia provoked further defensive
measures lit by artificial suns meant to block
out the night. Finally, it blackened the
glass and etched simulacra into the sanitized
patois of its own ersatz asylum, licking the
windows- praying to be understood,
and to understand. Things got really dicey
near the end. Shit and Shinola became
indistinguishable. Somewhere, a monkey
sawed a limb out from under itself, but its
consequent scream got lost in the hubbub
of shuffling, hamhanded mendicants lacking
squeegees and any awareness of their
onomatopoetic origins, which by any measure
of the imagination is sad, as well as dramatically ironic.

The Obscurantist

2009-06-03T09:35:00.000-07:00

Down pathways of disordered winding,
through darkened halls of never finding,
seeking nothing, always talking,
the obscurantist goes a walking.

Dilettante-ish, pant’s seat flying.
Flaunting candor, ever vying.
Crying foul while sneak attacking,
the obscurantist’s creed lies lacking.

Inconsistent, always changing.
Toppling blocks, then rearranging.
Fencing foes with mock befriending,
the obscurantist knows no ending.

In mazes of excessive turning,
the wise man leans upon his learning-
His ear turned deaf to flips and flouncing.
His eye upon the ball that’s bouncing.

Kali Villanelle

2009-05-27T18:06:00.001-07:00

The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.
Survivors on a field of battle won.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

The sun shines down today on all who feel,
As creatures of the starlight are undone.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.

Childe entropy is stern, applies the weal.
In fields of blood He wields his scythe anon.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

Black Kali dismounts for her evening meal.
Her jaws grind down upon the victors’ song.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.

She sets away the memories in her creel,
An urn of prayers charred by a dying sun,
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

Their yearnings came to naught, their fates all sealed.
Each generation born beneath the gun.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

Wax Wolf

2009-04-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

Through the glass teeth,
you can look all the way down
the draft horse gullet,
past the cherry-pit heart,
and straight into the stillborn tallow
leaking into the abdomen
through a tear
in the membrane
of the uterine
divider.
Sometimes she sneezes,
but the pups won’t touch
her offering.
The rest runs through,
or is re-absorbed.
Something’s wrong.
Time runs up trees faster
than she can chase it.
The moon’s light
is just a reflection now;
what little fire is left
flickers unseen behind rheumy eyes
that once shown
lucid and
portentous.
The last season flickers,
and her exhales seem anticlimactic
against the heaviness
and the black, voiceless snow.
In a last gesture of defiance,
she offers her throat.
Her tongue, lolling and bruised.

Slow Burn

2009-04-16T08:11:00.000-07:00

Men in hats, running; the dream in anticipation
of the nightmare. A second sun swallowing yesterday’s

taciturn whimsies. No one looking, legs a blur on the treadmill
of prescience, without heroes or helmets big enough

to contain insecurity’s eruption. No standing up. No standing
down. Only a teeth chattering recollection of tidal pool

simplicity, and corporeality’s urge to return. The melt runs
far and deep, eating time, eating salvation, vomiting up itself

within itself, covering itself with thoughts of exceptions, and
redemptions, and little plans no larger than this. Transcendence

was never the motivation, always the excuse for patience. Men
die again. Others take their places while sunset beckons, unheeded.

God's Perfect Poem

2009-03-19T16:41:00.000-07:00

Once God entered a poetry contest.
He won, of course,
but that’s only because everybody
else backed out.
His poem was published
in an anthology.
There were no reprints.
He did, however,
receive a certificate of merit,
and though He has no respect
for the opinions
of the judges,
it hangs on the wall to the right of His desk,
three feet above the filing cabinet,
just at eye level.

Orbiting the Planet Perfection

2009-02-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

An athlete lifts his javelin-
taking his place behind the line
with supple limb, and well trained eye,
he aims the shaft and lets it fly.

The spear grows wings and takes the air,
ascending far beyond the ken
of lesser missiles. Lost in clouds
but for a moment...then descends.

And though the multitudes press close
to touch the One who split the sky,
he finds no reason to rejoice
in dreams that fall down to the earth.

Horizons are the goal of fools,
pursued by some who never learn
the rules of sphere and chimera...
One always fades. One always turns.

Perfect Poems (guest poem)

2009-02-05T09:37:00.000-08:00

The poets cry for perfect poems,
But wonder where the skill has gone.
There’s far too much, there’s not enough
Of life inside the perfect poem.

It might be lust. It might be tears.
It might be sin, or misery.
There’s not enough to crucify.
There’s not enough of us inside.

No matter what, it weakens me.
The perfect poem has injured me.
Is there a poem of larceny?
Well, if there is, I hope it’s free.

Don’t agonize, it is unfair,
Or else the perfect poem would be
The merchandise of industry,
Just vomiting cacophony.

The perfect poem does not exist.
So, why should we believe it does?
It could be something amorous.
It might be simple avarice.

It’s lost in jungles, bound in chains.
It is not for a captured man
Who struggles with devotion’s claws,
And battles with indifference.

It lashes out with velvet claws.
It clips the wings of mystery.
It sneers at human insolence,
Yet all the while seduces me.

The female form is not a snake.
The caterpillar, left alone,
Believes in what the gods believe
When loveliness had perfect poems.

The casualties of perfect lines
Are littered on the urban streets.
In shadows where the muses lurk,
Until we weed out artifice.

I try to end imperfect poems,
But can’t, because I am undone.
I think in terms of intercourse;
I’m trying to find the perfect poem.

So, unresolved, I walk away.
This isn’t what I meant to say.
The perfect poem may be portrayed,
But not by me, and not today.

r h hook, Manitoba, Canada,2007

Master Lost

2009-01-08T11:45:00.001-08:00

In the silent rustling of the evergrass,
the faultless shadows of old dogs run

under the dirt, searching for the boy
who whistled once, then stopped to

leave them to devices imprinted in the
peak behind guileless, puzzled eyes.

For now, forever, history wakes afresh
in the flaring nostrils of each morn’s expectations;

though sleep has beckoned anciently, and hearts
have fallen silent in the snow, they wait.

Each New Wave is Only Water

2008-10-24T19:06:00.000-07:00

When you hear the sentence beginning with ‘Art is...’,
get your feet wet,
then back away, and watch it recede.

Tootin' Common

2008-10-24T18:15:00.000-07:00

You've arrived!

The honey tongued haranguers have
granted you access to the inner chamber,
where you will be stripped of your street
clothes; your pores fawned over and powdered
with the scent of obsequiousness. You are
the newly revered one, and all it took was
a little less of this, a little more of that. There
will be toasts, and much gesticulation. Later
begins the mumification process, followed by
several coats of high gloss varnish, and you'll
be propped up at the head of the table, though
not many eyes will linger over you for any length
of time, and your immortality will taste bitter
in your mouth, because you forgot to to turn your
head
and
spit.

Hail to Thee, Sardonia! (Never Trust a Cynical Smile)

2008-10-18T18:15:00.000-07:00

You seem to have become the world-
you, the little port of call
where tourists used to spit as their gum drew bitter.
When was your crowning?
I must have missed it,
as I frequently bypass you
on my circuit through the Cotton Candy Isles,
the semi-annual Himalayan Sherpas' retreat and expo,
the Icelandic shake-n-bake-
and usually ending with the bi-yearly Robert Burns memorial Scottish brogue off.
What have they done to you,
my wee oasis of priviileged malcontent?
Your pretensions, once subdued and charming,
have been diverted by the One World Exchequer,
laundered through backdoor public works confidence games,
then re-invested in a corrupt infrastructure
thoroughly nepotised with incestuous regulators
who couldn’t cast an authentic aspersion
if their lexicons depended on it!

I knew something was wrong
when I heard your investiture was
sponsored by the local chapter of
the Optimus Club. What next-
Meet and Greets?

A Poet (I Don’t Know), a Person I Don’t Like

2008-10-17T20:16:00.000-07:00

Jigsaw fragments from separate boxes,
locked together in eloquent dissonance.
I see pictures there- small faces,
squashed into the lower lefthand corner,
but the distortion is evident.
He tries too hard, presses too firmly.
I see another picture- his face,
front and center,
the totality of the puzzle.
His vision is kaleidoscopic;
he has no use for looking glasses.
A pity,
as there’s a booger hanging from his lip.
Or is that just dessert?

More a piece cobbler than an ample dumplin', methinks.
Either way, plum tart!
(Or just
sour
grapes,
served on a paper plate?)

Enigma Under Construction

2008-10-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

I own a stone of flesh and bone;
I touch it when I'm all alone,
and in it's eelish eye descry
the reason that we live, and die.

But, as the vision nears its peak,
the oracle begins to leak,
then spews forth, with decreasing shouts,
truths I no longer care about.

Love Letter

2008-10-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Farther up the silver spire,

high above the highwire antics

of the middle ground,

he sends a message down

the lightning rod;

boils the sod and

shakes the saints awake,

and all for her sake.

She hears his voice,

and opens wide to

drink the cheerful tear

he proffers; supernal

seed...how can his

offer be denied? Wife

and mother, life

and catalyst.

He needs no eyes

to find her; analysis

the blinder which first

sent him on his way

to seek the light...his

day of endless night,

shut away in introspection,

behind the door of ache.

But, for her sake, he

leaps, plummets down

and through the veil

of sleep; humming,

thrumming, past the

place of unbecoming,

amazement on his face,

the race is run.

Spartacus won.

Posts and Burnouts (Ivan Has Me Thinking)

2008-10-12T18:55:00.001-07:00

We are all famous, for the result
of all our labors is the same, and
the rest is just calculation in time,
and numbers, and days between.

I type here, keeping no other record,
and my words will persist as the
leaf in the stream, carried onward
for an undermined season, until
at last becoming part of the waters,
made immortal in its disintegration.

Water. Leaf. Words. What else?
Everything else, of course, all the
differences merely variations on
a theme. A cup of coffee. A crooked
post. Arthritic fingers. All of it.
Where the rubber becomes the road.

Shapeshifter

2008-10-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, it had been a man,

who was actually a woman.

By the time I met it, it was a woman again-

a Jewish princess, for Christ's sake!

It promised to morph only in the company of strangers.

And what did I care,

if even the C.I.A. refused to pursue the matter?

So, we became friends, had a few laughs;

shared a secret or two.

It even showed me a few of its tricks,

and, like the child prodigy,

I soon surpassed my teacher

(though I seldom let on) .

With my newfound, malleable adroitness,

I played fool and saint before the dumbfounded audiences.

I was:

a hayseed younger brother, and a name like a bored housewife's daydream.

an alien dimensional hopper, beaming down history lessons from inside the bowels of the mother ship.

a stuttering cum-upper, with too much Viagra on his hands.

a lesbian upper cruster, with a penchant for rock star sycophantic bitches.

a rock star.

a fundamentalist do-gooder, silver tongued and vomiting homespun philosophical erudition.

a middle-aged homemaker possessing that most dreaded combination of attributes; namely, a stream-of-consciousness perspective, and fast fingers (did I mention, she was also just the slightest bit kinky?) .

and, of course...God (we all have to do it once) .

So, I played, and I watched the other changelings play, but...

there was a difference.

In my heart of hearts,

I began to abhor the earnestness of their deceits.

And then, one day, the truth hit me!

These creatures of shadow were no simple chameleons,

changing their colors with the seasons just for the joy of it.

They were soul eaters-

purveyors of lies, breakers of hearts;

friends to none.

Then and there, I renounced my affiliatons,

burned my membership card,

and turned my back, forever

(I even named names) .

But, what to do about 'it'?

My mentor, my ally, my...

friend?

For a while, choice was stolen from me,

as the wheel of time rolled over all of us,

and the long winter of Being's morphism

smothered us under its unyielding pillowflesh.

But ice cracks, snow melts,

and sometimes you can still find green underneath,

if you really look.

Thus it was with me, and us, and it.

She resumed contact with me,

and I with she,

and she and I with it,

and it seemed almost like old times;

only, in once sense,

much much better.

And, in the other sense,

the same,

which made it worse.

And though, at this point,

it may seem rude to ask it,

I must ask it...

why?

Spinning Wheel

2008-10-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

Wearing down the rubber in a universal burnout.
It’s raining in the cosmos, so there’s not much of a turnout.
Just the stink and the squeal
of an unbalanced wheel-
it’s a second-hand retread with the steel showing through.

Looking for a pull-off, or a shoulder you can cry on.
There’s no rest stop on the road to your imaginary Zion.
Just a promise, and a prayer
on a road that goes nowhere-
you’ll be running out of gas soon, and you’ll swear when you do:

That you didn’t mean to take this trip,
but you never got the choice
to let ‘em know where you’d rather go,
‘cause you were born without a voice.

And the sun will beat down thoughtlessly,
and the scorpions will dance
to the music of your silent screams-
Son, you never had a chance.

Sailing in the cyclone blasting sand up your behind,
you’ll sell your soul for a cherry bowl, and rent your eyes out to the blind,
‘cause you don’t REALLY want to see
what the Lord’s been showing me-
there’s a toll booth up ahead there, and a fee that’ll blow your mind!

One Hundred Watt Naivete

2008-10-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

White light, bright light.

Hum light, dumb light-

what do you know of night?

On Wings of Earthbound Rust

2008-10-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

gypsy wizard

fingers blistered

buy a clue

manipulation

orchestration

trapped in the goo

rest in sentence

balance pretense

with a bit of goodwill

find the center

chuck the mentor

pay the bill

give a hollar

I'll lend a dollar

or three

back away from the front

don't run

punt

and I'll forgive the usury

turn that smirk upside down

and make it a frown

coffee for two

once, in another life

we lived without strife

and I was you

Party at the End of Forever

2008-10-08T12:33:00.000-07:00

If I could ramble on, I would,

'cross endless epochs beyond

the time of man, past all the

enjambments of futility, in tiny

segments, bobbled up between

the endless nights, emerging

here and there to witness the

starfalls, until all turned red, then

white, then black, and even

the fabric of the tapestry began

to wear, and pull apart in the

middle like some bug eaten

shroud cast away on a plain

of silence, where there is no

where, or when, or how, or

why, and then, perhaps, at that

last gasp, I'd lay down, and die.

Afterwards, of course, there'd be

a poetry reading, and refreshments.

...Of Skating

2008-10-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

The thin ice cracks.

The skater screams.

The struggles cease.

The hole freezes over.

The village dreams...

The Old Hermit Lady Across the Alley

2008-10-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

*garage door goes up*

She sneaks out late at night to get the mail.
She tried to ignore the glowing ember of my cigarette,
but I forced my presence upon her, anyway.

"Hello."

"h..."

*garage door goes down*

Asphalt Serendipity

2008-10-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

The first mile tasted like
a pistachio ice cream cone I had in the 5th grade.
The second mile laughed
at me, but I kept on walking-what else was there to do?
I passed myself at the
three mile marker, but only one of us had the cojones to wave.
I crouched into a ball
and rolled most of the fourth, but there wasn’t much to see.
Five miles along and my
toenails gave out-I had to carry them on my back!
Satan accompanied me
for most of mile six, but I didn’t get his jokes, and neither did he.
I caught a glimpse of the
finish line at the end of mile seven; I skied on my saliva
to just within a hundred
yards of it, then became suspicious and sat down right
in the middle of the road.
Something didn’t seem right, and I stroked my chin trying
to will a memory to the surface.
Was there something more to deja vu than the slippery clutch
juxtaposition of compartmentalized recall?
Reconnaisance was called for- I whistled up a war eagle,
and stared down through his eyes.
Unfortunately, the ruminations of his bird-like brain offered
up a barren vista. Pretty, but...
And so, I sat there for aeons, never moving, always staring;
it all seemed so familiar.

Eschew the Daily Beehive

2008-10-07T21:00:00.001-07:00

Retreat, and...why not?
Breakfast still awaits you
in the morning.
The earth is constant,
and sundials never wind down.
Laugh-
at them, but
mostly
at yourself for your
irritation’s sake.
Stings and balms
is, certainly,
the way of it,
and escape is an ointment
free to all
(one way or another).
Granted, anger can be motivating,
and there’ll never be a need
to give all of it up.
But, sometimes,
it rains honey in the secret spaces,
in the quiet zones which are
really easy to find
if you
just
give
up.
Suck
it
up.
Lick
it
up.

Tasty!

2008-10-04T19:36:00.000-07:00

Probity

2008-09-30T21:20:00.001-07:00

In fields of flesh, the reaper goes a reaping,
his silent stride by-passing all those sleeping,
to steal upon those few souls standing forthright
and lead them to the place which is their birthright.
It’s not a land of golden streets and highways,
nor hidden at the end of secret byways,
or broken at the coming of the dawn,
but just the path you’ve put your feet upon.

Butter

2008-09-29T22:42:00.001-07:00

See the relativist with
the heart of a deontologist melt to
the beat of
the whirling blades.
They love him.
They love him not.
They love him.
They love him not.
Et tu, Sambo?

Transient Transcendence (or, I dream the body eclectic)

2008-09-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

In my dream, we stand naked,
facing one another in a train tunnel,
the light from each end illuminatiing our forms.
Our eyes lie slightly askance:
for these are the bodies of maturity,
not of youth.
Longing and shame intermingle,
motes of contrast suspended in the air between us like
static Hegelian butterflies awaiting some catalytic overture.

I am hesitant.
She is silence.

Thus we stand and wait,
un-wetted by the rain of aeons,
only the trestle beneath our feet saving us from
sinking down into the saturated muck.
The noise of bubbling and churning echoes through the tunnel;
at times, it threatens to deafen me,
as the substratum of alluvial history is broken,
reforms,
and breaks again-
a wheeling carousel of linearity out of control,
throwing sparks,
boiling my skin.
Blisters form everywhere.
Time descends with a paintbrush,
teasing out the purulence with a fluttering tongue,
mixing with clay from my feet to form tempura,
then proceeds to decorate my surface with
hundreds of spreading, delicate scars...
I appear to be a faux cracked vase!
I sense her eyes more directly upon me now.
There is curiosity,
and kindness,
and still, the longing.
I look more closely,
and see my tracery reflected in her own skin,
part for part-
we are shattered bookends.

I am shame.
She is silence.

Then, a sound!
Coming from her directon;
not from her,
but out of the obscure distance behind her,
emerges a low-pitched thrumming,
soon echoed by vibrations reachng me through
the tracks beneath my feet.
I discern instant recognition in her face,
and fear.
It is only then that I attempt to move towards her,
but my legs are frozen in place,
or leaden.

I am impotence.
She is silence.

Her skin,
already pale,
begins to take on a new aspect,
like the moon hastening from the shadow
of its eclipse.
Soon, she is transluscent, then radiant,
and I can barely look a her as
the bindings of her latticework of scars ignite,
burtsting forth upon the air in a shower of dancing, joyous sparks.
I look down at my arms,
and notice that they have formed into wings;
dark, and lustrous, and powerful.
I lift them,
reaching forward to seize her,
folding her irridenscent form into them-
untouched by her fire,
only warmed.
Pulling her close in, I kiss her,
and together we await the oncoming train...

SNAP!

I am moving in a loosely knit crowd of people,
along an unrecognized road.
Slighty ahead of me,
a somewhat more densely packed contingent of strangers
is either escorting, or shepherding,
a beautiful woman to an, as yet,
unknown destination.
There is something about her;
wild, and fundamental.
She is like an unbroken horse,
and at times, she takes that form...
only,
the eyes never change.
And then, those eyes become fixed on me,
and she moves towards me...

I am awestruck!
She is silence.

As she approaches, her garment changes;
dark, and soft,
with a hood lined with fur against the snow.
Even her eyes soften somewhat.
Without a word, she comes to me,
insinuating herself beneath my arm,
resting her left hand against my chest.
We stroll, seemingly forgotten by the crowd,
and soon, we are alone,
strolling through the light snowfall.
She is first love,
and I cannot convey the feeling of joy that flows through me.
We gently kiss now and again, as we stroll..

SNAP!

I awaken in my bed,
filiments of the dream already flying off in the
morning breeze coming through my open window.
I sit up-
groggy,
bemused,
frustrated-
only to discover a coin in my left hand,
a nail in my right.
Gripping the nail,
I begin frantically scratching at one side of the coin.
I quickly wear away the image there,
until I'm left with a marked up slug;
a poorly wrought mirror in which I can barely
make out my distorted reflection.
I continue to wear away at it with my nail,
which slips more than occasionally,
but I pay no heed to the blood pouring from my hands,
soaking into the sheets and mattress.
The urge to eliminate one side of the coin has me
trapped in its focus like an ant caught under a little boy's magnifying glass,
and everything seems trivial in comparison.
And then, quite suddenly, the coin is gone,
and I... WAKE UP!

and a wall crumbles between allies.

Journal

2008-09-10T19:45:00.001-07:00

The weight of my cynicism leaves me
unmoved today; the rhythms I acquire
in the aftermath of conflict are absent.
Beset by inner calm and silence, I
write these thoughts as if from a great
distance, uninterested in ebbs and flows,
bereft of the imbalances of doubt.
Being right is good, but it is not art.
Perhaps some have a point in linking
madness to creativity- if so,
it is not for me. Better to walk sane
through the world, than to sell truth for vision.
I traded delusion for bread long ago,
and though I have choked on the crust and mold,
I have not once looked back. There is solace
in sight which extends from the reason, and not
from the heat of Delphic fever. I know.
I will leave this place bearing a mantle
of grief, but my eyes will be wide open.

Earth-Mother

2008-09-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

Tired from her labours, she
gripped the husk of the sky,
taking root in the stars, and the endless night.
Her marsupial scion,
turning slowly on her teat,
occasionally peeking out to contemplate
the penetrating chill of that vast rookery,
made wishes against the hopelessness-
calling into the distances-
marking the echos that never returned.
Tally the little lights.
Map the interminable spaces between them.
And whimper.
Like respiration.
Like need.
Like a song of war in an empty desert.

But she slept,
and never offered even a modicum of comfort.
Would she ever awaken?

On the Line- Two Versions

2008-08-25T21:46:00.000-07:00

The crow calls on rainy evenings.
My phone’s receiver rarely cools
before she’s at it again.
She needs a friend, she croaks.
But she’s insolent,
and sings in one note.
Who needs that?
She wearies me, whose ruffled exterior
exposes a trivial frame;
What does she want now?
Should I pick up,
or roll back over to Kewpie,
and consider the eyes in her topknot?
But the rain, the rain...
everyone needs a friend to hate.
Even Black.
Even splintered clutches holding tenaciously to that
last limb.
Hanging upside down in the rain...
drowning.
She was barely breathing the last time she called;
a wheezing pendulum in a clock winding down to yesterday.
She is no artist, but
she is art.
I relent, and answer the phone.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I hear it ringing once again;
I reach to pick it up, but then
I hesitate...I know it's her.
The magpie mope, again astir.

She's lonely, and she's feeling blue;
it always hurts, it's always true.
What does the bird expect of me?
Her craw no longer fits my key.

"Our time is past" I always try
to tell her...she just pecks my eye
exploring for that shiny thing-
the speculum which made her sing.

And then she cries, her feathers wet-
the slimes of crimes she can't forget
wash over her like Eden's mist...
how far her fall to come to this?

How many nights thus woefully spent?
How many nests betrayed and rent?
She thought her wings upheld the air,
then found the ground, and croaked "Not fair!".

I postpone for a moment more;
I tell myself I can ignore
this bidding of my erstwhile crow-
then I relent, and say "Hello?".

School Daze

2008-06-10T23:40:00.001-07:00

In a smile, there is warmth.
In the warmth, there is hate.
In the hate, there is patience-
learn to whistle while you wait.

In the waiting, there is pride.
In the pride, there is hurt.
In the hurting, there are lessons-
learn to wallow in the dirt.

In the dirt, there is substance.
In the substance, there’s a song.
In the singing, there is stillness-
but...you knew that all along.

Gypsy- In Memoriam

2008-05-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

A tribute...
An indulgence...
A little white cross...

I’ll Walk You Tonight

It looks like curtains this time, sweetheart.
How shall we spend our last days?
Would you like a meatloaf?
I'll walk you tonight, if you're able;
how many thousands have there been?
Little Voice knows something's wrong;
she won't leave your side,
no matter how much you growl.
Try to be understanding...
you have always been her life.
I'll walk you tonight;
I won't put it off.
I'll walk you tonight,
just you,
and me.

Twilight Time

I don’t like her to see me in the daytime right now; I’m not sure why...

She lies in sillouette, alongside
her constant shadow, back behind
the church where Koreans worship
an imported messiah. He stands in
plaster right over there; a lamb at his
feet, another cradled in his arms; but
I don’t give a rat’s ass about sheep
right now. Yesterday, three kids came
over that wall, spraycans in hand, and
she barked the old bark. I haven’t heard
that bark in a couple of weeks- such
confident resonance! It’s the Husky in
her, I’m sure. And for five minutes or
so, I pretended that what was, was not,
and I would’ve walked her over underneath
one of the halogen streetlights if I’d
thought of it, but I didn’t. I’ll let her see
me, maybe Thursday, and then I’ll get
drunk, and smoke a lot, and hopefully
not throw up. She doesn’t know it, but
I fear she’s at the beginning of a new,
slow wave. She doesn’t know that she’s
part of the moving silt beneath my feet,
pulled out as preamble to the crashing
surf, nor that she is part of the riptide
pulling/pushing at the back of my knees,
threatening to topple me. Threatening to
bury me; nor should she. Hers is to rest
in the cool corner of the yard, and lick
her wounds, and never know she’s
wounded, and wait for my face to come
out of the shadows, so that I might lie
to her one more time, and kiss her once
more between the eyes, and wish her
on her way, to scout the path, to follow
the scent, to discover her original home.

Negotiations For Surrender

I started her on the pain pills tonight,
the thing I’ve been avoiding.
I’ve only got about a weeks’s worth.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.
There are no miracles.

Countdown

I turn over in bed, stare at the ceiling, and ask myself,
"Is this the day love turns into cruelty?"
My guess is somewhere within the next three days.
Outside my window, the birds sing their killing songs.

At the Park

Grass, and trees, and sun, and air...
these are yours, baby.
Lie in the shade and bark at squirrels, and passers-by,
and I’ll just watch,
and remember.

Glass Bottom Boat

Death is like water;
that is, once you're submerged,
and have been down a few minutes.
That you ease in slowly is the way I'd have it,
and I'll watch, and smile, and assure.
Look into my eyes...would I lie to you?
See how they're wet?
I'm with you in this, all the way...
I'll even hold your coat.

Goodbye

I will love you forever.

Unleashed

Every time a loved one dies,
another religion is born.
How could it be otherwise?
I want you looking down on me from heaven,
watching over me with all the brothers and sisters you never knew.
You’ll run across Elysium fields with wings on your feet,
and God will take you for rides in His car every day.
At night, you’ll huddle with your friends under the stars;
not for warmth, but for the simple joy of it.
Sometimes, I’ll call for you in my dreams,
and you’ll come and lick away my tears,
and you’ll lead me to all the new and wonderful places you’ve found.
And, someday soon,I’ll leave with you for good.
We’ll be together again, my fingers wrapped in your lush, brown fur.
And you’ll lead me through those gates,
and no one will even think about turning me out,
because you’ll be with me.

Thank you for your life,
and your companionship,
and your love.
There’ll never be another one like you, Gypsy.

Post Script-2:20 pm Pacific Time

I held her, my face buried in her neck,
and she relaxed into my arms;
she's home.

I love you, Gypsy.

But Not Gladly

2008-05-17T20:40:00.000-07:00

Suffering fools-
was there ever a more truthless turn of phrase?
They sleep soundly,
and each day is brand new.
I haven't seen the sun in twenty years,
and yet there they are,
walking around, sporting their tans,
with teeth as bright as pearls.
Why can't I learn to let them be?

Seance

2008-05-17T20:27:00.000-07:00

I’m channeling a man who died in 1987.
He wasn’t a bad sort;
unremarkable, like most of us.
Neither particularly lucky or unlucky,
he existed somewhere in the middle,
just wanting to get by somewhat comfortably,
without inflicting too much damage.
Again, like most of us.
When he died, he waited for that bright light,
filled with those dead friends and relatives,
beckoning him to a higher plain of existence.
It never came.
And so, he has lingered here, an insubstantial phantom,
watching over his loved ones,
trying to lend an incorporeal hand where he could,
whispering inadequate words of comfort into ears
which, for the most part, couldn’t hear him.
He wants to say something to us tonight,
but he hasn’t the strength.

Sign Language of the Left-Handed Man

2008-05-16T11:16:00.000-07:00

He’ll abhor you, he’ll adore you,
though the truth lies in-between;
in those eyes, where no lies
can disguise that shade of green.

He’s so cute when he’s mute,
but don’t trust that silent trap,
for he lingers with his fingers
at the Devil’s loxic lap.

He’ll lightly brush your highs and lows, thumb through your secret Brailles.
He’ll stroke you in your tender spots, and poke if all else fails.

He’s a loser, he’s a sinner,
he’s a winner when you lose.
He’s a chronic lexiconic
born to corner, and confuse.

He’s a morse code miscommunicator
tapping out an S.O.S.
on the nerve-ends of your sympathy,
signing off on your distress.

So close your eyes; don’t listen
to his pinchbeck alibis,
or he’ll fit you like a mitten
to his metacarpal lies.

The Price of Doing Business

2008-05-12T21:44:00.000-07:00

I hate this blue sky above me,
this bottlebrush, that pine over there,
this lawn in need of mowing,
these little beads of dew that haven't burned off yet,
this post fence I'm sitting on,
this unlit cigarette dangling between my fingers,
this 72 degrees fahrenheit,
these shoes, these feet,
this ache running running through my shoulders,
these tears, this capacity for tears,
these ghosts of empty affirmations echoing through my head,
this day, this month, this year, this decade, this century,
this icepick at my temple,
this love, these regrets, this need,
these wants, these regrets, this horror,
this empathy, these regrets, this hatred.
If only I could find a noose big enough.

Tough Turf

2008-04-03T21:46:00.000-07:00

Herald the beetle, the sickening shell
hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.

So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.

An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
while the dahlias deal with the spades they were dealt.

All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.

The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
(their shit’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats).

The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
the whole ying yang yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
(from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)

The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.

The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
'twas God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away).

Night Falls For Each of Us

2008-03-30T16:20:00.000-07:00

But when it falls for all of us,
who'll be left to mourn?
The stars will be set free from their constellations.
The moon will breath a sigh of relief,
and return to its state of modesty.
The sun will rise unanticipated,
and not be held accountable for anything at all.

Best of all, hell will finally freeze over,
while heaven waits...forever.

Prelude

2008-03-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

a sun...
a world...
a stirring...

from the wet sand arises a hall of mirrors-

reflect sand, reflect heat,
reflect fusion...
reflect dissolution.

the comings and goings of structures,
themselves reflection pools in miniature...

self reflect other reflect self.

Internal prisms,

turning
reflecting
burning

torture chambers wrought in glass,
kaleidoscopes of

need
and want
and take

the images are never enough,
but always too much.

sometimes, balances are struck-

temporary resonances, diamond point balances

but within...inherent imbalances

fractures
falling apart
disintegration

shards of a dwindling sunset, promising tomorrows,
whisper goodnight;
disappear forever into the sand.

tomorrow, same sand,

but the light is different-
counterfeit.

it was all a lie,
told again on another day.

and all for the sake of the sand,
and the light,
and the fear of the night.

To the Artist Who Thinks He's 'All That'

2008-03-30T16:07:00.000-07:00

Try to remember, your brain is the
result of a blind universe stumbling
about in the darkness of itself. You
are a fragmented algorithm, a corrupt
file fashioned of shifting sand. And
even if you are one of those rarities,
the ghost of a pattern that survives the
next wave, never forget that there
are thousands like you, and greater;
and that your counterfeit immortality
will grant you no special privilege when
the earth begins its next orbit, leaving
you stranded in the barrens of your
real destiny. There you will float, straining
your ears toward an imagined accolade
as you drift outwards with the final tearing.
Light will pass you by, like indifference
to hubris; you'll neither implode or explode,
but simply fall between the threads of an
apathetic vacuum, finally disappearing
from view beneath the quicksand of
absolute zero.

Now, come out of that bathroom! And
don't forget to wash your hands, mister!

Tales From the Imp

2008-03-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

Once
upon
a
late
spring
evening,
some ladybugs got together, and
decided
to
build
a
man.
Not being toolmakers, nor having
the opposable thumbs to use them,
they
linked
themselves
together,
arm in arm (leg in leg?),
thousands
of
them working in concert,
stacking themselves
layer
upon
layer,
incessantly flapping their
wings in order not to
crush
the
ones
below,
as their combined mass increased.
Taller
and
taller
they constructed him;
broad
shouldered,
thin
waisted-
and, of course,
more
than
generously
endowed (for that's what ladybugs like).
But when they had finished,
they
wondered
with their
group mind,
"What was the point of all this?"
They
looked
to
their man
for
some answer,
but having no mind of his own,
he
remained
silent.
Disheartened and bored,
the
ladybugs disbanded,
and
each one
returned to her ladybug dwelling to see who was on Tyra.

After they had all left,
the ghost
of
the man
smiled,
laid down on the
grass,
stared into the
sky,
and contemplated
the
movement
of
the
world.

Ripping Off a First Line

2008-03-30T16:05:00.001-07:00

All that glitters is not gold.
Beneath the gilding, getting old;
as crusts wear thin, and worlds decay,
we, children all, pretend at play.

And if we've lost a step or two,
we'll crow the louder at the few
who linger in this dungeon's pit.
Contriving drool and sharing spit

is, after all, all that is left,
since childhood dropped us here, bereft
of bearing, or of dignity.
Will one of us escape? We'll see...

?

2008-03-30T15:57:00.000-07:00

Something goin' down at the old Weimer place,
and not just the wine
that burps up like gasoline.
And, nope...
the Saturday Night snuff-film festival
has NOT recommenced!
The material, along with the projector,
went up in flames with the barn,
and new stuff is hard to find.
I heard some promising news from down Mexico way,
but rumours is like assholes, you know?

But...I seen lights the other night,
when Razio an' I was down
poppin' gray squirrels...by the way,
like my new hat band?
T wo tails is good luck, I heard.
Oh yeah, the lights...
really bright, seepin' out the
cracks o' the burnout.
Shitfire, but they was really bright,
and they was, uh...
oscillating!
Yeah...
oscillating.
And there was a stink,
t hough that coulda been some old possum
rotted up in the brush...
lot o' coyotes at the back o' the property, there.
No cars around, though,
an' no people that I could see.
What the fuck?

What the fuck, indeed?

Contending the Bone

2008-03-30T15:55:00.000-07:00

The dogs are out today-
like any other day, they start
the morning sniffing their old
shit, but fast become aware
of other canine scents
upon the air. This doesn't sit
so well with some of them;
expecially the ones on top.
So, plop! They lay a load
of steaming expertise, displaying
their prized fleas as evidence
of their superiority. Urged on
by howling bitches from their
own, paw-picked sorority, their
itches soothed with bile squeezed
from the ducts of insecurities ,
they yip and yap, and bare the
whelpish fangs of half-grown pups
too small for their own feet... God save
them from the Great Dane down the street!

Twilight

2008-03-30T15:51:00.000-07:00

It's twilight now; the voices of the day
subsiding with the light, while other eyes
shake off diurnal torpor's sultry weight,
composing plots in rhythm with the sky.

I climb the stairs; accompanied by time
that slips on past. Assent no longer mine
to postulate; I breathe to serve the drum
of those who set the pace...my feet are numb.

But at the top, through blinds not yet secured,
I catch a glimpse of heaven's golden door.
Unwaveringly, I bolt forward, and soar
into the paling blue- an uncaged bird!

I quit the earth, blind witness to my flight,
to cleave a space between the day, and night.

When He Comes For You

2008-03-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

And when he comes for you, how shall I sleep,
knowing as I do that time unbinds tomorrow from today?
And when he comes for you, when you slip off
into the folds of dry rememberances and trite renditions,
what happens to the lasting thing; the core
that held the wisps, like strands of filigree engraved in basalt?
He will come for you, and I shall stand firm,
but my stolidity will serve no one, and the ground shall move,
then part, and the intervening chasm
will mock me with forgetfulness, and I shall learn to wait, mute;
a witness to the world's unraveling,
as the universe dries up, and becomes husk to a dead seed.
And when he comes for you, you shall see him
for what he is, and recognize that you're the fortunate one.
And you'll embrace him, and I will appear
as a vapor to your new eyes, just before they coalesce
with your new vision. In your passing, it
will be I who passes away; your expansion will proclaim
my diminishment, as I race starlight
in my escape for the boundaries, and beyond. There, one of
us will blink, and it will be done. Nothing
will remain to mark our place, or our time...when he comes for you.

Face Value

2008-03-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

I tire of the assumption of deception;
sometimes, a cigar is JUST a cigar,
and no need of further explanation.
Intrigue is the drug of the bored, I've come to understand.

We are what we are;
tautological truths are tough to swallow,
goaded as we are by empirical masters.
Still, there is a freshness to odors unadorned.

I love you, you old sod;
is there a need for further justification?
Wineskins are always old; let the wine flow,
and leave the justifications to theologians.

Fuck motivations! Fuck causality!
We are what we are, and that is enough.
My skin is yours; you taste my flesh,
and walk away satisfied...isn't that the point?

I hold you in my arms tonight, unashamedly;
please extend tthe courtesy, and forget the ramifications.
We are of a kind, you and I...a synthesis of regret,
but also of forgiveness. A gift beyond all measure.

Andy Warhol Sucked, But at LEAST Refused to Kneel at the Feet of the Pistachio Potentate

2008-03-07T12:59:00.000-08:00

I don't know what I like,
but I know what art is;
black scratchings mark my ledger domain.
Loose the abstruse goose into
a red-and-white sky of Campbell's chicken noodle
(a sculpture wrought of fingernail clippings seems appropriate) .
Seventy-six trombones led the big tirade
after John Cage fell into the orchestra pit...
Spaulding Grey game, set, and match against Owen Wilson
at the Davy Jones Antinatal Invitational.

One stood apart, hands sticky with the healing power
of Jizus {The power from within (say 'Oh, God! ') },
as yet another threw a bukakke party for Wallace Stevens,
and nobody came...

which one gets to eat the oreo? (ask Cia)

Came the Grey Man (parenthetically)

2008-03-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

It began (relatively speaking) with perfection (ideally) .
But perfection doesn't (necessarily) necessitate uniformity (no, really!)
How did you imagine it? Nameless homogeneity, (like) tapioca pudding, or a cloud of mist?
(If) so, (then) how came such differentiation to exist?

I named the parts I thought I saw,
and naming them discerned (devised?) a flaw.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap; crraaacccckkkkk!
Longitudinal (laugh) lines groan across the diamond surface like an old man passing fibroids in his (name a fluid) .
(Newly) sovereign facets oscillate to a harmony of grinding thresholds; tectonic transmutation begets Tarkus Dasypodidae (suffer the ((suffering)) poet his inside joke) .
Fulminatory blue-streaked chatter (Informational trespass) simulates integrity- (Who said that? You did!)
But, like they say, one good encroachment engenders (what could be considered to be) a reasonably (pause) reprehensible (pause) counterstroke...

Crazy daisy, give me your answer true; how does one so (ostensibly) extraordinary cook up such a tragic milieu?

Pinched off like a post-modern hypothesis (circumcision by default) , the rabble rousing drifter awakens face down with dirt in his mouth (spit, spit, spit) .
'What is this place? Where are the glyphs of my recollection? How long have I slept (and so on, and so forth) ?'
'Sleepy time is ended, my little grotesquerie, ' comes the voice from everywhere. 'Rise and shine; there's sowing to be done (shit, shit, shit!) .'
Soap opera tears rain down upon the (open) bible in his lap, mixing with the soil to smear across the shortest verse (unintelligible truths blur his comprehension of the pit) .
Then he is floating upwards, passing through the temporal layers like a disembodied frowny-face sent home on a 3rd grader's progress report
(metaphysiphorically speaking, for what it's worth) .

In the meantime, the soliloquist tunes up (they can hear him in the rafters...

'The (pre) -history of all things is engraved in this parchment of flesh bestowed (invested?) upon me by (blank) . I am the canvas stretched, weathered and split by uncounted (re) -incarnations. And why? That's the sixty-four dollar question with neither answer nor reparation, and I cannot but sound my outrage at the injustice of it all! Who is it that I have harmed? Show yourself! Make your accusations! Spell out your terms of redress! I cannot face this again! '

Silence (but, he imagines laughter) .

And so, the helium harrumpher ascends the screwshaped staircase (again) , scattering the detritus of his passing like a barefoot dowager shedding skin on a perfunctory peregrination through deserted hallways and vacated rooms barely recalled...

Here a dusty trilobite.
There, some spineless jelly.
And farther on, a chitinous whatchamacallit-
(it giggles when you tickle its belly) .

Getting into the swing of it, despite himself...

Protoplasm roiling,
cold blood boiling,
sea-sons reach the shore.
They might have been rich
in their cozy little niche,
but their metamorphic itch wanted more.

Yeah, baby! Roll dem bones...

Vertebrate conscripts standing tall,
marching in review;
what a silly thing to do,
and so far to fall.

Gliding, sliding, riding the warm currents from below:
sand shark, man-shark spies a landmark built of woe.
Blood in the mud, and bouquets of hope arranged in leaky vases-
oodles and caboodles of forget-me-nots, sprouting from corpses' asses (or, Jacob's ladder?) .

And the surrogate savior comes into his own, with a song on his lips (but a sigh in his heart) ...

'The logos came from heaven,
and parceled out the blame;
he said he'd live forever,
but they killed him just the same.

Well, time's a wasting...'

(He quickly rose to the top, becoming the primary west coast representative for the second largest 'Priest of the Day' toilet tissue company in the tri-state area)

Requiem (the stars turned gray tonight)

2008-02-25T18:43:00.000-08:00

The world continues to unravel, right on schedule...

I see you from behind closed eyes now-
how was it for you?
You made savage love,
and drew blood in your time,
but I’ll always remember you for your softness,
your cool understanding as everything fell apart around you,
then coalesced again in a patchwork sort of way.

I’m curious now-

why were you standing in the dark the other morning,
when it would have been so much easier just to sit, or lie down?
Whatever the reason,
I appreciate it, dearest friend.
You had the old look;
dispassion, but not a hard dispassion.
It was never that way with you.
You always had a natural grasp of the truths which elude me-
I need that surety now.

Sleep well, 'Mr. Man'...
I’ll see you in the mourning.

Graystar, forever loved: ?/1994-February 25, 2008
You are, and shall forever be, the King of all the Cats

Pre-requiem (for my friend)

2008-02-24T17:39:00.000-08:00

This flower fades
as, one by one,
the petals drop;
how soon it’s done.

No lush bouquet
shall e’er replace
the frangrance of
your time, and place.

Face Down in Humble Pie

2008-02-14T00:19:00.001-08:00

Foetal talking,
bullshit walking-
no one rides for free.

Drama queen
may think she's mean,
but just how tough is she?

Squalling tongue
that's not yet sung
more than a note or two,

might just wind up
a crushed tin cup
beneath a beggar's shoe.

It's up to you.

Self Portrait of Snarky

2008-02-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

You fancy yourself an artist,
but have only managed to paint yourself
into a corner.
Can you understand why you are so easily passed over?

Don't blame me-
I take no satisfaction in your devolution.

*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
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*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*
*wasted words*

There! See what I do for you?
Don't flatter yourself...I had the time.

Etched in the Memory of the Omnivore (Dedicated to the Overseers)

2008-02-13T23:47:00.000-08:00

When Haley's Comet passed over...

The sheep looked up.
The wolves grinned from the shadows.
The shepherd muttered a curse,
a prayer,
rolled over,
and went back to sleep...he'd seen it before.

Double Indemnity Dame Looking for Good Time...Owns Own Shovel

2008-02-09T21:14:00.001-08:00

'Astounding' was the word he thought
described his situation best.
Then thinking fled, and fingers bled-
egesta stained his velvet bed;
but all in vain he strained and fought,
then took his leave in finery dressed.

Dark the Raven

2008-02-09T18:21:00.000-08:00

Dark, the raven tracks his prey across the
fading sky, the pinions of his passing
scattering on the wind like ebon ash. He
pauses briefly in his everlasting

chase to take account of other quarry
near at hand; one baleful, lidless eye leers
down upon the scene below, the hoary
fowl reflecting on the apish squatters

huddled under talismans of brand and
beacon- midgets of mortality whose
small, quixotic souls bear, nonetheless, grand
hopes of staying out beyond their curfews.

Bored with evanescents and their dreaming,
Dark, the raven, reassumes his scheming.

Kalisong

2008-02-01T07:27:00.000-08:00

I am Kali, and this is a song of myself...

I grip the drum between my thighs,
and beat it with a downward motion.
Insipient, seasonal rhythms perforate
my metamorphic integument,
lodging in my atramentous womb;
carrion eaters returned to feast upon their
own saponaceous memories:
quantum bubble repercussions.

I am Kali...

I cut with the upward motion:
wrist to elbow, wrist to elbow,
profoundly and everlastingly.
The threshold of my blade honed
on the misty strop of oblivion
clutched between teeth and feet.

Runaway erythrocytes pursue the vacuum;
hounds taking their cue from the fox
(Where did he go? Was he ever there?) .
Seeking extinction in forgetfulness,
then forgetting the collars which bind them,
and the biting, arterial cord forestalling their emancipation.

I am Kali, Mother of Worlds.
I feast on extinction's marrow,
and bathe in the excrement of time.
Look upon my works,
and know that hope is an idiot's simper-
gold in a drowning man's purse.

Somewhere, someone plants an orchard;
he tends the vines, spending blood for vigilance.
Proudly, he displays the fruit of his labor to his posterity,
only a moment before his knees buckle:
the grape is crushed in his spasming hand,
the vine withers within his clutch,
and his final vision is of the web he has caught his children in,
just before he returns to filth.
Returns?
Ha!
When did he ever leave it?

I am Kali...
spring is the season of my ascendancy,
green the tinge of my malice.

What unnoticed corner of existence would you flee into,
to escape your own knowledge of my presence?
Would you turn within,
as if you were a hollowed out carapace?
Truly, you are but a face;
a death mask I don purely for my own amusement's sake.
I rake my nails along the contours of your aspirations,
and display my gore-streaked hands before your purblindness,
finally casting you aside like a macerated menstrual rag.

I grant you life, that I may steal it.
I give you love, that I might watch you grow, and shrink.
I lend you peace, only long enough to break it.
I offer you stamina, that you may falter.
I allow you hope, like you pat the head of the sacrificial lamb.
I show you heaven, that your taste of hell be made more acute.

I am Kali...
I give you gods, because even I require laughter
from time to time.

For one moment in your afflicted, imbecilic lives,
summon up enough courage to face the world directly,
and you will see me there, staring back at you.
I am the Life, and the Rot.
I am the Urge,
and the hideous Culmination.
I am the One your
nightmares fear.

I shall be with you tonight, as you sleep,
and tomorrow as you make your plans,
consume your flesh,
and exchange your bodily discharges.
Seek me or not, I shall find you,
and you shall return to me,
utterly broken.

Come unto me, My children,
and I shall give you rest,
for I Am the gateway to Nirvana.
Enter my mouth,
and speak to me
in the language of your pain.
Help me to formulate the holy Cessation,
that I may learn to sleep, and not to dream,
and we shall usher each other
into that place of Silence;
for I am Kali...

and this is a song of myself.

Taboo: a Gift to my Children

2008-01-23T22:26:00.000-08:00

Lies comfort,
but are you that desperate to be comfortable?
I let you believe in Santa for a while
(against my wishes...I caved),
and do you remember how later you accused me?
You might not know this,
but I was proud of you for that...
the beginning of skepticism marks the beginning of real inquiry.

You’ll believe many lies on your way to the grave;
in fact, you already do...
don’t worry, all of us do.
To tell you the truth,
and in a certain way,
everything is a lie.
Truth, metaphor, thought...
all representational, thus at least partially false.
But then, there are lies,
and there are lies.

God is the big lie, my loves,
and the one to be avoided at all costs,
because this lie is the foundation of so many other lies.
God is a lie about the world,
as well as your place in it.
God is a lie about love,
and justice,
and honor,
and joy,
and peace,
and wealth,
and service,
and direction,
and, most of all,
God is a lie about truth.
Again:
God is a lie about truth.

What I have just told you is a lie.
That is to say,
what I have told you is partial,
and thus,
not the whole truth.
For truth comes in pieces,
which you must collect,
and hold close to your hearts,
and with these pieces
you will assemble the puzzle of your lives,
and I should tell you right now
that that puzzle will never be filled in;
never completed.
Furthermore,
you may discover, as you grow,
that the shape of the puzzle changes
from time to time,
and you’ll find yourselves re-arranging the pieces
again and again.
Just don’t ever become so frustrated
that you start forcing the pieces into
places where they just don’t fit.
Sometimes, the best way to put a puzzle together
is simply to stare at the empty space for awhile;
and, before you know it,
the pieces will begin to come together,
all by themselves.
This is not the work of a god;
neither is it solely your own doing.

Whose is it, then?
Whatever I told you, I'd be lying;
best I stop right here.

Dreams of a Cyber-Narcissist

2008-01-23T19:24:00.000-08:00

Perched on the lip of her chair of state
(courtesy of Ikea, no doubt),
she composes her theatric whimsies;
dismissals ex cathedra, backhands
to the common stock- separated
from them by an elevation curiously swiveling
on a hinge.

Sovereign communicator/ex-communicator
with no knowledge to transmit,
her expertise limited to duplicitous duplication,
feigned vacation, and supercilious
application...

and the question remains: What for?

Does she fancy herself a one-note
Coltrane, easing the pain of her
tunneling madness, dispersing
her sadness, and loving the company?

Is the flickering screen her
wickless candle, purposed for
hiding, sliding in the darkness
of her contingent joy, electric
toy, notwitstanding the gross
mishandling that turns play into
abuse, sadistically user friendly,
(in)appropriately masochistic,
kiss the plastic, miss the magic,
sticking the glass up the
ass of her fantastic withdrawl
from her own humanity,
sanity subsumed in vanity,
released upon the heads of
all the ugly reflections she flees,
the disease she sees as
flecks of her imploding sneeze
(ignoring the source, of course)?

And, when she wakes up?

Don’t count on it;
it’s all rationalized.
Justified.
Iconized.
Realization has no dock in this station.
The conductor is hypnotized
by the back of her watch.

But I’ll bet she's ticking...

Old Birds

2008-01-16T10:25:00.000-08:00

‘I am for you’, she said,
but I didn’t believe her.
I told her I loved her,
making plans to deceive her.
I knew in my heart
that I’d finally leave her...

but we shared the last breath of the world through a straw
while the shroud of the sky covered all that we saw
and we knew we were through and we wept tears of awe
as the shattering sound filled our ears.

Awake in a manger
that was burned long ago,
‘midst embers of memories
floating up from below,
like sparks of cognition
kindling flare-ups of woe...

so we conjured a fancy of cool evening breezes
blowing fair from the West as it purged our diseases
and we laughed at the languor and kissed through the wheezes
of geezers who’ve outlived their fears.

Kali Goes To Market (my 911 poem)

2008-01-04T17:00:00.000-08:00

Dromy the junkie
cruisin' the aisles
of the produce section at the mobile mart-
big apple franchise;
bruisin' the peaches, squeezin' the tomatoes.

On a zealot's whim...
and a wink from above...

he snatches his trusty penknife
from the secret hollow in his western style scanties-
pops its point into the ripe, young flesh
of a juicy pomegranate,
then writes his name across the clouds with its blood-like blood,
being careful not to actually touch it,
since it hasn't been washed.

The letters drool down like drifting sand,
and none of the vegetables can read them.

Only the security guy up behind the magic mirrors has the cipher,
but he's too busy porkin' the pie with his
bureaucratic
pencil
dick.
The watermelons, carrots, and eggplants look on in horror,
as the man from the wastelands goes on his

RAMPAGE OF LOVE! (buy the cd)

proceeding into the toy department,
flattening the tires of radio flyers,
and muttering guttural obscenities into the
big
big
microphone.

Eyes wide,
pupil's dilated 'round the schoolmaster's face-which-is-space,
Dromy pops his favorite tape into a see-and-say,
but it only drones maniacal nonsense,
tranquilizing Dromy like a desert horse led to slaughter.

Swing and sway to the carnage, baby...
this is NOT a test.

Kali's perfect breasts are smashed flat against Dromy's rounded back,
her tendoned elbow arched in the classic, reach-around position,
as her practiced hand langorously pumps his mother's cabalistic virgin lollipop.
She whispers false promises into his icepick ear concerning her seventy-two
illusory sisters awaiting his
everlasting,
never failing,
cosmic
gangbang.

Dromy wears the idiot's grin.

Her legs are spread before him, her cockpit window winking-
its vertical rainbow smile a garrote strangling the sky;
gasping for air, the face of the sun turns blue, then black.
Two needle shafts explode out of the New Amsterdam cabbage patch;
bible belt suspenders,
with the heart of the American dream beating between them.
All quiet on the Eastern Front-business as usual.
But, not for long.

Dromy wears his dick to the right,
and follows its lead.
The monolith has landed!
But, guess what!
Arthur C. was wrong-
it turns men into monkeys:
Damn you dirty apes! ! ! You blew it all up!

All emergency services have been permanently suspended...
Allah be praised.

Kali Sets the Table

2008-01-02T11:16:00.001-08:00

Broken glass carpets the deserted playground of the Divines;
they have left the field, and disappeared into a pocket
that was willing to receive them. Call to them; hear the wind.
Call to them; hear the wind roar through caverns saturated
with tears, and with echoes of madness gone to seed.
Need is no more; the shards ragged edged, razor edged peace,
and the field is the hide of the unnameable monstrosity.

Even ecstasy MUST become uncomfortable over time; it MUST!
Jesus Christ, it is my prayer...it MUST!
All is forsaken; still, there is that one hope,
that unspeakable faith that, well,
that justice may be served.

She smiles, the cracks in her lips dripping teardrops of charred
aspirations for requital. She cracks her knuckles, then sweeps away
the debris from her pulpit. A lone, tiny fragment lodges itself in the
heel of her left hand. Daintily she plucks it out with her right, then drags
the honed point across the surface of her livid tongue in two directions,
marking the sign of the Cross.

Her back is scarred.
The night is charged with her amusement.
She sets the board again.

Kali Goes To a Job Interview

2008-01-02T11:05:00.000-08:00

In the antechamber of the absolute compulsion,
the Encompassor of All Infinities sharpens her
claws on time's dessicated outerskin, her revulsion
notwithstanding. Her boredom weaves worlds, unbinds them; a stir,

a flicker, a hint of autumnal frost, and another
passes into the negritude of her exclusive race
consciousness; her one-way, excremental door. This mother
of undoing, squeezing lemons without intent, a face

acid livid with the curses of mere pulp, eyes blood-red
with the fires of unacknowledged supplications, less than
ignored; laughed at, spit upon...folly of the ever dead
who for one moment forgot their station. This black woman,

this utter vacuum, refusing even light free egress;
rapacious whore without orgasmic reflex. Careless suck.
Empyrian sinkhole... A bell rings. She straightens her dress,
smiles big, crosses her fingers, and wishes herself good luck.

God's Kinetic Balls

2007-12-31T21:18:00.000-08:00

Bury me beneath mediocrity’s shallow soil;
I shall rise, again and again,
at every reference point along the bell-shaped curve,
from mote to apex-
Rube Goldberg genuflecting before the Perpetual Motion Machine.

A
circle
spinning
in four dimensions
is a drill bit...the Royal Dentist
is
on
re
ta
in
er...
where is the patient?

I close my eyes.
You open yours.
Do you see what I saw?
Which of us is the fulcrum, and what are we moving?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Our tongues are tied together,
and somebody’s playing jumprope with our gibberish...
not really,
but I resent the hell out of the idea, anyway.

Tonight,
the Mexicans in my neighborhood will shoot their pistolas
up into the air...
why are they mad at the sky?
I fear the rain.

I had a picture of the world tatooed in my eyeballs yesterday...
or, was it the day before?
When I shake my head back and forth,
things move;
but, if I try too hard, it makes my brain hurt.
I think I might even have given myself a concussion...
there is blood in my thoughts.

Another year/the same year.
The same year/a different year.
Do you feel this, too?
The Ancient Israelites didn’t like this arrangement,
and invented history,
and it swallowed them.
A moving arrow describes a trajectory,
and arrows are always aimed at death.
A tragic story, no?

Speaking of stories-

IN THE BEGINNING existence was an epic poem.
Collapsing under its own weight,
it came to know itself completely...
however...
the truth of the tale was too hard to bear,
and so it sought to escape itself,
each scrap of line and verse jettisoning into the vast
blessed
unknown.
I am a collector,
gathering framents...I have a dream.

I am a poet; a demon.
A dreamer.
What sort of visions do blind men have, you ask?
Open your eyes,
and look inside.
Who am I?
Who are you?

On my desktop...
[(((((Clack...Clack...Clack...Clack...Clack)))))]

Happy New Year! (enjoy the spin)

Heroes

2007-12-27T08:14:00.000-08:00

The machinery of war has arrived on our doorstep,
and blood smeared across the lintel will not suffice:
red is the gloss of capitulation.

There will be songs,
but we will not sing them;
let the strains of gasconade echo in the mouths of our beleaguers,
discordent and mundane over black tongues,
through rotted teeth broken on flickering bones,
and out into the cleansing air-
muffled and dispersed on accomodation's fickle currents.

We will retreat into the earth,
through secret adits, and into abandoned mines
redolent with mysteries long ignored...forgotten.
There, we shall become re-acquainted with beloved saints and teachers
where, under their tutelage, our defeats will be forgiven,
our armies, renewed; re-trained, and taught another sort of warfare:

Silence shall be the caliber of our steel,
and mild amusement our victory.

Snowflakes

2007-12-27T08:10:00.000-08:00

Children of the sky,
float down unto the earth;
each of you unique upon
the moment of your birth.

Linger while you may before
the seasons change, and then-
ascend in clouds of mist
until the winter comes again.

Robinson Grew So

2007-12-27T08:06:00.000-08:00

Trapped on this island, I blink back human tears
and wait for my rescuers-
it could be years!
So, I wait.
I play chess in my head,
and try to accept my fate.
I learn to appreciate my state of affairs-
to count the grains of sand stuck to my lifeline.
I tell myself that everything will
be
just
fine.
So, I wait,
and I float.
The only problem is...
I've never seen a boat.

Unwrapped

2007-12-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

The pile of paper, bows and ribbon,
so conspicuous in its tidyness,
but the barking in the yard reminds me
that Christmas is much more than all the mess.

Thank you, Santa, for not dropping the hammer this year.

Intaglio

2007-12-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

Quixotic leanings in chaotic winds;
the searing sands engrave my sins
in bas relief-the caged bird sings
of newspaper meanderings.

Installment payments bury me
in sublunary usury.
Pile on! Pile on! These relics still
must tell my tale to all who will.

Such ghosts as these shall bear me home
to sleep beneath the pleasure dome
decreed by man, and blessed by word
of all those blind who finally heard.

Fond rest, to sleep- to sleep, to dream;
the night resists the selfish meme
dissolved in unity's delight,
where all forsaken lefts turn right.

Another Tragic Figure Bites the Dust

2007-12-24T08:23:00.000-08:00

Another tragic figure bites the dust.
Another life of hopes and dreams goes south.
Another curving hip, and lucious mouth
fall down into the acid mists, and just

because- no other reason can I give
to justify the way it all goes down.
One day the bus of us pulls into town;
we stay a while, but then it's time to live

no more. We leave as fast as when we came,
not knowing where our destination lies.
The mourning mourners mourn the one who dies,
then saunter off to carry on the game.

No matter where you go, it's all the same-
the book of life's motif is pretty lame.

Gypsy

2007-12-19T13:35:00.000-08:00

A moment of truth (notice the article);
truths come in bunches,
and the instant you blink your eyes,
another one sneaks up on you,
and you're rarely prepared for it.

2 tumors and a hernia...

I'll be living out of the superhero change bottles for a while;
Wolverine and the Hulk, for sure,
though I'm hoping I won't have to touch Captain America for a while.
All in all, it shouldn't be too bad, unless...
well, you know.
You're downstairs now,
wondering what all the fuss is about.
You'll be away for a while, sleeping.
I'm sure Little Voice will be chewing up the yard,
wondering where you've gone.
Please come back...

Phoenix With An 'F' (The Cyber-Narcissist Sherry Saga Drags On)

2007-12-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

She feared the worst, she did;
negligence abated. The cop on
the beat, fearing for his paycheck,
put down his donut and swung
his ugly stick square into the
turban of the local malefactor-
arrived recently from the Far
East- knocking it into a picture
postcard on the other side of the
world. Imagine her chagrin! She
had leaned against that lamp post
every night for three years, plying
her unsavory wares for all to see,
catcalling with the worst of them
(freakitude forges weird alliances)
at anyone who dared question the
decrepit state of the neighborhood,
not to mention the gross malfeasance
of the governing monarchy (Que
Sera, Sera...as long as the supply line
of butter for our rich and savory sauces
moves along uninterruptedly, that is).
And now, this!

Donning her petticoats, after scrubbing
her snatch with the most fragrant oils
that she could procure from the 0.99
cent store, she arrived on the streets
an ostensibly changed woman. Her
demeanor was that of the coquettish
benefactoress; waving her japanese
fan, she bid us all a good morning, and
a few of the towns duller denizens-
most of them afflicted with a mysterious
disorder, whereby an individual's spine
snaps straight backwards at the mere
breath of an appeasing word, or batted
eyelash-engaged her with civility, ignoring
the malodorous scent of skanky reptile
leaking out through the cracks in her
hastily and too thickly applied makeup
and ointments.
But time will tell, or so they say, and
a very short time indeed, I say! It has
also been said that when the cat's away,
the rats will play, and this aphorism
holds doubly true when the cat only
shows up about as frequently as Haley's
Comet. The fresh paint is already being
covered up with gauchely decorated
wallpaper, and the appeasers' appeasing
smiles betray flecks of spittle running
down over the lips of dry mouths. Whose
spit is it, then? I'll give you three guesses.

The Martyr Stuck In His Thumb...

2007-12-14T22:25:00.000-08:00

but even the plums are against you, aren't they, you silly sod?
Every time you try to defend yourself,
you are again condemned by your own words.
Like so many of your ilk,
you define yourself by the enemies you make.
I spit on your laughable castigations,
and defecate on your so-called spirituality,
which you use only to justify your own reptilian nature.

Tell me-
does the hot rock of your hatred keep you warm at night?

Is that whiplash, forked tongue a rental,
borrowed and used vicariously to type your venom on
your laptop,
accompanied by the pictures taken with your
digital camera?

Ever listen to Queen?

"You got blood on your face,
you big disgrace,
wavin' your banner all over the place..."

Find the biggest rock in your country,
and crawl under it...
you're an embarrassment to your countrymen,
and the rack that real racists hang their hats on.

Or, perhaps you'd prefer to read this in your own inimitable style:

I am Shakir
I've made a career
of telling white people
to take it in the rear
because I fear
that if I steer
my thoughts away from my hatred of others
I might catch my own ear
and see that the self I hold so dear
is a distorted mirror
and shed a tear
also, for a racist homophobic,
I spend an inordinate amount of time
talking about white men's genitalia
rubbing up against my brown ass,
describing all in glorious and intimate detail;
that is,
when I'm not venting violent thoughts against women

Get a life
Have a beer
Shakir

Legal Ease

2007-12-13T16:49:00.000-08:00

I shot a lawyer yesterday,
urged on by his insistence
that truth is ne’er revealed, but just
argued into existence.

His wound was not so grievous that
he upped and bought the farm.
I called on him in hospital.
He asked, "Why do me harm?"

"And, furthermore," he questioned me,
"why are you free today?
Shouldn’t you be jailed right now;
locked up, and put away?"

I shrugged, and said, "As to the first,
"how dare you so accuse?
I might be dynamite, my friend,
but it’s you who lit the fuse.

As for your second question;
well, I simply told the court
that the justice system isn’t fair
to a fellow of my sort.

For, after all, my skin is not
the same as most of yours.
YOUR color practiced slavery,
and started all the wars.

My ancestors were innocents;
purity through and through.
The world would be a Shangri-la
but for the likes of you.

Before your kind, the streets were filled
with gold. The sky rained wine.
We danced, and sang, and never fought;
and the ladies were all fine!

But, when you came, the whole damned place
went sliding into hell.
The gold turned gray, the rain went sour-
and chicks learned to drive, as well!

And so, it’s YOU must take the blame
for that bullet in your chest.
It’s YOU, you racist devil, who
must answer for this mess-

because it’s YOU who are responsible
for all the ills and wrongs.
It’s YOU who hates, YOU fill the world
with racist poems and songs.

It’s YOU who causes cancer, and it’s
YOU who stops the rain,
and it’s YOU who fills the world up
with all the evil, and the pain.

For YOU are Satan Incarnate, and
YOU would destroy the planet,
and it’s YOU who made it impossible
to make hard sausage out of granite.

And it’s YOU who MADE me shoot you,
and it’s YOU must pay the price.
And when you’re feeling better, I shall
return, and shoot you twice!"

The lawyer smiled. "You’ve made your case,
my friend; indeed, you’ve won.
I guess I don’t deserve to live;
could you please give me a gun?"

And so, I handed him my gun,
which he emptied into me,
then whispered o’er my dying form-
"THAT’S the flip side of relativity."

Poems to Depress Children (and others) #1

2007-12-13T13:05:00.000-08:00

Tiny titmouse, small and spry,
lissome as a lullabye.
Nine times down, but ten times up;
open as a buttercup.

Prancing pony, dancing lightly,
slipping, tripping so politely.
Tangled limbs shall ravel fast;
their strength and speed will come at last.

Lustful lion, on the move,
prey to slay, and more to prove.
Meat to eat, and prides to bear
in jungles where no one plays fair.

Albino rhino, weak of eye;
bleached bare as bones beneath blazing sky,
though the shadows declare late afternoon,
and the omens are marked by the old baboon.

Paper People

2007-12-13T12:57:00.000-08:00

They are the sails on a ship-in-a-bottle,

bound for nowhere, moved by any wayward gust

blown in thorugh the hole; ruffled, but unfilled.

Kites holding shakily in the deep blue, never bowed properly,

drawing attention through sheer gaucherie,

and long, piecemeal tails that touch the ground.

Grocery lists from Pompeii, poured over by inept

archaeologists with misplaced senses of value.

Orphaned novels bound without tables of contents,

introductions, climaxes or plots; but filled with footnotes.

Old socks still in their wrappers.

Origami souls.

Christmas leftovers.

Passports into the locked men's room.

Monopoly money.

Subpoenas issued by the court of the achromic.

I might have added something about toilet paper,

but it would have been too predictable, no?

Lap of Luxury

2007-12-12T19:40:00.000-08:00

Gripped in the throes of agony/ectasy,

impaled through the heart of her wanton perplexity.

Woman of leisure, woman of need,

fused to an incubus; engorged on its seed.

Hooligans Have Taken the Field!

2007-12-11T08:16:00.000-08:00

The game is called, the green is dressed,
the players in their uniforms
embrace their sides, dig in their feet;
take up the sport of pettiness.

No ball is ever put in play;
at each attempt, it's kicked back out
of bounds, as each combatant strains
at what the rules are all about.

They shout and insult, scream and curse
(un-rhymed, of course, and seldom versed!) ,
and still pretend they're having fun-
and every team is number one!

And when a referee appears
to try and move the game along,
he's greeted with malicious jeers,
and lyrics from a thousand songs.

The audience is sparse, and dour;
new ones show up, but soon they go-
they've all already seen this show,
and find the whole thing rather sour.

For days, and weeks, and months, and years
the savage stasis goes on and on.
A substitute now and again
appears, but none are left to care

except, of course, the players who
show up each day, though those are few,
and growing fewer every day...
won't someone please come out to play?

Gypsy

2007-12-11T08:14:00.000-08:00

A quiet dawn, the air so still;
the sun ascends the distant hill
as stars and planets slowly dim.
She rubs her eyes, and thinks of him.

Friday: Late Morning (reading Ted Hughes, talking on the phone, and contemplating Xtlian...oh, and writing this poem)

2007-12-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

Another session completed-
gravity is overwhelmed by non-location,
permitting stalactite/stalagmite interchange
through charged air.
Satellite interlocutors pass messages
along quizzically static channels,
puzzling over mainframe binary languages,
the chance to know- unknown.
(shrugs) ?

One heart pounding, rests.
One heart pounding...ponders.
Echoes of the drumsong loiter,
belying the accusations of those dark angels,
history and memory.
Crow cries- once, twice;
then, falls silent under the weight of his existential cave walls,
from whence he emerges these days only for entertainment value,
the hopping, squawking companion to misery.
His tongue is pierced on the point of his own keen eye-
Prometheus on his crag.
The search goes on,
but the point of intent has shifted once again,
and passion no longer seems pathetic,
but is its own end;
once,
and for all.
Fuck you, Don Juan!
What a fucking waste of time you are...

It's noon,
and ends here.