Friday, July 27, 2007

The Triumph of the Overdog

Sometimes it seems, this will last forever.
And what if it does?
With murderers posing as angels of mercy,
Superstitions making the unholy holy,
Death on a Tuesday, forgotten on Wednesday,
False friendships forged behind curtained handshakes,
Puppet regimes where black blood flows,
Where the cost of our lives is paid for by others,
And the worth of those lives is determined by bill-collectors,
When no one has a funeral as Hector,
But the bodies are piled where the earth will be charred,
Comparisons and metaphors are used on the good-guys,
And no one knows who the good-guys are,

The song of the few is sung by the many,
And flags are draped on coffins in rows,
Arlington raises her head in sad wonder,
And hell is hot but there is no fire,
Where fire isn’t started, but is said to be burning,
Where twelve honest men would stand on the gallows,
And the jury is composed of one man twelve times,
And liars lie under oath but no guillotine threatens,
And oaths are only for the people who follow them,
But those that don’t will be making the rules,
And being embattled means you don’t look into eyes,

Where the apple isn’t eaten they just chop down the tree,
And the tree is made into paper to quell the blind masses,
And the makers of the paper are elevated to gods,
As religion rots from the inside out,
‘Til even Jesus himself constructs half-truths,
If it’s true that his mouthpieces are who they claim to be,
Then it’s obvious he values a sword over the pen,
So his book must not have even been inspired by him,
But rather a do-gooder who was stoned twice,
And the second time they managed to finish the job,
So the job is now what drives those bloodthirsty,
Those so evil it screams of the devil,
Or at least a demon who wires their speeches,
There’s no angel on anyone’s shoulder but rather a rocket,
And bombs on the brain and fear in those bombs,
Those who aren’t afraid are viewed na├»ve,
Those who are afraid, they died before they could,
And would go die again if they only had courage,
The sign on the border read: “No Courage Allowed Here”,

So many people eager to be technological, so devoid of soul,
Technology is all relative, relative to losing ourselves somewhere,
We’re are all free-agents, under our own employ,
And the target is you, them, us, we are our own mark,
The only way to stop the killer bees is to kill the whole hive,
And a nest burns so quickly, so let them eat cake,

Your new opium makes you think you’re a part of something,
And that something lines the killer bees’ pockets,
No one was ever meant to be famous,
We should be content to be lost to the sands of time,
Mostly because we all will be lost to time,
And if your name is spoke in a thousand years,
No one will no how it should sound because language will kill it,
No one has any concept of loyalty anymore,
So don’t worry, you won’t be famous for long,

A man’s mind was poisoned against himself,
He was the decider for a short time,
He decided that freedom fighters make for good bogeymen,
Especially when people have forgotten what freedom is,
When it’s okay to bequeath your liberty to sustain your freedom,
I’ve just said things that would get me stoned four years ago,
But now the stoning won’t be in the public square,
Don’t disguise yourself and hide behind your newspaper,
Poison still gets people killed even if the voices don’t say it,
Those voices, unseen, the source a mystery,
But those voices carry so much weight,
You better be brave, everyone turns on everyone in the end,
“And even if I won’t give you up, I’ll give them up”.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

I Hate the Mechanisms of War More and More Every Day

I was working on the apocalypse and then it came,
I forgot the lord’s name.

I couldn’t say anything as the dark skies broke,
When he asks me about that, I’ll blame it on my throat.

I’d rather die in my bed than fight in a war,
Especially the one they want me to die for.

I’ll volunteer for the volunteers, dieing against the clock in time,
To ensure they aren’t later charged with war crimes.

There must be a time to say that enough is enough,
And all the cowboy sneer isn’t going to make the weak tough.

If the Blackhawk helicopters land on our roof at night,
Then others must take up the residence to keep up the fight.

They’ll tell you to die for the freedoms of others,
Tell them to explain that to the children’s fathers and mothers.

I won’t tell anyone anything they don’t want to hear,
And that is exactly the reason we’ve wound up here.

A problem with war is that leaders will cut corners to preserve their salaries,
Open up the newspaper and look at the casualties.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Still, the Branches Lean on the Path to my Creek

Look at the flowers that bloom this spring.
Down by the creek at my house.
From the earth a symbol of friendship, love, sorrow.
And if only a rose then at least a rose for those,
Those that aren’t here to give anyone a rose.

Hark, at the same time the moon rises.
There you are against the horizon,
It bows to the illuminated wonder of your reluctance.
And not reluctance, but more than we can foresee,
At least until the unforeseeable can be foreseen.

Stilt my legs up, make me tall.
Hush, the creek water flows around my wooden legs.
A small wave of resistance splashes either side of my new leg.
And my real legs stay dry to the bone, and you were holding on,
but I don’t know if you held my old legs or my new legs.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Prayer

For Bob Dylan and everyone else who isn't him.

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea
-T.S. Eliot “The Waste Land”
lines 220-221


Break me off a piece of your reality.
Instead of read a name, ring a bell,
Let’s just remember everything we can,
Because the less we write down,
The less there will be to burn
when the burning commences.

There’s so much time and so much to forget
But you cannot fergit
That we will all be scholars of unnamed treasure chests.
And I will not tell you of the catacombs
Filled with pages and images and words and sounds
All the colour-coded swirls that reside in my mind.
And you will not reveal your catacombs
Let’s just pass them on.

I’m a rose in a wax paper storybook
And you’re a tulip.
We’re pressed and preserved and wink at guests turning pages.

Grapes sound good,
Feed them to me.
We’ll drink to them and drink them
Wine at the heart, held to your breast.
Moonlight and the image of you emblazoned against the moon.

I’m breathless, silent, tilted, impressed.
I’m captured, enraptured, jikhan, blessed.

This is only the place we slept
While visions of life appeared
And if nothing that happened really happened
Then I’ll step across the sands
And even still I’ll be stabbed.

Soon enough a self-coup will be paid for with our blood.
And we did it to ourselves, there’s always a chance for redemption.
No ego, no power-madness, no politics, no wanton war.
We did it to ourselves while it was all done to us,
That isn’t to say anyone deserves what’s happened to them
But it isn’t to say that people don’t deserve something.

It’s so easy to be disillusioned.
I know this darling.
It’s so easy to just go along.
I know this darling.
Because I did the same,
Today I can only see
Mountainsides in 2D
And I want to see the other side.


I went to sign up for the war,
And I found you’d already signed us up.
I wished you’d have just gone and won it yourself.

Sapere Aude.
Ah, but no one really does.
Let’s just leave the bed unmade.

Couplets, triplets, goblets, leaflets,
All miniaturized forms of
The -isms, -ics.

The romantics.
Can’t it all be that simple?
Just a haiku and war is dead?

Only mentioned the hopeless
Because we all have that in common.
It’s so easy to feel hopeless.

“I feel lost in the face of war.”
“I feel lost and dead and cryptic under its thumb
But I don’t knew if I feel hopeless.” Even if it is.

Let’s not assume oppressed heartbeats,
I want her head on my chest
Thump, thump. thump, thump.

And in the inclinations of the paintings’ eyes
We can spy a hint of sadness
Because those that render, have an eye for the hopeless.

It must be some kind of coincidence.
There has always been that coupled with ecstasy
And unburdened stars.

Everything is being born
Everything is dying.
All that was and wasn’t is born to be and not to be.

I’m sorry. Sorry that we haven’t done better
But eventually every method peaks.
Or else no one will come up with a new one.

Every idea, every last one is built on those previous,
Those often grievous things that preceded.
And the hope lies in the new creator.

I was a trooper and a warrior
Before this firefight.
I kept my weapon polished
Now I run naked through the night.


And I suppose, I supposed
That I needed something, but I don’t need anything.
I hope that doesn’t include her
There must be a way, even if there isn’t away.

We were all born on the day we were born
And everyday before that and everyday after that.
Luckily her wise provisions helped us.
And puppies raised by people try to use their paws like hands.

How could someone hear
And in their native tongue
And in their particular dialect
And by a mouth they can trust
While looking into eyes they are found in.
How could you hear and yet…
I wish everyone could be loved.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she?”
“You look like the kind of boy that might understand that.
But you might not understand and until you do, you keep yourself to yourself.”

She said, I hate that things happened backwards from what they should have.
I said, Like the letter s and question marks getting ?witchedS
She said, I don’t want to die.
He said nothing, because he’s never had to say anything for as long as I’ve lived.

I have known fear.

I have known it and kept it at a distant remove.
For if I’m afraid, then who else will be afraid?

But there is no middle ground on which to walk.
You must choose something to be your truth,
But I enjoy God and Bhudda and Jesus and Mohammed being interchangeable.
Well, so we meet again.
Let’s blow smoke to the gods.
And reminisce…


C’mon, a violin is creaking out an amelodic melody in an alley,
It calls to me, it’s calling to us, we should stop the small-talk and listen.
I can almost pick out the tune.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
I guess it’s a harp being punched by hands stained with nicotine.
And not a violin after all.

Let’s ponder white flowers.
Let’s think about vines on trees.
Let’s converse in tongues forgotten by God himself,
And then he’ll hear it and say I remember when…

And the smoke we blew to him and to Zeus
And to Odysseus and Sisyphus and Orpheus,
And the Titans playing chess with Jesus,
And Bhudda, perfecting the art of not breathing,
While no one calls anyone by any name we could imagine.
And then the smoke we sent to their heaven
Will wrap itself around whatever it finds.
Blankets, fire, tall-tales, hurricanes,
And every possibility will rewrite every cause and effect.

But you and I will stand here, or sit, as time unfolds
We will be here.
Trapped in between two Ionian Islands,
Casting nets for fish but coming up with people asking about him.
And there will be hallucinations of armies walking on water.
And there will be everything darkening and shivering.
We will eat what we are fed, but nothing will taste good anymore.
There should be somewhere nearby.
Somewhere to relearn what we unlearned.
I remember you. You remember me.
Yet swords against pens against guns against bombs
And we all fight against the instant destruction.

An atomic bomb makes sense,
As everything becomes faster and faster
And our lives extend with each new discovery,
And as we run out of things to fill those years with…
Well, it makes sense to be destroyed in an instant.
But I feel sorry for all those animals who looked their food in the eyes.

A new smoke is sent to the gods then
By an anonymous pilot, employed by faceless shape-shifters,
Whose strings are pulled by people who have never been naked,
Who chase that hue of green that trees don’t produce.
Which gives meaning to names that don’t mean anything.
And everyone I know can’t imagine the world before it was like this.
If it ever was.


Now here we are, because this is where we went.
The universe is expanding and contracting
And rotating one way and then rotating the other just as furiously.
And everything we are doing has never been done exactly as we are doing it,
Because nothing returns but only speeds toward that,

And you and me and we and us and them and those and all the others not ensconced
Are all twirling and spinning and running and screaming and dreaming and climbing
And falling and skipping and flinging ourselves down flights of escalators going up
While every other possible possibility is acting in its own way complimenting our motion
And working with us and against us to reach the same goal while the tunnel darkens
And as it darkens it lights up and enlightens and everything exists together, apart
And we all rush slowly and quickly toward the end of the enveloping tunnel that only
Can conclude at the only logical conclusion and that conclusion will be called oblivion
And the grace of that oblivion will be with us and within us forever and ever. Amen.

Friday, July 13, 2007

The War.

I was killed by Athena in the hallway.
There were framed pictures but I,
Stole the wood and made a boat.

Bad news in the alleys,
No more grates spewing steam.
No more Marilyn Monroe.
Not in the littlest sense of sensory perception.

But come on,
I’ve my wits about me,
And I’ve thought about suicide.
Not in the back of my mind,
Up front and center, that’s why I have a headache.

Everyday people think about it like sex.
Everyday people have headaches
That require a medication.
Then less sex, then less sex.
Then more medicine and they stillllllll have a headache.

You can’t figure out the swamp I’m in.
Shoddy lilac bog smoking hand-rolled cigarettes,
The smoke chokes me.
At least it was made by hand,
Not a million miles away by slaves.
I’m sorry. I paid those slave wages.
You too.

Hell if I ever want anything again.
Hunger pains are nirvana.
Nirvana is not worth solidarity
It can be found everywhere
In every place not looking for clammy hands,
And then you’ll find it in your hands at a school dance.

Could have danced with that Christian,
Might have should have.

Impersonal in all personal ads,
I’ll just advertise myself since I’m not enough in person.
How much per line?
I’ll keep it short. Even if my parents said I was priceless,
Personal ads cost money, then I’ll find someone to tell me I’m priceless.
And happiness abounds. Chivalry abides. White flower on my doorstep.

Take me into you
View my mugshot in profile.
Stand by your man.

Explain everything right away.
No stone left unturned.
A good soldier never leaves a man behind.
I’ll leave every stone path upside down.
Every stoned path, everybody must get stoned.

Desert, airplane missiles.
I’m not made out for kamikaze kabuki theatre.
I just like the masks
I just like the masks.
Make me whole again,
You’ll be whole again.

And then you’ll be too heavy to walk on water.
So let’s leave time-travel in those woods,
The place where you and I almost died,
Too tired to sleep,
Paisley explosions in the sky of my mind.
I don’t want to listen to the radio in Texas.

I’m stoned. Wasted. Gone. Bloodshot right on the money.
William Tell and the apple.
I’m stoned without ingesting any stones.
I’m always happy to be glad to be experiencing things that only matter to me.
You don’t even have to care.

We is creeps.
Creeping tree lined lanes in places where Mockingbirds are safe.
It’s too scary to even look at the house.
I was scared. Of my imagination.
I was scared by my imagination.

So kill me, keel you.
Shipwright brothers.
First flight of fancy and you stuff the air with apprehension.
Caught in the missiles, I’m riding them to the ground.
Caught up in the explosions, the kids didn’t see it coming.
I was a kid and I watched it. And we will all go to hell.

And every human being should be drawn and quartered,
For crimes against humanity.
But in the U.S. they are protected by a piece of paper they ignore when convenient.
And we ignore transgressions when it’s convenient.
It’s always convenient.
No one should have been born.
We are all going to hell
And area rebirths, spiritual awakenings
Then go back to sleep.

Well it is the most convenient hour to sleep.
Eyes shut, breathing, paisley explosions killing children you’ll never see.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

You'll be okay

Imagine everything you’ve ever felt or done or haven’t felt or haven’t done and then imagine the best you ever felt, as in the limit on how great you’ve ever felt up until this point in your life. Then imagine the worst you ever felt, the bottom of the barrel on how bad you could ever feel ‘til this point in your life. Then imagine all of these things happening at the same time and moment from now until you can’t imagine imagining anything ever again. That could be your life, if you realize that everything is happening in this moment in space and time and you will feel greater and worse than this exponentially for the rest of your natural life. And these moments keep piling up until you feel like you’re sitting on a mountain of the greatest moments of your life, but then you realize that the mountain is your life. It’s everything you’ve done and haven’t done and will do and won’t do, and no matter how tall that mountain gets you will always be in the greatest moment of your life.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Tell Her I Did My Best

Phases of the moon says you
Makings of a month says I.
Neither an excuse.
You, Obtuse.
Dalliances , and I the dalliancee.

Then flowers wilt at your love.
Then flowers wilt at your toes.
And I resemble the wilted.
Torn pedals and bees skipping over us.
These times, these skies, always the same
Overthrown and your eyes the culprit.

I’ve cried in your arms.

I’m knifed up at last impressions.
Skies in cholo time piercing darkness of the mind
And I’m left unpierced,
Impervious to being a sheath.
I’m left is operative.
Be it whole, slashed, ashen-choked forest fire,
But I am left.

There isn’t enough ocean to drown it.

I’m a whiskey still
And I’m stilled at the quiet of death at night.
In the dead of night.
When quaking last minute ramshackles
Blast and beat their way through the superfluous fog.
And I’m broken enough, at least let me see.
To see where I’ll lay down to sleep,
Where my camp is already made,
Where fire awaits snuggled in the rock ring,
A roaring murder of silence sat stoic in shame.

Cut all your hair off.
Sometimes I miss the one I loved the most.
Sometimes I wish I was a sound from a saxophone,
Born and died in a room full or a room empty,
With lovers dancing or a lover missing.
But sometimes I wish I was a song
Only revived when the singer can move the stone.

What I would wish if I thought it had a chance of coming true.
All those prayers.
Good natured and otherwise.
I’d pray for you if I thought it had a chance
But we aren’t the chance-taking type.
And my hands aren’t going to be folded,
Rather clenched.

What if everything I did was exactly as it should be?
What if everything you did was exactly as it should be?
What would you do if everything was as it should be?
Nothing, but what might you think?
I’d be a thousand miles removed before I believed that,
And I’ll be a thousand miles yet.
Even if nothing is as it should be,
It’s not in the grasp of us to change ourselves.

I’d speak to your mother.
She remembers.
There were always tyrants,
There were always examples.

And I wouldn’t even take the time to piss on my tormentor’s grave.


I loved her. Once and again.
Tell her I loved her. More and more.
I didn’t send flowers, I had no means.
I was only asking for a message to be sent.
From the battlefield where I died a thousand times,
Carry back a message:

I’ll compose it everyday, the world my orchestra,
The birds are for your ears and hummingbirds are your favorite.
The sun will be for your blessed skin in cold and unforeseen.
The trees, mountains, clouds are for the unforeseen.
The sand is in between your toes and everywhere you step I’m there.
The wind will kiss you in thunderstorms.
The rain will kiss you in my absence.

I’ve no way home.
My compass and feet will not take me back to her.
I loved her. Once and again.
Tell her I loved her.

Friday, July 6, 2007

How To Have A Good Time

I’ve got the keeper to your tower here
But he won’t hand over the key deer
They die in droves every year
We do too, get in line, the masters make it clear

We tell children to lose the weight they packed on as a result of neglectful parents who took the easy way out of one of the most important things a parent can do for their children… Feed them. Now one day those children will be the adults and parents, teen mothers and fathers, and they won’t be able to feed their children right because they will be sifting through all the goddamn ash and mess of this era. And an era is not really an era rather than a continuation of phobias and fears and misguided slights of hand passed down from crap shooter to three card monty dealer ‘til an honest living is being dishonest because so many people lie that it’s just easier to assume that everyone lies. And all the while we tell kids to lose their fatty, lose that belly, lose the gut, it’s your fault you’re so fat, not your parents and grandparents who really accepted war, and I mean let it have tangible effects on their sensibilities and hospitalities and goddamn it no one has time to teach manners, so if you waste time holding that door then you lose time you could be ordering all-you-can-eat off the cheapest menu around. And then one day the cheapest menu in town will be the corpses of the dead. And war will have consumed us. And oil will have consumed us. And god will have consumed us.

Enjoy yourself. Because the only thing we knew how to pass down was how to have a good time.


Bummed out
Not inspired
Not impressed
Not making fun
Not having it
Except in single servings

There’s got to be…

What a love
To admit to
Not loving someone
As much as they do you
If you’re that shook up
Then I’ll have mine stirred

I listen to Aesop
Don’t be laughing
Not when there’s nothing
Nothing to laugh at
And I won’t even
I won’t crack a smile

Nope the past is bad as dope
Then you end up
Sobering up with a bottle
And it’s not even an image
Sober, strung out
Halfway to oblivion
It’s no longer an image
Imminent public domain

Words have to be invented
To have any meaning
Meaning has to be invented
To have any weight

Leonard Cohen
Make your victory march
Make it into a parade

Finding it hard to right
To write anything
That doesn’t have anything
Anything to do with her
And yet a future
Has nothing to do with her

I have nothing left for her
She has nothing left for me
Running on fumess

Smoke and naturally
The next word is plumes
And a rhyme scheme is born
But that’s rather scheming
And sneaky
Don’t you think

Only you’ll care what you think
Only you.