Friday, November 14, 2008

Ashes of Youth: The Score:

It was written mostly from August to October 2007, while tearing ass all up and down the East Coast of Awesomerica. It is the fictional truth about some life I've lived.

It's raw, it's good, and I am going to give it away for free like a mixtape...

The Score.

Do you know who put the moon and the stars up there?
No who?
I did.
Well how did that come about?
I took one of your ladders and put it in the ocean. I climbed to the top with my paintbrush and some paint and I painted the whole sky black. Then I hung the moon and the stars up there for you.

I was three years old when I hung the moon and stars for my father. We were outside our home on Big Pine Key, me in his arms and us looking up at the eternal compass of the Milky Way.
He held me upright as we gazed at the stars gazing back from billions of years ago. If anything ever should have belonged to a man, this Big Pine Key sky should have been my father’s. So it was.

This story is about a boy who climbed a mountain. Not just any mountain mind you, he climbed Blood Mountain. The fourth highest peak in Georgia where the Cherokee and the Creek fought on Slaughter Ridge. That bloody history a testament to all of the South, like a harmonica blowing sad as though it knows it's been defeated.

This tale requires imagination to understand how people felt about certain trespasses, including the narrator. The reader can find as much in the things left unsaid as what is recorded.

This boy's name was... aw hell.. I'm having a Sam Elliott moment. Well his name ain't that important, the importance lies in knowing from whence he came. This was a bit peculiar itself because he was delivered by his father in his parent's home on Summerland Key and raised in North Florida. Nonetheless, he soaked up the horrors of Tate's Hell and the moccasins of the Chipola River; he knew that ghosts don't float around your house, they wait to whisper in your ear at night.

He began talking when he was a little boy, before being taken away from that
island and put inland with a fellow Conch refugee. Over the course of the story he travels every which way except down. Many times over, making his way to the ends of manic American depression and conversely, into the midst of its rhapsodic dreams.

So go to where you can hear 'Masters of War' through an open window just driftin' from down the street where there's a pretty stranger that you’re not gonna meet. There are limos riding around with windows tinted, wishin’ ta hell I'd run into Bob Dylan. Instead I saw chain smoking Keifer Sutherland puffing on a ciggie with a leggie blond walking beside him having her pants charmed off.

All balances are measured on the scale of eternity. Do not weigh yourself with that which isn't yours and do not worry about sinking or swimming, just accept exceptions.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

I just finished celebrating but I'm only getting started.

Fuck it. I cried when he won.

That was the proudest American moment that I will ever witness. We came together and put forth the best of ourselves and the best we could produce.

Let’s remember that and do it every day from now on.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Excerpt: Jean's Life

Now some more history. The president decided that potentially designating American citizens as terrorists was too risky after the excesses of past decades. A new buzzword was needed. This buzzword became “Anarchists”.

Politicians got drunk saying the word with no moderation.

The name was created after the CIA captured a group who fancied themselves terrorists but after due process announced that they were anarchists who used terrorism. The anarchists desired total annihilation of the American government and all western governments. Due process meant coercion of course.

Now when a middle school student drew an anarchy symbol on themselves they had to be sent to the principal. The principal would upload information about the infraction unto a national systematic profiler which winnowed down the names of the students’ relatives and their addresses.

These people were then put under surveillance that allowed for movie rentals, traceable purchases, internet use, traffic violations and all behavior requiring a name or social security number use to be cross-examined with no oversight by competing agencies.

School principals knew not what havoc they wrought. They only followed procedure. Now get that standardized test out, principal.

And who still refused to be bullied?


They absolutely refused to take part in turning over book check-out records. If someone wanted to read A Man Without A Country the government wouldn’t know about it. Some librarians were jailed, but a secret society called: FRAP or; the Final Refuge of the American People, managed to hire sympathetic lawyers of extreme caliber for the war against wars.

And who was winning that war?

Those who were well read.

Were they anarchists?

No. They knew the Communist Manifesto as well as they did the Republic and the U.S. Constitution. They were ahead of the game.

They were so well regarded in certain circles that scholars donated their personal library collection in secret for the sake of the world. They performed work as valuable as the seed storage facility in the Arctic Circle.

God bless them, they were called godless.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Ode To An Overlong Month

the poetry is hard, thankless,
without any compensation cepting the relieving of the brain
from its coarse futility and despondance.
we beat a path with our feet into this wilderness
through the wiregrass and across snakeholes,
in between flowering bushes and trees of unmistakable elegance.
Under moss and hanging branches,
suspended in time, forever and lost.

All spilling unto a bank by which a river ran,
crashing, as we were,
as though smoking a waterfall through copper pipes.

And I sez "let's dive in." and I dove in.
where to which uncertainty reigns
as though a witness to the conflictions of emotion.

the water filled in my splash and I was underwater,
how long i do not know,
Suffice to say that terror nearly overtook the undistinguished parts of my mind.
my fear trapped underwater with me,
each clinging to the other.

when my coughing form deposited itself onto the sandy banks
my convulsions left no room for self searching.
i caught from the corner of my left eye
the sight of my counterparts each rushing downstream
all borne, destined for deeper penetrations into the heart of darkness.

My complacency became overshadowed by a second dive,
made from various curiosities and casual seeking.

And in passing my landlubbing friends I observed aloud:
"Brothers, I always dove first but you discovered more.
I love you and depart now for to light the way.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Drunk on a Sunday Night

All the boys who love their city,
all the gals who love hometown,
all swimming away with vast complications,
all looking for something to turn them upside down.

There's a galley on Main Street,
the street Hemingway spoke of all lit up,
and in it are various styles and dimensions,
while the lights hurriedly blink on for fear of the cup.

The cup is the one in the hairy man's hands,
that he doesn't jingle but sits next to him.
While he works his way through palm frond baskets,
Making things as pretty as the galley's lights on dim.

And you walk farther or closer and see the gay bar,
where six foot transvestites hang around the entrance,
And past them are closed shops with the neon all on off.
Where main street dies at night for the ice cream stands.

Across the way is a shop that sells communist carry ons,
to capitalists on the long main street.
It was there that I bought a green hat emblazoned
with an offensive star for to greet.

Further and closer and you come upon the establishment
of the greatest capitalist singer that ever lived,
His name is Jimmy Buffet, the place is Margaritaville,
and in there they card. What a bitch.

So go on up and across the way again,
where a man is telling dirty jokes for a dollar,
he says “cunts” loud enough for the kids to hear,
daddy gets indignant and pops his collar.

On and on, far, far away,
from the southernmost this and the southernmost that,
less than a block from the Southernmost Point,
I scared the golf-cart riding family of fat.

Get on toward the setting sun,
the bars get smaller and smaller,
'til you come unto the smallest one,
where they sell you drinks that get taller and taller.

Beyond that a ways before the sandal shop,
everything gets too real,
the homeless smoke cigarettes like it's going to kill them,
instead of giving back life some zeal.

The whole world dies for a block or two,
before you get to see redemption,
the place is called Mallory Square,
and there life starts to feel worth a mention.

This is one conch's story of life and death,
composed on a Monday morning.
As it's being written a storm blows in,
full of lightning and one thunder warning.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Excerpt: From A Streetcorner Screams God.

Si. That means yes. As in, yes I am going to talk for a while. What I'm going to talk about is a man who lived somewhere in the Pacific after the world ended. He enjoyed coconuts so much, that at the end, he decided to move where he could always have coconuts. So he sold everything he had, bartered for a ride into the other hemisphere and with what he had left he bought crates of Rum. Sixteen and one half crates of Appleton Estate of Jamaica Rum. It was good.

When I met him, he was into his fifth crate of rum and knee deep in seawater. The rum was in a coconut which had two holes in the top. One was for drinking and the other ventilation. He funnel rum into the coconut and when it mixed with the coconut milk it became a further form of heaven. Further more than the reefs of Key West where you can see one of the world's eyes. It is the blue one, a blue so pure that it makes you want to look into it forever, and further, and further.

Heaven on earth is a problem, because heaven takes from the earth.

C'est la vie.

So this man waved at us with huge gestures and magnificently juggled that coconut rum bomb. It would later knock me out. He was glad to see people. Either: Americans at that. Or; Even if it was Americans.

C'est la vie.

Ya never know.
We were lost and had stumbled upon the magic man. He had so much rum, it would astound those who had no funnybone. And he had enough left that he let us drink a lot of it without missing our company. Whatever that was worth. Any further and he might have cried in the midst of the final drunk.

Eso si que es.

So I was talking to him and he's spent so much time thinking that he only has opinions. I'm drinking coconut rum bombs and listening. I laugh when I'm really drunk, which happens.

We were talking and he says something that put everything into perspective. It was this: “Life is fiction.” I forgot what I was talking about when he said that.

That was the way it felt on the boat surrounded by nothing but waves. That's what it is now that I'm standing here in the middle of the largest ocean on earth. Our lives are fiction. They are fiction when we're living normally. Or, when we are doing the most freakish/brutish things we can imagine. They are fiction against the galaxy which is fiction against the universe.

Which, by the way, Earth scientists have decided that universal time may be more important than universal gravity. Humans have to be able to see time and gravity as it is meant to be seen. Which they cannot do. Thus, they cannot see everything. Which explains why matter matters in our minds.

Hell, why not just fish? Spearfishing or catching suckers in a creek.

I already could see that when I left this place, I would have a lot to think about.

That's a good thing about fishing. You are thinking somehow or another. Living should be done with the urgency of spearfishing and the recollecting of canepole fishing. That's a simple code to live by. If you make it simple.

This man was saying all these things that made the fireworks in my head go off. And I was only thinking of my way of thinking about how he said it. It takes a while for waves and wavelengths to overlap.

Ideally, it's like King said; “The arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” I'd add, “But, don't let assumptions get the best of you.”

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Heaven at the End of a Pen

All godly love on full display. Breaking our faces in the Viking melee. Then Richard Cory dispensed medicines to himself and the words of the mind stopped. He dropped into the grass and rolled himself up for any passing Cyclops.

A Cyclops did pass, it was ol’ James Joyce clad in eye patch and he was already smoking away on his pipe at ten in the morn. He passed Richard at the same time he always did. He spoke: “Richard don’t kill yourself today my dear friend.”

“Someone will be by to smoke me soon. I will be out of the way shortly.”

And Mr. Joyce kept a-strolling finishing the rest of their conversation in his mind. It was always the same when the ink dried. “Thanks a million Richard. You were always a charming man and friend.”

He looked to his left and saw two twins. They were old. Just like the pictures said they would be. There were a thousand pictures. The twins were locked in heated discussion. In eardrums it sounded like this:

“Where you are born has no bearing on the kind of writer you will be.”

“I disagree. I find testicular fortitude is more apparent among the likes of Herman Melville.”

“I vaguely knew Herman. Certainly of him. His fortitude existed only in the sense that he kept writing in his time. If he would write now he could be the belle of the ball. What did you think about when you wrote Jailbird?”

“I decided to think about not having any testicular fortitude.”

“You thought you were old. Didn’t you?”

“I thought that for a long time.”

When James quickened his gait he could have predicted when and for how long he would, instead, he listened for the call of a bird. His apprehension in longing was broken by a bird strumming a guitar and singing.

Broken rhythm, it came out like this: “Ezra Pound… Maya Angelou… Sat in Captain Falcon’s tower….. Calypso singers live and learn and I’m jilted holding flowers.”

He always had it right, the beginning is important, everything else is a flight of fancy. James thoughts were drowned out by the birdsong.

He continued his walk into the wild-west part of town. He saw a man with a big mustache talking to a donkey by the livery. James said this:

“Zarathustra! You’re merely wasting your time, he doesn’t need you.”

To which Zarathustra responded: “Consider the lilies of the field. They don’t need me. Yet I stand before you.”

James waved and kept walking. He stopped by a store stocked with all manner of spirits from all manner of eras. He looked unto the laudanum and next to it the absinth. The proprietor stepped out from the back and said: “Welcome back to Vision in a Dream James. What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to try some of this Will Shakespeare strand.”

“Hitting the reefer heavy I see.”

“Well it’s heaven, I won’t write anything ever again, so I can do to myself as I please.”

“I pass not judgment. How much can I put you down for?”

“I’ll take this entire jar.”

“Alright James. I hope you enjoy.” He then walked over to his writing pad and added James’ latest purchase to his tab.

In heaven you never pay your tab. In heaven you never have to write again. In heaven it feels like heaven.

James stuffed the mason jar in his coat pocket and made his way out to the rocks by the shore of the sea. He looked up and down the beach. In the distance a solitary figure sat staring out at the endless bounding waves. James began to walk toward the figure.

He tapped his pipe and stuffed some of the Will Shakes into it. He sat by the dark haired figure who never broke his gaze of the sea even when James asked:

“You dreaming?”

“Of swimming?”

“You never will.”

“I only care to dream.”

“This stuff takes my dreams away.”

“Even in heaven?”

“Et tu heaven.”

“I thought heaven would be as it existed in my mind.”

“You looked for those images stored deep in there. That’s more than most dream of accidentally.” James reassured.

Silence except for the ocean.

Then Ti Jean said:

“The ocean splashes me with salt water. I taste it and I taste the death of the planet as a gorgeous living organism. It will turn into a sepulcher soon and the scent will fumigate heaven.”

“If the world ends in the name of saving a dime has anything changed? If our descendants destroy everything the earth started will they be any different than our ancestors? I say ‘No’.”

“That doesn’t relieve the pain of watching it happen.”

“If there was no pain in the heavens then god wouldn’t have been inspired enough to create the worlds.”

“It’s something I cannot stand to witness.”

“I believe it was you who said: Accept loss forever.”

“I didn’t realize how much I believed what I wrote at the time. It seemed I had found heaven in that and I was way off the mark. Now I wish I could die and go back to Big Sur even.”

“You must refresh my memory.”

“It doesn’t matter. Heaven is filled with people much smarter than you facilitating your continuation of learning.”

“You best go far in the world lest you be left behind in heaven.”

“I was hoping to lose everything I learned on earth. That was the loss I was hoping to accept.”

“If that was the case what would you’ve done for all the people who died after you.”

“Given them the keys to the car. The kids were disappointed by my stories often. I was stretching yet I only did what I knew. And I only knew the truth.”

“You came closer than any have since Homer. Even he acknowledged that when he finished everything you wrote.”

“I didn’t know Homer could see in heaven.”

“You can do anything in heaven at the end of a pen.”

Friday, June 20, 2008


Does poetry matter?
Not really.

Except to the self.
Except to the self.
Except to the self.
And the few who do.
But mostly to the self.

The self is the head of stare.
Stairs always lead up,
Always flow down.
Occupied by eagles
Clad in the makeup of a clown.

Skip to the loo my darling.

Can you hear me over this?

How about this?

I really do like this country.
Despite all my claims to the contrary.

I like being able to pee off of my front or back porch.

I like being able to say “Fuck you” or “Fuck off” to anybody,
At anytime,
For no reason.
No fucking reason.

“The goddamned plane has crashed into the mountain!” said Lebowski.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

You Fool

Best kick and kill
Before the bull’s have their fill.
Best eat the berries
Of the bushes getting heavy.

Saw two baby birds today,
Blind, unformed, in the nest.
One egg, never born.
The mother flew away when I lit near.

Breaking cracking lasting fasting,
See the picture clear
Hank Williams singing cold, cold, heart.
Sez boys don’t ramble.

Different song.

Same message.

Who holds the message?
The message holder does.
You fool.

Hark, the angels fart.
Hark, the meadowlark sparks.
Hark, the infinite space bleeds blows riots then quarks.
Hark, the angels sing.
From their buttocks.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

God's Marshmallows

We are all alone forever.
So thank god there’s a god,
Every time I see him,
I pinch him,
Just to see if he’s dreaming.
So if one day the world turns upside down,
Just know,
God musta been dreaming.

Peak of mental powers does come.
It’s all downhill after that.
Can you survive it without -------- ------- it if?

Who's to say god doesn't smile instead of decide?
We can be marshmallows, there you go.
Like a pyramid tapering out towards heaven.

An afterthought,
from the afterbirth,
of nothing?

No, someone was dreaming.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

How Coach Pulled My Tooth

“Fire cracker! Fire cracker! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Boy’s got the muscle! Girl’s got the pretty legs!”
So sang coach.

We kids all laughed. Coach said something that we couldn’t hear because we were laughing so hard. Then he got us back on the tail of attention by shouting:
“Hip, hip…”
“Hooray!” We answered back.
“Hip, hip…”
“Hooray!” We answered again.
“Hip! Hip!”
“Alright... give me two laps!”
“Aww coach...”

But we were off around the track. Some slower to start than others. My friends and I amongst the slower ones to run. With us were the fastest kids who only stopped to take their shoes off before leaving us in the dust.

I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast at all. Putting me at about the middle of my class. Some days I took my shoes off, today I didn’t. Which meant that tomorrow I wouldn’t have stone bruises on the bottom of my heel. But I watched in envious admiration as the speed demons slapped their bare feet on the clay and gravel of the first curve.

Then everyone sped down a straightaway shaded by oak trees and long leaf pines. Each bare foot took another beating on the gnarly roots rising from a ground beaten down by thousands of runners over the course of an amount of years that I had yet to consider considering.

We beat our path on around the second curve, which was marked by three tires half buried in the ground. A moral decision we had to make every day was whether or not to cut the track here. I was pondering that as I came upon the first caved in tire, I leapt over it and kept going.

After we rounded the next two tires we ran another straightaway, also shaded by oak trees. This round of dirt path provided a halfway mark from which to wish you were finished. I looked to the right at an old house behind the school. It looked like an old man was on the porch with a basket of corn beside him.

As the path track merged from dirt to grass the steps grew lighter. Then we
rounded the third curve and were in full sunlight. No respite from the Florida heat.

We finally made the fourth and final turn in the full sun. I tried to pace myself, but, since I didn’t really know what pacing myself meant, I just ran full-bore. Firecrackers boom, boom, boomed in my calves and my side. I ran on, slowly losing ground. Going from being in the front middle to the middle middle to the lastly middle.

Second lap, here it went. On the second curve I let a smokescreen go that lasted all the way to the third curve. Luckily I was an actor in a silent movie and didn’t embarrass myself in front of a girl I had a crush on. I was running beside her and we were talking. I kept a straight face.

Coach was leaned forward with his stopwatch in hand. He called everyone’s time loud enough that we could hear it even if we weren’t listening. We sat on two benches in the order we finished. The fast kids on the front, I on the second and several on their feet waiting for coach to come by.



Then it was off to one of the baseball diamonds. I stood in between first and second base. As the third shortstop on the team. Coach didn’t care much what we did as long as we tried to pick up the ball when it came near us.

I was waiting and watching with my hands on my knees. I was also spitting blood that came out of a loose tooth’s widening hole. Coach was sitting on a picnic bench and watched me playing with my tooth.

“Come ‘ere son.”
I walked over to him.
“What’s bothering you?”
“Let me see.” He pointed at my mouth.
I opened it and he said: “That’s what I thought. Hold on now.”

He reached into my mouth, pinched that tooth and yanked it out. He handed it to me. An impressive front incisor. The roots of my teeth were like pine roots. When pulled on they were prone to popping and causing a tooth to fly out of my mouth
at dangerous speeds.

“Now you tell my son what I did next time you see him.” His son was my dentist. “Go get you some water and some tissue.”

So I walked around to the outside water fountain and drank on the cool water. Spitting horrific amounts of blood into the basin. Then I went in to the bathroom and stuffed paper towels into the new gap.

I walked back to the field still spitting blood. A few of the older kids were worried about my spitting blood, thinking something was terribly wrong they told coach.

He answered them with:
“Back to the game boys and girls.”
We played on.

Friday, June 13, 2008

On Tim Russert

Rest in peace to the father and son who helped to bring my father and myself together in these dark and troubling times.

In him we lose another representative to the possibilities of the American Dream.

A bastion of journalistic excellence.

A fully formed man replete with the nobilities afforded by the last century.

Lest we forget.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Hummingbird King

Once in recent memory a beautiful ruby throated hummingbird was sipping at a feeder lovingly brimmed with sugar and water. The hummingbird fancied itself the most content of the hummingbirds and decided in the month of May that he should crown himself King of the Happy Creatures. His kingdom included the happiest subjects through out the world.

The Hummingbird King’s first act as his majesty entailed an investigation of the kingdom. In this undertaking, the Hummingbird King found that he was the most popular ruler that ever lived.

First he flew over two lovers playing Scrabble on their front porch. He saw them lean over the game and kiss. His subjects were happy.

Then he flew a ways and came upon a young man named Jason who was hiking a part of the Appalachian Mountains. He was singing to amuse himself and also to give God some relief from the weariness ensnaring the era. His song began:

“Weeelll, a Scotsman clad in kilt,
left the bar one evening fair.
And one could tell by how he walked,
that he’d drunk more than his share…”

His majesty continued his triumphant flight through time zones immeasurable until he came upon a morning dawning. The place in which he stopped was rife the vines bloomed. He flittered by one of the flowers for a scent of his kingdom and found the flower resting with petals closed.

At this he sighed. As he made to fly away and his shadow exposed the flower to the fresh welcome sun, it opened! A moth with fuzzy antennae flapped its rested wings anew. As the moth glided away, free from the flower prison, the Hummingbird King called:

“Rest easy my Subject! Your king has freed you!”

But the moth was long gone and even the most sensitive hairs on his antennae didn’t detect the vibrations of the king.

The Hummingbird King flew into a cave and saw downtrodden naked albino fish. He pooped in their cave water and said:

“Feast upon my subject, my subjects!”

And didn’t stick around to see if his joke or the feast brought them into his kingdom. He felt certain that they acquiesced one way or another.

The King flew until the land ended at the foot of an ocean vaster by far than any single thing he had ever seen. He listened to the waves roar and tear into the beach. He tried to detect a hint of emotion which he could call upon. But the ocean spoke only in circles and cycles and life and death.

The king fluttered fore and aft against the sea wind in consternation. Finally he flew into the opening of a bottlebrush bloom, his beak and tongue sipped at the nectar.


He decided that his subjects were locked on strings of far islands all wishing for a visit from his majesty.

The king ate three depressed mosquitoes and set out in flight across the ocean. He flew as strongly as his heart would pound. Slowly the licking waves salted him more and more as his path dipped toward the ever changing surface.

He looked into the vast blue for sign of his subjects and saw only a
jellyfish. Devoid of emotion, the jellyfish seemed to have no allegiances nor alliances. It lived only within the ocean. Flowing with the tide, against the tide.

The Hummingbird King flew on with all his heart before a cresting wave devoured him.

Friday, April 4, 2008

The unspeakable visions of the individual

Evil titular devices appear in great succession on the horizon.
One after another, sometimes six abreast as the Romans,
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes muddled together in one dark shape.
All the same, all in line.

It was not their distant similarity to one another,
nor, was it their disheveled nazi march.
It was neither the enlightened horizon at their feet,
nor, was it my own fear gripping my ribs and breaking them.

There exist other states of mind to view them.
Often as not,
they appear joyous as opposed to evil.
Often as a baby is born,
they kill time.
Often as angels get wings,
they blow air from their nostrils counter to butterfly flapping wings.

Once I witnessed a tear.
Once I was a tear.
Twice were I eyes.
Thrice I achieved sun brilliance on my own terms.
I haved lived one thousand times,
and not died.
Only the above seven were memorable.

I am old crazy bespoken have not on turnip leaves.

They march on.
Not lockstep.
Not not.

Hush the seas.
High and low tides of the madman brain.
Only in the moment.
Only hell god shit on us all madman of the same cloth moth.

Explode in heart
Break on the great
Savor the saviors

Saints watch us from their heaven.
God from his.
Devil watches from his heaven.
Stars peer all around from and in their heaven.
Moon cracks a smile from its heaven.
Jesus hides Jesus trees and eats Jesus fruits in his heaven.
I kick the edges of my heaven and it expands dented on the outside.

My saint god devil star moon jesus fruit falls off the tree.
No Newton beneath.

I'm trying to tell you the goddamned truth,
Story of the world old, long.
Could live all my life and talk awake, asleep, eating, smoking.
The story would not end.

Friday, January 18, 2008

The Ballad of the Bhudda, Latter Years

Therewith sat the silent.

Angelic and demonic,
Holy and hellish,
Suffering no liars,
Paying no heed to the unworthy.

And those lesser,
Encompassed by hedonist excess,
Sadist wherewithal,
Accusers accepting no responsibility,
Workers seeking excuse,
Thinkers lacking capacity,
Acclaimed deeming themselves,
Fictionists claiming truth,
Truth claiming fiction,
Spoken word accusing listener,
Speaker listening to never,
Listener attaching to tongue,
Seekers looking elsewhere,
Elsewhere faking where,
Where being there,
There becoming here,
Supernova actualizing sun.

Et tu the reverse?

No answer to the call.

Lifeless dragged the wretched limbs and bodies,
Bringing toward a place where someone knew,
And on sight threw leprous minds in bow.

Self-administered solace,
For self-inflicted incisions,
Into the crevices of battered soul and mind,
“I was always right.” thinks them,
And onto the new Zion they clambered.

The terrain treacherous as well as forgiving,
And in tow the ones who needed not the backs of others,
These pilgrims sauntered on,
Left behind are those that fell behind,
Forgotten are those who asked for help,
For the parasitic lesser seek not to support.

Onward mountain ranges,
River valleys,
Thick forest,
Thin forest,
Calm road,
Roughshod road,
Through quagmire,
Onto sand,
‘til if a thousand tongues
Gnashed together clearly,
In years it would take a thousand score
Times a thousand score,
To name each environment passed.

At times water scarce,
Comfort laughable,
Though nothing achieved.

For once the trip seemed ended,
And their tired, poor, amassed at the foot of the way,
Sat waiting for an answer,
A sermon from the mount,
A clue to use against the inner regions of the indecipherable,
Something more than what they considered lesser.



“Speak!” louder,
And still nothing.

The lesser sure that they were owed something,
Certain that his silence was really indolence and disrespect,
All cried in unison, “Speak ye bastard!”


Their echo shouted back at them,
But not a word from he that was being demanded of.

Reversal was always the movement,
Not contrary to anything assigned,
But on a line that was never slave to the definition of “line.”

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Everyday for...

It’s… angel spectacular,
Anything worth denying passed before your eyes,
Before the word left the coup,
You’ve replaced your vocabulary to encompass you’s.
I’m military,
Why aren’t you?

Hell on!
Fight? Yes!
There’s something worth something underneath your dress,
Hold on,
Until you hone it down,
Laugh trap,
Smoke grass,
Underneath your nightgown.
I’m military,
Why aren’t you?

Is overrated,
Let’s see,
What’s been dated?
Quote the bible,
Drive around in cars,

I’m military why aren’t you?

I’m military,
Let me guess,
You’re looking down the side of you dress?

It’s, it’s… holy amazing,
Gotta get me one of them,
Don’t be late again,
Better to wait away the waiting time,
Than to do what you want,
What’s on your mind?