We’re guarded by lunatics.
They leave our doors open,
sometimes forgetting to lock us in,
keep us down for the night,
and we slip out into their
employment offices, their brothels,
liquor stores and churches,
and find ourselves right back again,
back in the asylum.
They keep us sedated with Hope,
doped up on Promises
- we’ll never make it –
but we hope we’ll at least see
the shore before we drown in the ocean.
In the yard we converse over flowers
with other inmates, people who’ve seen
the world how we see it, felt the
way that we’ve felt,
and despair,
longing for something unusual.
It never comes.
No rest for the wicked that’s why they’re in shape.
Another cup of coffee.
Another cigarette.
One step closer to placation
- servility –
or two steps back toward liberation.
The bars get closer.
Voices get louder, more demanding.
Another sip.
Another smoke.
Captors and captives both drink from the
same bottle but digest it differently.
Holidays,
bake sales,
children,
marriage -
all terrorists.
One of us got out of here.
Down the cell-block from me.
Was a good guy but eventually gave in,
the poverty of unsolicited potential got to be too much for him.
He was broke and the government
wasn’t trying to fix him.
So he played it off.
Forsook his individuality in practice and actuality.
Became one of them -
neutral,
domesticated.
Others played it off well too but always ended up back
here – eventually they opened their mouth.
But I’m sure he’s still out there,
impatient,
waiting for it to be Friday.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Where the Gods are Buried
They’re buried in my backyard.
Dragged to their grave in black bags of
Thought, zipped up with Mind.
Where the gods are buried,
with their spouses too,
lover and loved ones stare
unwillingly at a desert sky,
at a boat that travels their too.
Some of them I chopped into pieces.
Others I ate their flesh.
Others I mutilated their dead bodies
and carved meanings from their feet.
One I burnt in the fire of passion and
scattered the ashes over the ocean.
Another I sliced into 14 parts and
scattered unto the ends of the earth.
I’ve been compassionate.
Some of them I tortured before I gave
in to murdering them.
What possessed me to do these things?
Not the devils. They have no power.
Something far greater possessed me to
do so. Something I will never reveal.
Dragged to their grave in black bags of
Thought, zipped up with Mind.
Where the gods are buried,
with their spouses too,
lover and loved ones stare
unwillingly at a desert sky,
at a boat that travels their too.
Some of them I chopped into pieces.
Others I ate their flesh.
Others I mutilated their dead bodies
and carved meanings from their feet.
One I burnt in the fire of passion and
scattered the ashes over the ocean.
Another I sliced into 14 parts and
scattered unto the ends of the earth.
I’ve been compassionate.
Some of them I tortured before I gave
in to murdering them.
What possessed me to do these things?
Not the devils. They have no power.
Something far greater possessed me to
do so. Something I will never reveal.
Diemend
But when he looked in a mirror his eyes were blue.
Sunlight creeps along the ground like a banal scavenger
The moon in her time crawls down intrepid walls like
some hungry wall-scaling cannibal
It wasn't obvious till she looked back and the
screen was gone, exposing her to the faithless
black wind; the light on the upper right side of the
window was slowly fading with her hands turning
gray and the light from the lower left side of the
window shined like a bright movement, turning every
cell in her body to stop
Two slats of wood covered his face in the sound of an X.
He walked the street his right hand out splashing the air
Women and pregnant men, rotting from years of contemplation,
lined the streets crucified on every telephone pole;
dogs and cats and feathers nailed to the glans of every
palm-tree; piles of bones and fire edit the sidewalk
A dog aimlessly roams hacking and coughing up metal designs of
seditious intricacy
Cerberus got lost and wandered from Hell and wanders the pages of history
HE whistled and Anpu came running barking door-ways for Ra
The rain drops up here – concrete and front lawns and mailboxes belay us for clouds -
up to our knees in the muck of Tlaloc
So he reminisced on how full moon nights invisible
hands played the leaves like drums
Then she got up and walked out the door of her heart
Teardrops that gather in the cavity of your shoulders and turn to ice....
from this ice in 6 wks a fish grows and 6 weeks after that it
hatches from the ice....the nest's eyes glow and are terminated....fallen
on the ground their body quickly decomposes....decomposes into a
pile of dried leaves, ripped trash bags, and unfinished letters then swept up
in the end
Sunlight creeps along the ground like a banal scavenger
The moon in her time crawls down intrepid walls like
some hungry wall-scaling cannibal
It wasn't obvious till she looked back and the
screen was gone, exposing her to the faithless
black wind; the light on the upper right side of the
window was slowly fading with her hands turning
gray and the light from the lower left side of the
window shined like a bright movement, turning every
cell in her body to stop
Two slats of wood covered his face in the sound of an X.
He walked the street his right hand out splashing the air
Women and pregnant men, rotting from years of contemplation,
lined the streets crucified on every telephone pole;
dogs and cats and feathers nailed to the glans of every
palm-tree; piles of bones and fire edit the sidewalk
A dog aimlessly roams hacking and coughing up metal designs of
seditious intricacy
Cerberus got lost and wandered from Hell and wanders the pages of history
HE whistled and Anpu came running barking door-ways for Ra
The rain drops up here – concrete and front lawns and mailboxes belay us for clouds -
up to our knees in the muck of Tlaloc
So he reminisced on how full moon nights invisible
hands played the leaves like drums
Then she got up and walked out the door of her heart
Teardrops that gather in the cavity of your shoulders and turn to ice....
from this ice in 6 wks a fish grows and 6 weeks after that it
hatches from the ice....the nest's eyes glow and are terminated....fallen
on the ground their body quickly decomposes....decomposes into a
pile of dried leaves, ripped trash bags, and unfinished letters then swept up
in the end
Untitled Number Zero
I have rebelled against Time.
The last second.
The last minute.
I have written the last message.
The last flower has wilted and the Anjels wear camouflage.
The last libation is poured to the earth and God is dead.
I have defeated space and taken position with my
sniper-rifle between the letters of words in small print.
The last needle injects it’s cure into the last vein
and the eyes of the last cloud roll to the back of it’s head.
The last drop of the last bottle feels like the first time at last.
A melody reaches over the hills and pulls in the sea.
A dead mother left out to dry on the concrete screams at me.
I’ve seen the only revolution that succeeded and it had no name,
no objective,
no revolutionaries.
I.
I.
I.
I’ve seen….
I’ve seen fire sleepwalk across cities and dream of burning houses.
I’ve seen ice-crystals form on children’s eyes and stuffed animals
feed on human flesh.
I’ve seen the last hand pick up a handful of dust.
Throw it in the wind.
And somewhere it land as a boulder,
or a woman’s dress used as a flag,
or a knife through an invisible chest,
or all of these or you,
in another body another language.
The last lovers died a long time ago so the Night no longer
has to conceal anything.
The last vision of an ecstatic Race – a beautiful whore with legs open,
black blindfold on – priests walked over and closed the curtain.
The last of the last the first of the first the gate had already
been locked when they got there, dropping to their ass
on the ground drawing figures in the sand.
From the rubble of sky-scrappers vines & tendrils grow that chase
you in your sleep, even me in my form of a hidden lake.
How would you end this without holding up or putting down the pen?
The Earth in it’s last breath yells out LAST CALL and the drunken flies
order another drink.
The last second.
The last minute.
I have written the last message.
The last flower has wilted and the Anjels wear camouflage.
The last libation is poured to the earth and God is dead.
I have defeated space and taken position with my
sniper-rifle between the letters of words in small print.
The last needle injects it’s cure into the last vein
and the eyes of the last cloud roll to the back of it’s head.
The last drop of the last bottle feels like the first time at last.
A melody reaches over the hills and pulls in the sea.
A dead mother left out to dry on the concrete screams at me.
I’ve seen the only revolution that succeeded and it had no name,
no objective,
no revolutionaries.
I.
I.
I.
I’ve seen….
I’ve seen fire sleepwalk across cities and dream of burning houses.
I’ve seen ice-crystals form on children’s eyes and stuffed animals
feed on human flesh.
I’ve seen the last hand pick up a handful of dust.
Throw it in the wind.
And somewhere it land as a boulder,
or a woman’s dress used as a flag,
or a knife through an invisible chest,
or all of these or you,
in another body another language.
The last lovers died a long time ago so the Night no longer
has to conceal anything.
The last vision of an ecstatic Race – a beautiful whore with legs open,
black blindfold on – priests walked over and closed the curtain.
The last of the last the first of the first the gate had already
been locked when they got there, dropping to their ass
on the ground drawing figures in the sand.
From the rubble of sky-scrappers vines & tendrils grow that chase
you in your sleep, even me in my form of a hidden lake.
How would you end this without holding up or putting down the pen?
The Earth in it’s last breath yells out LAST CALL and the drunken flies
order another drink.
Blind Witnesses
You see a woman walking the streets barefoot.
Poor girl was starving.
Sold her shoes to put a little something in her pipe.
You’ve spent all your money on inebriants
the effects of which have all but washed away
by now and you regret it and will probably
do it again.
What hasn’t killed us made us foolish but
it’s true the saying ‘the only lessons learned
are those in blood’.
A hooker you recognize comes back with a gentleman
she asked to walk her home, over hearing her say as
she walks up the steps “The front door might be locked,
we might have to get in through the back,” shaking
what ass she’s got as she climbs to the gate.
A shrouded Downtown in the distance.
Sky-lights scribble on the night clouds searching
looking for Allah where are you where are you unable
to find Him.
Eventually they cut the lights and you go back to staring
at the people loitering in the streets, cars waiting to take
or give back lives, a drunk that wobbles home and
struggles with the door, trash strewn along the gutter from
here looking like people at a crowded beach, the black
asphalt a sea between you and tomorrow.
Then as always here comes the police helicopter choppin’
around with its sky-light shining from the heavens down
searching for you if not someone always just a block away
from here.
Notice the shadow moving on a roof and the sound of breaking
glass as the towers marking our metropolis cover their heads
with fog for ski-masks.
Your cheap room in a cheap life is filthy no matter how clean
it is and I keep looking back at this prostitute deposited down
the street.
A police car with a scorch-mark on it’s top rolls around the
corner and towards her end and I think ‘this bitch better bounce.’
And since you squashed one earlier you think of how you were told
even roaches have Buddha-nature and the whore finds another
trick to pull out the hat while a silhouette on a balcony lights another smoke.
The building’s hired security guards for all the drunks
and bandits in the stairwell one of whom taught you how
to roll the perfect joint.
It’s things like that help you to survive.
Another burst of activity as I see thieves bust out of
someone’s room a building down from me scattering
through the hallway one up the fire-escape,
the victim running out but too late.
A woman, regal but sociable, is walked to her door by
her lover who holds and kisses her she merging and kissing
him back, lips parting exchange words like gifts and
rehearsed yet painstakingly separate, as if glued together
an invisible hand gently parting them their fingers the last to
let go.
Waving he leaves as she closes the door waving back,
the evening and all it’s moorings moving onward.
Poor girl was starving.
Sold her shoes to put a little something in her pipe.
You’ve spent all your money on inebriants
the effects of which have all but washed away
by now and you regret it and will probably
do it again.
What hasn’t killed us made us foolish but
it’s true the saying ‘the only lessons learned
are those in blood’.
A hooker you recognize comes back with a gentleman
she asked to walk her home, over hearing her say as
she walks up the steps “The front door might be locked,
we might have to get in through the back,” shaking
what ass she’s got as she climbs to the gate.
A shrouded Downtown in the distance.
Sky-lights scribble on the night clouds searching
looking for Allah where are you where are you unable
to find Him.
Eventually they cut the lights and you go back to staring
at the people loitering in the streets, cars waiting to take
or give back lives, a drunk that wobbles home and
struggles with the door, trash strewn along the gutter from
here looking like people at a crowded beach, the black
asphalt a sea between you and tomorrow.
Then as always here comes the police helicopter choppin’
around with its sky-light shining from the heavens down
searching for you if not someone always just a block away
from here.
Notice the shadow moving on a roof and the sound of breaking
glass as the towers marking our metropolis cover their heads
with fog for ski-masks.
Your cheap room in a cheap life is filthy no matter how clean
it is and I keep looking back at this prostitute deposited down
the street.
A police car with a scorch-mark on it’s top rolls around the
corner and towards her end and I think ‘this bitch better bounce.’
And since you squashed one earlier you think of how you were told
even roaches have Buddha-nature and the whore finds another
trick to pull out the hat while a silhouette on a balcony lights another smoke.
The building’s hired security guards for all the drunks
and bandits in the stairwell one of whom taught you how
to roll the perfect joint.
It’s things like that help you to survive.
Another burst of activity as I see thieves bust out of
someone’s room a building down from me scattering
through the hallway one up the fire-escape,
the victim running out but too late.
A woman, regal but sociable, is walked to her door by
her lover who holds and kisses her she merging and kissing
him back, lips parting exchange words like gifts and
rehearsed yet painstakingly separate, as if glued together
an invisible hand gently parting them their fingers the last to
let go.
Waving he leaves as she closes the door waving back,
the evening and all it’s moorings moving onward.
Midnite
A police helicopter circles above.
An old man takes a young
man into his room and locks
the door.
I lay in bed thinking of
an ex-lover, how the brush
of my hand against her ass
was magical enough to
rebuild a bridge she'd burned,
torches in each hand.
The helicopter leaves.
They either found who
they were looking for
or the culprits got away
and I just heard laughter
in the hallway.
Peace.
The only noise now is a
drain from someone washing
away their sins.
An old man takes a young
man into his room and locks
the door.
I lay in bed thinking of
an ex-lover, how the brush
of my hand against her ass
was magical enough to
rebuild a bridge she'd burned,
torches in each hand.
The helicopter leaves.
They either found who
they were looking for
or the culprits got away
and I just heard laughter
in the hallway.
Peace.
The only noise now is a
drain from someone washing
away their sins.
Futon
A roach crawls along the
lip of your paper cup.
Your vision catches it and
yelling you call it a "Bastard!"
and knock it off of there,
maybe try to kill it,
wash off the sides to
disintegrate it's footprints
and refill the cup with wine.
A small forest of pine-trees
is growing out the drain
of your kitchen sink.
Peek out your window:
it's cold; the Seasons
changing, switching it's wardrobe
behind a curtain of clouds &
temperature before coming out for
the next act.
Inside, you cant see the
ceiling for the fog.
The Sun's nothing to say of
you - thinks you're a hard working
productive citizen - but the Moon's
never seen you sober.
Another roach makes its appearance
and you smash it.
There's pictures of your family
members somewhere but they're
not your family anyway.
lip of your paper cup.
Your vision catches it and
yelling you call it a "Bastard!"
and knock it off of there,
maybe try to kill it,
wash off the sides to
disintegrate it's footprints
and refill the cup with wine.
A small forest of pine-trees
is growing out the drain
of your kitchen sink.
Peek out your window:
it's cold; the Seasons
changing, switching it's wardrobe
behind a curtain of clouds &
temperature before coming out for
the next act.
Inside, you cant see the
ceiling for the fog.
The Sun's nothing to say of
you - thinks you're a hard working
productive citizen - but the Moon's
never seen you sober.
Another roach makes its appearance
and you smash it.
There's pictures of your family
members somewhere but they're
not your family anyway.
The Split Conspiracy
Naked men with tattoos of dog collars ran on
all fours down the street, panting as they went,
sniffing up screaming women’s skirts.
One ran into a park and climbed a tree then
hooted like a monkey down at the starring drunks,
gamblers and hand-held children.
Two female Bondage/Discipline Officers quickly
appeared on the scene, jumping out of their black & silver
police car wearing their black latex uniforms and
chased one of them down the afternoon street who’d
refused to stop when commanded to, shooting him
with a fur bullet from a hot pink pistol that got him in the back,
dropping him into an opiate state.
The pale corpse of a 9 year old Mexican boy was
dragging a giant black Cross down the avenue,
it’s weight digging a trail in the concrete like it was soil.
Behind him,
a small procession of white clouds with red veins followed,
sick humming emitting from their presence,
rabid dementia overcoming anyone around.
In a library a man put a book back on a shelf then walked
away as the patrons eyes all turned to mist.
The light was giving hand-jobs to elementary students
returning home from school.
I sat on the edge of a bed in a room,
starring at the floor arms resting on my legs,
within my vision speck-like meteorites appeared out
of the sky of floating dust particles, crashing into my skin leaving craters.
Whores recited the Qu’ran and shined brighter than 10,000 suns.
People walking with grocery bags dropped them in horror
at finding their items replaced with serpents.
Clothes ripped from her body an exiled valkyrie hung naked
from a tree by her neck, chain and iron collar her noose,
the pupils of her eyes minus signs slowly blinking grazing
the heavens then the earth,
earth then heavens,
soles of her feet planted against the tree for support her
hands between her legs fingers paddling in her wet pussy,
men masturbating standing around the bonfire of her moans,
hands reaching up caressing her ex-divine nipples,
her holiest of unholy bodies, tongues only reaching as far
as the knees, perfect skin a special sin to the flesh,
entranced till they heard themselves cum sperm dropping to the foot
of the tree like an offering, an original sacrifice.
A little Black girl walked to a busy street corner and single-mindedly
getting to her knees committed seppuku: pulling a short sword from
her little backpack with the cartoon character on it, people starring
but no one stopping her, thrusting the blade into the left side of her belly
and dragging it around to the right, bleeding then withdrawing
the blade and wiping it off with a small napkin from her lunch pail,
placing the sword on top of it, thus professed the blood and intestines
running down her legs to the concrete, small lake of gore
at her knees, eyes losing their light, short peel of lightning.
all fours down the street, panting as they went,
sniffing up screaming women’s skirts.
One ran into a park and climbed a tree then
hooted like a monkey down at the starring drunks,
gamblers and hand-held children.
Two female Bondage/Discipline Officers quickly
appeared on the scene, jumping out of their black & silver
police car wearing their black latex uniforms and
chased one of them down the afternoon street who’d
refused to stop when commanded to, shooting him
with a fur bullet from a hot pink pistol that got him in the back,
dropping him into an opiate state.
The pale corpse of a 9 year old Mexican boy was
dragging a giant black Cross down the avenue,
it’s weight digging a trail in the concrete like it was soil.
Behind him,
a small procession of white clouds with red veins followed,
sick humming emitting from their presence,
rabid dementia overcoming anyone around.
In a library a man put a book back on a shelf then walked
away as the patrons eyes all turned to mist.
The light was giving hand-jobs to elementary students
returning home from school.
I sat on the edge of a bed in a room,
starring at the floor arms resting on my legs,
within my vision speck-like meteorites appeared out
of the sky of floating dust particles, crashing into my skin leaving craters.
Whores recited the Qu’ran and shined brighter than 10,000 suns.
People walking with grocery bags dropped them in horror
at finding their items replaced with serpents.
Clothes ripped from her body an exiled valkyrie hung naked
from a tree by her neck, chain and iron collar her noose,
the pupils of her eyes minus signs slowly blinking grazing
the heavens then the earth,
earth then heavens,
soles of her feet planted against the tree for support her
hands between her legs fingers paddling in her wet pussy,
men masturbating standing around the bonfire of her moans,
hands reaching up caressing her ex-divine nipples,
her holiest of unholy bodies, tongues only reaching as far
as the knees, perfect skin a special sin to the flesh,
entranced till they heard themselves cum sperm dropping to the foot
of the tree like an offering, an original sacrifice.
A little Black girl walked to a busy street corner and single-mindedly
getting to her knees committed seppuku: pulling a short sword from
her little backpack with the cartoon character on it, people starring
but no one stopping her, thrusting the blade into the left side of her belly
and dragging it around to the right, bleeding then withdrawing
the blade and wiping it off with a small napkin from her lunch pail,
placing the sword on top of it, thus professed the blood and intestines
running down her legs to the concrete, small lake of gore
at her knees, eyes losing their light, short peel of lightning.
The Graduation of Vowels
It’s the season of visions – where hours are taken
from sunlight and given to insight.
When countless objects crawl down from the sky,
out of holes or clouds, and seep into our souls or soil.
Mysteries arm themselves with assault rifles and dig
deeper into foxholes.
Fragments of the imagination are brought together
and forced into the same room where they’ll be glued
together to make collages of new ideas.
The enemy camouflaged itself as incense smoke and
caused our vision of the world to cease – lighting all
our shadows.
Brilliant.
Outside not a leaf moves – the wind is blowing.
The windows fog as specters crowd each other blowing
dead breath on the glass.
Who graduated Vowels, made them divine language?
The foundation shakes and sky-lights dance.
A sleeping giant snores and the pen is at rest.
What other hints traffic blood to the heart?
Lines of various arches glow from the corner of your eye.
Lets skip the part about the door.
Karma can come in the form of car accidents or yellow mucus.
The navigator has lost his way and the universe pulls over,
asks for directions.
(Feel free to fill in the rest.)
from sunlight and given to insight.
When countless objects crawl down from the sky,
out of holes or clouds, and seep into our souls or soil.
Mysteries arm themselves with assault rifles and dig
deeper into foxholes.
Fragments of the imagination are brought together
and forced into the same room where they’ll be glued
together to make collages of new ideas.
The enemy camouflaged itself as incense smoke and
caused our vision of the world to cease – lighting all
our shadows.
Brilliant.
Outside not a leaf moves – the wind is blowing.
The windows fog as specters crowd each other blowing
dead breath on the glass.
Who graduated Vowels, made them divine language?
The foundation shakes and sky-lights dance.
A sleeping giant snores and the pen is at rest.
What other hints traffic blood to the heart?
Lines of various arches glow from the corner of your eye.
Lets skip the part about the door.
Karma can come in the form of car accidents or yellow mucus.
The navigator has lost his way and the universe pulls over,
asks for directions.
(Feel free to fill in the rest.)
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