Tuesday, March 31, 2015

ballad of a soldier.

it is to be naked before the world
to sacrifice itself
in war

lose your former body
and your ideas and know
that i love you.

you are a person i care about
because you are almost angelic,
even though you're
a killing machine. i like

to see you smile
and roll tobacco. in the next life

you will be a transformed country
organ in a body of
frazzled desires, chronically psychotic
mind of life.

miss lonelyhearts.


"my father was very cruel to her," she continued. "he was a portrait painter, a man of genius, but..."
he stopped listening and tried to bring his great understanding heart into action again. parents are also part of the business of dreams. my father was a russian prince, my father was a piut indian chief, my father was an australian sheep baron, my father lost all his money in wall street, my father was a portrait painter. people like mary were unable to do without such tales. they told them because they wanted to talk about something besides clothing or business or the movies, because they wanted to talk about something poetic."


violently the hope of change opens up
i swing my unhinged arms everywhere

staring up at the twilight
remembering the stars are me

i can fight
even with a sickened skeleton in my bed
at any given time

it comes and goes, crashes here, crashes there.

during the odd hours of the night
i scream

my strengths gone dormant are glittering gold, as i behave
kingly as the lion, the

alpha male
beta female
alpha male
beta female

male. dormant strengths
have to do with everything that is not
paid attention to.

everything but the light of the moon sparkle.
a swarvorski crystalline.

down below, at dawn,
mushrooms, quartz, mint: the following life
of our former sins

grow out of the dirt in
forgetfulness of them.

the rain is sweet.

Monday, March 30, 2015

hustling woman.

i floated
through the streets like a criminal or
a flower

gaining speed toward a waterfall
in the night,
without the light of the moon.

my movements are
something stealthy. they trace
that is not supposed to happen.

i could not step into
the spotlight of the street lamps.
i would turn into fire.

i could not jump in street puddles.
i would become water.

i could not follow the breeze.
air. i denied myself as a vortex, one
i appear to be,

as i did not want to sink into the earth,
unable to dig out

for a second chance at life.

breathing, i lowered my own crying head
into my hands

as if a romantic vision.

i have inhaled so much. my head hurts.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

hi, interactive idea executed.


please feel free to hit me up at this e-mail address. since blogspot does not allow commentary from anyone other than other blogspot users, and i do not host any other active social networking accounts, e-mail is the way. expect response unless you're a perverted nitwit.

permissable beings.

chirp chirp, said
the red-breasted canary in a cage-

this canary is young, an early life
not yet eaten alive by

the earth. wells
are unfamiliar so far.

i fall into wells.
who doesn't fall into wells?

surely, every phoenix
falls into wells, and pretends it doesn't happen.

there is the motivation provided by
building a bird's nest to attend to.

and the laying of eggs; many eggs.

there must be a gathering of worms; many worms
to chew.

much too much priority to pursue.
this phoenix is simply

a creature of habit
and that is everything to lose. i cannot stand

that i could make the time
to rekindle heartbreak into my life

in order to move past the potholes
in my lot.

if i picture wind chimes and butterflies, and
if i talk to dogs
then it will be okay. easy stuff. particles. hydrogen.

embroidery of gas. voila.
atmospheres. water. have

the atmosphere. it will be
something to wholeheartedly depend on-
i will know it exists.
i will not be tricked.

i will be able to get away with knowing.

i will dream of albert einstein.
i will dream of albert einstein

without feeling demoralized standing
next to him.
i will. i will.
i will.

can you accept a memory when you do not know
it happened or not? one is

presented with an ultimatum- do i
love myself, do i love myself not?

does. but also, does not.

a cocoon transformation presents itself

home, away from the wells; out of black

into pigmented flesh: {clitoris.
skin of the thigh. leg
openness. weight. movement
of muscle.} suprise, i too am human.

i'm even fond
of the downfalls of humanity.

and of course i am. for it is i, lady eve. lady,
the first mother; fertility queen.
the one
that has happened and never died.

Saturday, March 28, 2015

i'm on a plane.

there is something about my
dead friend's girlfriend, something
that i do not like. some

suspicious going on
with that broad. reasonably,

she was fed-up
with being a component
in a love triangle: herself, my dead friend,
and his former depression.

yet still, i insist we dig further. there's still
something about her. something

that needs to be analyzed.

it is said she is an innocent girl. they say this
and i doubt their sources have been double checked.

i doubt their sources are reliable, in fact.

but it was my dead friend who had
committed the psychobabble. not she. not

such an innocent girl.

he was psychotic all the time, after all. she
got used to his language sticking out

like a sore thumb. and while she was patient and kind.
with her little makeshift halo,
he was the one

who didn't make sense.

it was he
who wasn't taken seriously. no biggie.
he said stuff all the time:

spoke from his heart
as if he himself was his heart
speaking about the pain within each beating

of its heartbeat drum

all of the time.

his surviving girlfriend has not healed me, nor
has she healed the brokenness

of one hundred fifty families.

you downright
subservient idiot. you self-righteous asshole.
i feel comfortable with calling you names.

i feel comfortable with casually referring to you
as a complete bitch.

you don't even have it in you to
feign ignorance. you couldn't get past

your pride,
at least for that.

you have proven yourself so
damned attached to your
sense of pride that you sold

your soul to it.

the schutzstaffel is not after you
not because you're good.
they are okay with you

because they have paid you.

tell on us all now. tell on us all

without clinical explanations.

you know it all, so you've convinced
yourself- you had dated a sad man this one time.

and that's really being
around the block.

attend to your new job now. shut-up, you with
your nothing to say
stuck in your throat

when off duty. have nothing

to say
unless getting paid. and then, tell

on all of us sad people.

does it pain you as greatly as you
claim it did
with my now dead friend?

and here we go, sucked into the
vortex of
i cringe at- your new quick fix.

the criteria for "sad" will now be changed
to psychotic extremes-

a field day
for the big pharma industry.

when we
get the blues, we ought to watch out.
we could turn into

the boogeyman
but be too off of our rockers
to figure it out ourselves.

we might all need

whatever onslaught of
expensive generic
that my dead friend was tested on.

experience the possibility
of placebo. experience

the disillusion in psychiatry. experience

being the target
of the marketing
of the nocebo, the self-diagnosing

for the populous

for the sake
of big pharma little pharma

to hit the jackpot


like what happened to my

experience institutionalization.
experience de-institutionalization.

welcome to the viscous cycle.
we still live in the jungle.

it's a trampoline thing
of premonitions and impulse. a tragic twitch.
spectacular death wish.

better go for that
generic. you do not want
the SS on your tail. best beware. best beware.

i am surrounded by friends who
live like how i live, each of us

in it together, guardian angels
for one another.

i say funny
things to them all the time-

a real energizer bunny, going and going
in an emotional whirlwind- all
is full

of fight or flight.

i tell them intimate things
not because it seems as if they need to be known,

but because it seems responsible
to share

these thought and felt entities

i otherwise furrow a brow at.

like my living friends, i am on my knees
all of the time, begging

for the truth- real truth, universal stuff
outside of my perceived fluff.

that mentally ill stuff.
that "i'm a psycho" stuff.

brutalize and brutalize and brutalize. could it be

that that is all there is to it?

my living friends speak up
when i am truly, obviously
could be

in danger of fucking up, for they too
are responsible. look at us,
all grown up.

and yet here i am, practically
the automatic weapon
held to my head by my phantom hand,

that i go about handling awkwardly.

here i am, world. a big fat star
failing the conquest
of shooting myself in my head. see,

i hold no desire for quick and painless.
i want full penetration. rapture. rapture. rapture.

this plane is going down.

i'll fuck up if i must; give back to the world

all that i've got.
some spectacular dream. a real scream.

it would be scary, much scarier
than even the closest intimacy we each behold

in fragmented memories,
some mass destruction type of shit. and look at

my dead friend now. he told you something

of similar effect, and you heard what he said.

so his ex girlfriend says. but i do not like her
so i do not trust her.
she says she helped and helped
crossing her own boundaries

and helped and helped and helped
and helped until she yelped and yawned and
cut the crap and
moved on with her life.

you listened, though, too, right? didn't you? didn't
i have a right to believe you did
only to soothe my neuroses, my worries.
please tell me you listened to him
when he said he was going to destroy the world.

oh, you did not
him? then, suit yourself,

go to jail. never get out.

allow your own plane to go down, all alone,
all alone,

for i'm so mad at you.
bad girl. evil cunt.

never ever leave jail.
never get out.

my life goes on, running as it does
on its fuel: the
manure. it's high time i try something


enter liberia, libya, somalia. syria, sudan.
enter yemen. enter ebola crisis. enter

two hundred kenyan schoolgirls
that were hijacked and sold through
the black market

with their price-tags that were depended on
for a second chance at life.

enter isis. enter, drunken, despondent
racists. i could find you anywhere. but also, enter,
pro russian separatists,

SS. come

forth, all my pretty ones.

show me what you have got to give me.

teach me to know
everything about the dark side
of the moon

and this alone. allow me to soak in

its energy. come. come to me,

brothers and sisters
that insist on disintegrating.

i have a roof over my head. i sleep
in a bed
and eat whatever, whenever.

i'm spoiled rotten with what is green
and papery.

come in with your scary intimacy-

it intimidates me. give it to me.
i'm half-starved for fresh inspiration.

i challenge my well-being to you.
tell me you're up to no good,
but that you will stay with me. confuse 

me. gaslight. haunt. premonitions. dreams.
make dreams reality.

i have a girlfriend whose spell
i choose to be under. but she can be counted on,

touching me with wisdom. she is a girl within reach. the

hawk-eyed gorgon rears her head, thanking
me for learning
from her. i have been afraid, you see,

i have learned a great deal about survival.
i learned it all from dangerous

people: those
who rear their heads and it is a glory.

the enlightenment

must be crawled to, if crawling past
soullessness. stone-faced,

i forgive this. there is nothing else to forgive.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

"no better than a heroin pusher."

it was brought to my attention that my blog could not be commented on without a log-in to a google plus account. and who has a google plus account? that's the uncool social media platform. (what else would i ever go for. all the others are crowded with pawns.)
this was not something i knew, nor can i figure out how to work around, in order to let anyone on the internet drop acts of propriety on my well-researched, exhausting form i share here. i don't know why the fuck i do it except i can count on myself to do it well. and then i don't worry about feeling extra-purposeless.
it's incredible what the universe teaches but also so much thought, emotion, and work to maintain a mindfulness over it no matter what. it is not easy especially with very disruptive, chronically chaotic problems in the way.
and i find this very manipulative and typically sneaky of of a social networking site to be so exclusive, and i intend on looking for a different domain, saying "no" to this blogspot thing in the meantime. wordpress, perhaps? there's something pretentious about it. i don't know.
like i said, my writing can be very tiring. if i can't have my questions answered- the ones concerning what the internet wants with me anyway, whatever happened to freedom of speech, and why was it important long ago but abused but controlled and often censored today....then i can certainly cannot buy that i have some pulsating desire to donate my craft for free to seedy google.

thank you to anyone who has kept up with my blog thus far. i will meditate on another idea of an interactive performance art thingie and spread the word when i think of it, if i don't forget it, first. much of my cognitive train has seemed very sporadic the past few days. experience a brilliant idea, then it fizzles.
neck rings of amber
the sap that abandoned its tree

and now eggs.

the earth before
it split into a thousand directions
acting as if it divorced itself

would i not take an obvious choice only because it is evident?
i take it. i take it. do not spoil!

why it is
left unattended

bolts screws suffering
in the nude

i was conflicted.
i remembered molestation.

it would have gone on but 
these are my boundaries.

i removed my black covering and went inside.

raising caterpillars. cold fog. separating
only due to weakness in grip.

am i going to get shot now

in new places
or the ones that hurt just as well?

o, tao, do not fail to be. do not lie to me.

thank you for participating in my interactive project. you complete simpletons.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

you're completely horny and negligent and i hate you so stop fucking masturbating, i'm turning you off.
i've got to eat and watch family guy, dammit. do you know it's three am? you're really fucking your lives up by following my example.

okay, so i'm going to grab the vegan oreos (they don't have leather OR horse hoof in them), brbz
there's something orgasmic about people that don't have identities and have been thinking about burqas a lot in the past two days. i' m considering committing to wearing fully-covering all black and hajibs everyday from now on. anything is possible when your brain is fried in moonlight.

but i know what you mean. the suspense is always total kundalini compared to fulfillment of what suspense is led to.

this is a fun little performance art project. yo, i think that lack of response is now serving as a happy accident. that's quaint!
hey buddy let me slam my big EHEHEHEHEHEH into your back-end and i'll show you even exits can be entrances.

this doesn't match the music of boys for pele.

i've got dreams to remember.

maybe i could at least get "+1"ed. call me miss pacman. i do starve for whatever the fuck those "+1" things are.

bows placed evenly on the center of my head. red lipstick.

green aliens.
oh, god, this isn't my former stalker that i very obviously hide from? hey! what's up? this paranoia is for you, baby.
thank you for committing so much to our relationship. however, i am the only one that talks. i'm running out of gas. we're going to have to break up now unless you speak. speak, my lovely beam of light. i know how hard it is to see in the dark.
i love you too
i guess it's because i mentioned stripping on skype, huh.
seriously, what is this shit. you are all complete craig's list types.

do the hound dog.

"you know what i did last night? i went down to forsyth county georgia and interviewed the grand dragon and the grand titan of the local ku klux klan in front of the local dairy queen. i grew up in a similar town in arkansas and i'm a jew. it doesn't matter what my cosmic beliefs are, where my spirituality lies, how much i do not appreciate so-called religion. face to face with the KKK i am and always will be a jew. and if they don't know it i tell them. not to irritate them. just to let them know i've got a right to be a jew if i feel like it. and faced by them is about the only time i ever feel like it.
somebody has been looking through my entire archive, it appears, for over an hour. and yet still not a single comment. SUIT. YOURSELVES.
twenty-seven hits (my bad- thirty four) today, perhaps breaking my personal record, and yet still nobody has offered to take me up on my skype strippin', i know i don't act like a moronic porn star. i won't lie. i don't really have it in me. but if you can look past the shitty quality of my webcam, you can sure as hell catch a glimpse at my inner beauty.

and i, you.

i'll make your dreams come true j/k don't know how to do that even with my own

trap planted.

i walk through that valley which i must
in order to see
if i can find my way out.

i watch the news, wondering what innate howls
the new dead people cried out

before they crashed in an airplane. every single one

in the entire plane. dead.

the passengers held each other
even if they didn't know
the names of one another. they had to.

of course they had to. they had each other.

they were returned to their origins.

i, the great lost soul. the world is something i feel
with my hands, but see
through a telescope.

i, the green paper collector, machine
operator, plastic
bottle hoarder. the rescue owner.
the organ donor. the big bad miracle worker.
the contributor.

i, the one who sets pet rats free
onto subway tracks.

the cost effective dreamer. the guy that wears a tie
whose position title is manager.

manager of what? profit?
whose lives are you profiting off of? stop profiting.

don't you know chaos is out of control? aren't
you aware you're in touch with it?

i see its contraband being dealt
like drugs or weapons. it is everywhere,

something like an epidemic.

i get. i get.

i get to expand my amount
of masks. i cannot commit

to just one single mask.

you see, i live in individualism
society, but i am without a face.

i must move forward, ignorant
of the urgency i abide. spend spend, buy buy.
i must survive. i must survive. get. get.

i've got to keep up
with the only solution i know. else,


is zero.

zero the particle. zero the wisdom.
the man-made; zero the
god-given. the impetus.
the fetus.

all which is provided
looks over us.

recite an anthem recite a prayer,
happily ever after with or without answers.

don't go can't go if not things let go.

somewhere inside
is heavy weight we hold. it is baggage. it is cargo.

anything that is a shadow, but is not now
is a gentle shadow.

suddenly and loudly i love life, dying
before i can forgive this.

something about it
must not be just too late; just too late alone.

the caged bird sings. the caged bird
i'll get naked on skype for you if one of my followers (my blog can traaaack all y'all. i am big in both the states and slovenia.) meaning you give me feedback or express your reactions to my poems once in a while. as in every day. listen, if i believe i'm facing a one-way mirror because i can't see anybody, then i don't know if i want to know what else you are seeing me do.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

the truth
of life
is something


                                                                                       H e l l o   ? ? ?





E             MOM          E  N  T

Monday, March 23, 2015

everyone is leaving me
everyone is leaving me
everyone is leaving me
every second of every day
i don't know if i'm just imagining it
i don't know if i'm just imagining it
i don't know if i'm just imagining it
i have to make sure i'm not
i have to make sure i'm not
i have to make sure i'm not

i abandon
i abandon a lot
little thing grow
and you begin to see them

as  if they were inside-out

it hurts
feeling like a completely different person
with every person you have known
and not having a personality but a thousand
fucking masks

and that my one fucking accomplishment in
my life as relevant
is "not" self mutilating.

notice the negative.
not self mutilating.

how can not doing something be an accomplishment?
a data moment. the math is incorrect.

i live in a bomb shelter.
i swallow nine bomb shelter reminders a day.
i swallow my pride.

i keep saying i'm going to stop making myself
go insane. self sabotaging so badly

that i seriously sabotage myself into going insane.

can you not just let the poetry happen spontaneously?
it's wonderful that it happens.

i have this weird re-invention thing. must. change. frequently.

it's my pet chameleon
if lou reed came back from the dead he would hold me and tell me we'll be really cool horny bastards together forever
and something like "stay sober, kiddo," too

ethnic cleansing.


you say genetic differences, i see it
some other way. there is

always some other way to look at things.
we do it all the time
when the entire world is between us.

there was always that to count on

during our intimate
preluding enlightenment.

i suggested we fill our kitchen
with fruits in their

baskets. i wanted to preserve
a lively kitchen
that talked about fertility

born of the earth.

i wanted to reinterpret, over and over,
some sort of blitzkrieg,

filling this kitchen with
things that i can say, on the record,
belong to me, whether or not

i had been greedy-
flowers that do not live long,
but whose bulbs are infinite. tulips.

i wanted to be able to say
in the future

that this was a silly, desperate act. a
distant memory

that has nothing to do with me.
i wanted to laugh.

but the fruit wasn't attended to. colors
muddied. there were so
many flies
that i thought i was going blind.

i boarded it up
and started somewhere else- in

the wolf-belly of deception,

wherein i was made room
and given meaning.

you can learn every aspect there is
about lying
when you surrender yourself to it.


you could slide through life
under the radar without ever facing
molestation, furthermore

without falling into the gap
that distances you from reality

eroded by molestations.

you could be a pretty girl. a pretty boy.

you could wear glasses and a hijab;
a smile, and a white lab coat to boot.
you could be real cute.
in public, everyone may look at you,
but not quite like how you do.

you could already have a name, but
forget how to spell it.

you could successfully treat a
terminally ill patient, set on writing

a dissertation about what it's like
to be the virus.

kill, senselessly. get a kick
out of corrupting captured prey

that didn't have anything to do with anything.

you can be a real sage, and force females
to rape other females. assign them

the dirty work.

and i say, shall we feel adoration
toward the burglar

because we feel? love is so blind.

and boredom and time
all the time. shall we endure

an inevitability of stockholm's syndrome
toward everything that has

come our way and stays?

tall trees, safety, and happiness become
in themselves, intimidation tactics.


i am in jail, both
the jailer and the prisoner. i am jail.

you could be part of a civil war
because we are all, within

the species, so over the
indefiniteness of that "agree

to disagree" thing.


lost skeletons of people
that once boarded a plane

drowned in the java sea.
the search and rescue mission
was given up on

because the bodies aged so fast
that even if they were found

it would be too gross to see.

this is no hunt for pirate's booty.
this is serious. it's a ghost story.

there are also lost skeletons
of people- wanted,

dead or alive-

that boarded another plane
and entered the twilight zone.

you could be in a plane
and wind up finding out
anything seriously is possible, leaving behind

your family, your friends,
lovers, co-workers
and even your neighbors

hanging on


hope, sweet hope.

anything is possible when you go on a plane.


one side of an island
could have something to do with spirits-

ones that i wouldn't ever
mess with. therefore, that's why that side
of the island is being treated

with punishment. they were
asking for it. some things really do

ask for rape.

come on now, and believe-

for the other side of that island,
in comparison,

could be skyrocketing.

must be god and the devil
playing mind games with one another
both intent on winning

an intense game of chess
to take their minds off of people.

your worst problem could even be
something aside from
your destitution. it could be

rampant prostitution
you have to run and hide from
but romanticize

as you've been indoctrinated.


are the future
considering there is

a future.

that sex problem
really is rampant. people are so prone

to falling for it, genetic differences or not.
we can't figure it out.
we are undeniably stupid about it.

we've got that feverish disillusion over society

because of how we
make use of our economy.

since dollar bills themselves are boring,
really, they're just paper
made from the trees that would

remind us all we need to do
is breathe,

we market money by making it
an effort fully devoted
toward sex.

give it all you've got,
and at best continue to seem vacant.
those that do it the best seem depressed

as they traffic themselves.
i bet they can't even get it up.
they probably don't even know where
their happy spots are.

they ought to set an example that
doesn't suck, by making attempts
at finding themselves.

rehab for us all-
it's the most personal route toward success.

should anything else happen,
i'd make money off of it,

and money is heroin.
it gets to you. it doesn't get to know you.
it becomes you.

you learn to lie
better than anyone else could possibly

unless their lives were over before

like yours would be, too.

i see
israel. i see france. i see the point

of togetherness. i sell sex. i sell ammo. i sell

vinyl, avon products, paintings-
and grow more curious about the soul

without telling anyone.
at some point you lose touch with the
to discuss the soul,

whether it means something or not.

every morning the sun goes up,
come evening time, it sets
in the west.

world, world, message
from us all: i'm ashamed i take it for granted

and need to get back at it somehow.

i react
because i need to have some sort

of story that cannot be emulated.
only my reactions could tell it.

i let it be, all passively.

maybe you have no story when you let
the one thing you can control

control you.

that's how you were raised.
those are the vibes i get.

it's you.
it's you.

"i like this sorcery."

i am meat are too you.

i swallow chunks of it, mistaking
it for grapes.
it is always fresh.

i eat my brothers and sisters to survive.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

the little prince.

"you sorrow over men you should not be sorry for, and yet you
speak to sage issues. the wise are not sorry for either the living or the
dead. never was there a time when i did not exist, or you, or these
kings, nor shall any of us cease to exist hereafter. just as creatures
with bodies pass through childhood, youth, and old age in their
bodies, so there is a passage to another body, and a wise man is not
confused about it. the contacts of the senses with their objects, which
produce sensations of cold and heat, comfort and discomfort, come
and go without staying, kaunteya. endure them, bharata. the wise
man whom they do not trouble, for whom happiness and unhappiness
are the same, is fit for immortality.
there is no becoming of what did not already exist, there is no
unbecoming of what does exist: those who see the principles see the
boundary between the two. but know that that on which all this
world is strung is imperishable: no one can bring about the destruction
of this indestructible.


Saturday, March 21, 2015

character defects.

love tricked me to wander until i reached
a destination
in a rabbit's trap.

i tried to think about it in its
rudimentary physics, as that was all
there was to it.

"do not believe what the wind tells you," i said, it
said, something said-
"lies, lies, lies.

the wind does not wear the hunting gear
which you are forced to

since you fucked up and lost your foot
in that rabbit's trap.

do not listen to the wind.
you are not free.

learn archery-
something outward and direct. do not
fear the bow. you, yourself

may serve
as a very fine bow.

aim where the arrow tells you to-
toward the white noise, busying itself
with its white light.

pierce through its thickest coat of pride.

i hurt, directly
hitting that innocent target.

it has done nothing wrong, but i do not love it.

truth is self-evident.

i peel my scalp back
like a half-finished paper mache project.

peel, peel, peel, until
what is reached is the heart
of these motives.

i prepare for a risk- a coup d'etat
of wholeness- many a 
brain song being compounded.

they are the chemicals- ignored, feared,
studied, hunted-

chemicals, and a yearn
for that antiseptic air to cleanse my
imitation of a soul.

and a yearn for standard-brained
dreams, dreams
i ought to get to come true.

they seem like simple things.

how i wish. how i wish.
i ought to get. i better give back.

all i have is a serrated knife.

the best i could do
is a hot jab from my own hand
to a face of mine that looks pained.

it is about time i forgive the things i see.

i've done what i can
with the god-given defibrillators

for the demanding pulse.

with them, you cannot be
gentle. it will not work.

it is equipment needed 
to snap out of shock.
they haven't been allowed everywhere i've headed.

and it was i 
that had them snuck in for me
in a whopper,

between the burger and the iceberg lettuce.

these were intrepid, dangerous missions,
as if in prison-

as if confrontation of a psychogenesis.

"i would like to come out of this,"
thought i,

amid a mass of receptors
about rape and death and
struggle and class consciousness

in public,

losing my cool over people- the

believing all they can offer
is nothing more 
or less
than a shark attack.

making the heart normalize, first,

comes the brain.

hush. there. there. wisdom gains up.

it screams gibberish. somebody
has been throwing sand
in its eyes.

but it does not care to see the light of day

unless you are there too.

Friday, March 20, 2015



prime minister, dear sir, don't you
slouch no more. set an example
on your baroque

love seat

where i am not allowed to be,
and also where you drink
your tea.
(can you believe how much
went into that tea?)

sir, i've captured the gunmen du jour.
here they are. and here are my palms,
with dirty work.
i'm the protector of the guild.

have i not yet earned a merit badge? am i allowed
into the UN, NATO, or
the EU yet? am i not quite elite?

how many times must i be turned down
for my signature being too wild

on the paperwork?

look at me for my commitments to being
an active member of society.

i want to celebrate the birth name
of the father, the son, the what's-his-face.
look at me
fall asleep on a hamster wheel
even as it continues to spin

with a mind of its own- an object
just as much as i too have become.
look at me benefiting from our monogamy.

an exclusive idea: i wholly dedicate my
interdependence to you, to you-
to the wheel- for it is you.

maybe one of us isn't into this
as much as the other is. maybe
we are just not meant to be.

but i smell what i step in and i know
what i like

and i like you.
i like seeing your fingers twitch.
i like your photosensitivity-

starry, starry night. dine with me-
i see you as a person, an object,
just like me.

i'll work harder. i will work harder!


tourism is an important part of
our economy
as well as
our cultural identity.

it's an exerting source
of polite society. it's my wallpaper.
it's limp. rip it off. it annoys me.

no. shut-up. you're wrong. it's sad.
it is so sad. it is

as sad as a small child with cancer.

it is as sad as eating
as sad as not working out.

i've got my gears shifted in counterclockwise,
turning the muscles
back to skin; to baby fat.

they have proven they are not the stronghold.

i try to touch whatever it is
that i can only faintly see-
but like a coy fish, it reacts

and backs further behind the misty weather
fit for a castle or for the tree of life.

this is probably a self-protection.

o! o, stronghold, albeit
twisted like a clumsy germ. i sigh and roll my eyes

at nobody but myself

in a negative light,
mangled in and of myself.

i am truth or truth is my true identity-

o, true stronghold,
twinkle, twinkle for the people.


i may be the shadow for the body
of a fugitive
that does not let itself be known,

feigning sleep when
i show up early for my shift

as i take pride in my work ethic.

it is its grandeur that adulterates
with its fat ass upon my lap.

let me feel it. it's letting
me touch it

when i burn that holy word in public.

we are skipping the pivot
where we get somewhere with our lives, opting

to burn instead, like a rock n' roll song.
and i love rock n' roll.

witch hunts never end. they
change appearances in their range

of colors. behaving like a chameleon

is a defensive behavior.

the experts say.
the experts say, say, say.

and look at me.
don't you see what i've gotten myself into?

already i squat in ghost stories
i wrote
on my own in ghost towns.

i'll be famous for them one day, one day

after i'm dead, likely. a maudlin
cinderella story.

it's sad. shut-up. it is sad.
what's the
matter with you? do you shut-up? shut-up.

it really is really unfortunate.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

enormous emotion.

it's early. what time is it? time to attend

to the hung jury. "hurry
it up already," they cry, they cry-

the endangered major arcana, they're
homeless now, dying
of starvation, drinking salt water.

they are that appendage you get used to,
as am i-

do i not dazzle with my baby steps?
says the hanged man, "no."

says the fool, facetiously, "of course
you cannot ever be able to tell,"
he winks, "but you never know."

that's the wingspan of a falcon,
or of a drone, or even
of a person that dreams they fly

that's re-assuring me, "you've success!"

i stride beyond, out of curiosity.
i go to look deep into the crystal ball,
the frozen water,
the depths of the world's eyes.

look straight at me, they say. you've been able
to look into my burning eyes before
with that bold stare, solving any riddle

i throw your way.

you are cut up as a diamond
to top a sterling silver
ring, to top
an otherwise useless finger

for a woman who wins, who wins.
she, of the wingspan in her flying dreams
which you stride beyond.

she is pretty now. confidence is brought to her.
she is a princess
in a make-believe castle- oh, i too hear the

men hit on her now that
the dug-up holes in her acres of meadows
have been filled with a top-soil.

stride beyond.

she is pretty, flowery, floating.
she is that dream that she knew

she could get to come true.

stride beyond.

the solar-powered drone, the jet, the fins
of a shark- exquisitely robed arms

and this is the life's work of many
aimed toward personal success.

i stride beyond,
something that trumps an oscillating flight,

with survival, all hellbent
on its overdrive. oh, i am brave, all right.

i am smart. i've a strong personality. i survived
it is rewarding.
it is rewarding.

i must remind myself

it is rewarding.
root for it. root for it.

i renounce my moons. they have
been ramming into my body.

i crumble into new lunar things;
theia did, too. i myself

am uncomfortable with my
apparent compatibility with this.

i will be the missionary

off to reflect the light
far past these old moons that
turn to shrivel.

little tiny monuments. little

monuments of
sensation-seek. they are tiny
but they mean something

during their five minutes-

which perpetuate the former
to whirl elsewhere, as it was
being gut to bits.

i mourn only by way of propriety,
facing questioning
from myself only.

you must know, as a strong, smart, brave thing
that you walk along
the loose planks of evolution.

you will see it. just you wait.

everyone else seems to think so. don't
disagree with them on this.

there's that
private victory overcoming, when
all seems as final as it can get.
nothing screams. life just say
"this is it". beware! it's the fatalist

coming out to fuck you up.
smile your way out. pretend

they're a stranger. pay no mind
to that prankster. if not,

chase them down with a baseball bat.

a mouse would simply walk
through their labyrinth.

i kick and punch walls, hungry to escape my zoo.

you walls, virgins no more-
silent and awkward. explain yourselves.
no mouths to speak? but you taught me

how to live!
you gave me windows to peek through.
you gave me blinds to hide myself behind.

you've been living vicariously through
the passageways of others

until you hoped to god you could sleep peacefully.
for you, let me sleep peacefully.
if restrained,

i pray you sleep peacefully.

Monday, March 16, 2015

sometime past a river.

i can stage an illusion of all
the oceans
with my conch.

people wonder and ask.
i hold it up
to hear answers-

the language gets weird. i call it weird.
i call weird all there is.

you can stomach?
it has got a hold of you, too.

i may need help removing my conch
from my ear.
does it upset you
that i may need a hand like that

the lines
on my own palms are gone.
i see you've plenty.

all the needs the world prays for,
give them to me-

give me special effects.
i don't want to seem real.

it breaks me knowing i do.

this shark is dragging
remnants downward, my ballet
feet, yes i must remain graceful
all along the way,

as deep
as the shark's hunger allows it to go.

this shark is myself. i can suffer
any damn way i want.

this shark must let go and rise
to the gulls, to frantically search
led by smell

toward blood- the romance of
the resolute.

if i can lose you, blood, then yes
i may suffer my shotgun suffering.

show me the fool who doesn't suffer.
they are covered in holes
and have no idea. it is very sad.

we don't have to address their leprosy
any further. not now.
we have to address fears
of narcissism.

i don't want to be my own speaker,
but someone has got to.

it's a defibrillator.
if you don't have a relationship
with yourself, you'll never love

anybody else.

over and under water,
challenging salt

which challenges

it holds up my fate- drowning in and out
of the mission
toward clarity-that lazy

traffic beyond my arteries.

i massage my chest with CPR
as i imagine it.

you must develop a patient relationship
with it.
you must believe in it in order for it
to work.

it's about the relationships.

it takes years to receive a response.
years take decades.

it becomes something chasing the tail
of another

that never remembers.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

death row.

i am coming from an alley way with a lit torch.

i grant a weak moment in space-
blindfolded humanity

skinning away

and i zero in.
they say natural selection
is what is extinct.

it is not. please,
allow me to bomb it.

i pack this valise, and open
my life.

this movement is for the people.
let us change everyone's minds.

i begin narrating
what it is i'm on my way to marry-

perhaps a naked thing not wasting time,
for i am not the one i love,

not with this brain
that eats at its knots to stay alive. surely
this sickness spoils me. i don't

cooperate with it, after all.
must move on.

if you feel sad and if you do not know
what to do about it,

take it out, like trash. a catharsis.

like father damien
catch it,
as if the same inevitability.

it is a big one. it is a fish.

a toast to victory.
i chug poison. i like it.

do not remove my prize
as if a disease. it pleases me.

you cry?

in other parts of the world,
it is harder.

who is violating who? it is you
the next step is up to.

this crazy diamond
and these victories
violate nobody but themselves,

somehow bright though stone-faced,
out of blood and too patience

standing among guards of a palace
housing secret struggles,

there is no search and rescue.
there is no hammock nor palm tree.

natural selection was a breeze.

you ought want me to live,
at one
with olympian ecstasy.

church bombings.

wouldn't it be fitting if i lost my head? charming, really.
we could dismember that head;
christen it with a new name.
head "x". head "free", head the happy, head
silly, head of goliath, head

thrown around like a hot potato by david.

head that doesn't follow through, head
squeamish over commitment. head the rebellious.
head as stubborn as my taurus ascendant.
head with a game of ping-pong in it, distracting

from the important duties-
neurons coast, forgetting they're on
the graveyard shift- good morning, good night;

days one second long
if this is earth to which we draw comparison.

one extreme to the next. a tie,
and a rematch.

head, you are dead and livid and alive.
we've a love-hate, my sweetest friend.

given the abstract features
of the complexities of this head,
and based on how you are describing it
and how you're behaving today,
head "x",
we recommend you just sit back
and watch change happen.

in short, don't jibe. it is a hell of a strife.
i see it in the head that has eyes.

god forgives you.

sure, i do not blow my body up. and
i'm polite, all right; but i'm rather shy
about doing what i'm told to. my smile is something brave.

take in, interpret, react.
calm down. calm down. goodness me!
so sensitive baby, please don't cry; you're
freaking me out.

says the preacher.
says the computer.
says the dealer.
says the therapist.
says the psychiatrist.
says deliverance.

there is footage of me fucking up
but not badly enough,
nothing to press charges against-

nothing to scream "asshole" at the news about.

for you will not find me there.
you will find me in my lair.

so i do not get my gold-leaf halo, my girl-scout
patch, my sobriety coin.
i'm my own brand of pariah.

you cannot
under any circumstances
be confirmed
a name less anonymous

than "head".

are you angry about this, head? do we
need to lock you up?
should we shoot you up? i'm trigger-happy

with the magic three on me.
oh, do act out,
give us a directive- tell us how to go about. scream

for help.

yet i still do not blow my body up. i
don't get that. it is just not my way.

it would jibe.

i suck it up and continue limbo, plateau,
long desert road,
playing the part of the existential brute ugly toad.

pacing from the beginning
and back again to the glass wall.

i approach it and try to break through it
with that good old cosmic force-
that within all of us.
i wind up seeing my blood instead,

banging my head against nothing
though i swear over and over by frying pans.

does the universe know me so well
because the "i" i ignore is universal?

it's waiting for a light, an "a-ha!", to open before me
like a doorway,
to which before i strip myself of all pride

when i finally say, believe, know
that i am not alone. i am what is all.

and then is when i am taken under feathery, heavenly wings.
as if i have not said "i am not alone" before.

i try to believe it. i swear it!

a fixed education that cannot be dismounted, i can see it.
i like the idea of it.
i stretch my arms toward it until they bleed.

ceilings crumble everywhere on the planet
and my bones do too;
my spine
goes wobbly from strain and arthritis

and gives up.
vertebrae fuse.

on the news a satirical magazine
and everyone freaks the fuck out.

in silence i do too.

je suis silence.
je suis silence.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

aborting the meaning of life.

i spent time wandering along
the sea of a potion spread languidly
out from a broken bottle.

you know this sea,

the sea of the dead, the sea
of the red,

sea that cannot entertain itself enough,

swallowing those in its path
with magnetic force

back into its enormous mouth,
to the beginning of time,

when earth was a head
forgot itself for a moment
and chopped itself apart from its human body-

both parts left to spend infinity
searching for each other.

i am
reflecting this same sea today.

the wildest dream
i aim at
with a sharp ambition to hurt; to break barriers

to take risks
that no other wild thing has before.

i honor betrayal, trading in what i need
for new monuments:

i, the hydra-headed gorgon you thought
was a voice in the rocks that sings.
remain brave even if fear should sneak up on you.
there's something noble about it.

you operate your own body,
transplanting organs,
leaving space where once was hosted such machinery.

an empty nest. a fall not tricky.

a wide space.

a prowling-feel devours me.

Friday, March 13, 2015

i, free from affection, walk cow-horned
dizzily along a plateau.

without touch, things begin to turn unattractive.

thousands of dollars spent and
to show for it; nothing but tar. i've dumped it all

into the potholes along my road
only for winter after winter
to drill depth into them again.

i've ebony skin from ebony
ebony tar and ebony shadow.
ebony first, long after
the earth's first spill of oil-

not a drop ever willing to come out.
in the skin melanin
with granular wind until paved

so smoothly, smoothly. the matter

is probably best left unremembered
even if we open ourselves to it, attending

to unanswered questions
not knowing what we are risking
inserting into our vessels.

oh, it is turmoil? dear sir, i beg to differ-
i admire emotion
so i say it is emotion.

my mind dedicated to its avalanches
gradually prepares for its next era,

where in warmth
i am to break the bread

all of the bread, feeding

metamorphic formations- heroes
growing their distinctions,

telling me they are reacting.
they were hungry all along.

there will continue to be an appetite.

content/ hHhb g&6fTctcftsesaadtgyG*UGU**R&^R^%FTVbhbHU

i see in the sky provocation- clouds shape. i
follow suit.

but the soldiers
are those trained to show us

to take our first steps.
i only see them at the airports.


young and old whales alike beach themselves
and i want to know why.
rumor has it it's because
the humpbacks have lost their voices

from all the mewing
from all the eons.
they couldn't help themselves from it-
the patriot-song for their oceans.

i wouldn't be able to, either.

now i hear nothing. i miss electricity
that once ran though my ears.

should i eye the land, should i
grow appendages?
would it be a betrayal of my roots
if i eye a fresh aspect of joy?

maybe after all these years all of this has really
just been a phase.
and maybe it's okay. maybe phases
are expressions of formality as taught.

maybe i have never been taught
by anyone other than who i said may teach,

maybe only myself.

you know us kids and our hormones.
you know you think you do.

the workings of brain chemicals
keep us awake for days.
at the same time

they keep us asleep
until at last stroked by the surface of charm.

if anything is possible then that easily happens.
maybe after all these years
all of this has really just been a phase.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

dirty talk with kowalski.

stella, stella- religion
at all times.
you ain't got the time for a spine.
you're busy. just so busy

all of the time.

stella- my thunder, my momma-
if i can't be god
then i protest
if not liberty is inherited.

by jove, by jove, why support a cause
if my money- the paper-green limerick-

 is a dirty thing; something
enabling the hierarchy?

it's only in the sidecar to humanity.
vroom fucking vroom vroom,

i knock on satan's door, just because.
an onomatopoeia deal: KABLAM. POW.

i think
it is clear that he has not
yet let me in. i furrow my brow-

"et tu, brute?"

this doorway i have memorized,
this mat i have stomped,

this bell i have rang and
wondered if it even works.

this knock has not gone unheard.
this satyr does not

want my half bad half good company.
good riddance,

i choose not to long for that
good bad
supposedly hard-wired systematic

moralist arrangement. all black white and

like a baby roped to two cars between.

that is it, i say. i just say it. that's
the difference between me

and everyone else. i'm just being honest.

if i go good bad i dedicate to me a
resting place in which
i will not be given comfort; one

in which i would not be found

smiling perhaps under a tombstone
engraved with a period ellipsis

and that alone.

i will not be found, not be found.
to the hounds.

i will not be found.

and my money will not go to charity,
my clothes not to the homeless

at the train stations.
my food decompose as i, with i,

my other belongings proclaim themselves
to  a plastic bag in an evidence room.

i imagine it-
i imagine it unattended to.


with dusk;

beliefs wasted- they, terminated.

i, big fat star reduced to naked air
for the next
solar system

to figure out what to do with.

if bad stuff happens, then figuring out
what to do is all there is.

those in denial, as if denial a stasis, are stupid. they
drool at the sight of
their navels- "miracles! miracles we are!" quacks.

in charge.

haven't you heard moving forward
is restless?
it's an act of filling personal voids

though nothing is there to
begin with, nothing anywhere, no,
not at all.

an aerodynamic independence

i reserve this flight for nobody, no thing-

such thing


i go curt. you know that i say the things i do

the way i do
because they taste quite meaningful.

that taste, that sense, that think. therein the land of the free.
the throne-
that distant cousin
of god.
that psychodynamic reminder of me, myself, my own.

and what is the weather of a wasteland you ask, long
lost momma?

a sonnet it wreaks of course, stella my rage,
for what else but

its own gain.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

the corinthian.

well-behaved of course you are, slave.
it is your only prerogative. better be.
it is the sole
requirement of the job.

but now that you've learned
how to play chess, you say

it is i who is the slave.

you tell the neighbors
that those are the tracks of my bared feet
heading in and out of a jungle

where i go to beg for love.
and so? what if it is so?

and naked cartwheels

before an entire colony of settlermen.

at the heart of this boar lay
a sensitive subject-
i want. i want,
then it becomes
that inexcusable sickness of a hangover-

this one on shame
that i have wants.

i've got to let out the intemperate
and pass it down through a legacy-
to freedom, this the key.

haven't yet

committed to a just-right opportunity.
been on this desperate quest to relate

to anyone other than myself
for quite some time.

is this suffering in my choke-hold or am i of its?
perhaps muses of one another. something like that,

probably, yes.

we've known each other long a time, say thee to i,
interpersonal dynamics
warped into askew

after a while. things change. they get weird.

keep moving forward we do
with our respective hit or miss charades.

up late at night with nothing to do,
in a bottle you stuff pieces of my cloth into.

i awake, either under attack or caving in.

that's it, i say.
i've got to get on a power-trip
to tame the prey-drive of that slave-

the astonishing, bold
human qualities

rolling red carpets out for themselves-

the outward stuff-
thoughts not suppressed into
the body

as if oxygen.
as if courage.

as if tolerant to whippings.

pry thine eyes and feed on sludge.

nobody needs eyes

at this point
in order to have it made.

Monday, March 9, 2015


it's tradition to dump bodies in the water
in a big bunch
like dead flowers presented together
in a lovely bouquet-

candy for a sacrifice
-where they won't be alone.

the most beautiful sunrises,
the most beautiful sunsets.

in life they hold hands
they grow old
they call one another sister
they call one another brother

spending all day and all night together.
a cruise about paradise.

but today
it will not do, will not do.

it's the narrative of an old ship
all determined to keep finding new channels

to be a movie on, at full
speed. the coast guard

wants a new man that walks and is dead.
it's been fun. i bid adieu. i

walk in jeans and a tee-shirt
that has a coke bottle on it.

in my heart on earth i eat dirt.
the route least shady i can do.

i do not feel the pain of reality.
i am
separated. i do not
take a stab at wondering about reality.

at zero years old there are clovers
and flowers that do not shut-up.

i run through,
i am small. i whistle at the birds
as if i know how to get them to
respond to me.

every year i hope the same. the painting then
was perfect. i've got
to keep reminding myself.

i've got to go back to tara.

in my heart on earth i eat dirt.

Saturday, March 7, 2015



hey, syria, i can't seem to locate
your birthright these days. and you seem to have
been ripped out from the yellow pages

but i'm not far
from what is now
a grave-site, the ghost of
your former self. i've got this sack

filled with
answers to yours cries for help
for a drug called hope,

but i don't know
who to deliver the stash to. is

there some P.O box where i can
drop it all off to? i'll add its address
to my GPS.

then i'll hop to it,

and we will all be
hunky dory


i ask around and the drifters
say home does not exist-

not just to them, but to
who is anyone these days. oh, i see, but
do you see? this stork
loves to do her work, whistles

while she works. been carrying

boys in blue bundles
and the girls in their pinks

and all else in between
in sweet, dreamy pastels.

i drop babes, as if
a plane setting free

willing, ecstatic skydivers.
and i
do not want to give up my
work which is my dreams.

so certainly
if not food,
if not rainbows,

i cross my heart
to airdrop
a piece of the american dream,

or a sign of release from the EU,

or diamonds, ivory, furs; some luxuries
that embody the cost of suffering.

may i
suggest, since it most unfortunately seems
to call for it, an idea for
a last-resort-

would you
you consider closing yourself off?
your business seems to have
taken itself too far.

crossing the border between
you and  your old
neighbor turkey

is just too easy.
crossing it is a walk in the park.

you can walk it
in the daylight, you can walk it
in the dark. you can walk it
pretending you're gene kelly

singing out your heart.


syria, hey. it's me again.

there's this talk
of pending nuclear deals
between all the other kids at school.

and i know
it is you who is out of the loop-
the cheese standing alone.

it's not cool,
so because of you

i march the one-man band along
to the UN. i am humming that
old eddie cochran song-

taking problems, not just mine or yours, but
of us all, to the united nations. i am

about resolving unsung hurtings. and what now?

a headline read, not forgotten
but only
by the rock and roll fanatics.

they're more well-suited
to raise the world than these envoys, these
messenger boys; improvising

a load of cover-up on the spot.
must be cover-up. it wouldn't

be paranoid enough to believe anything more.


this case versus the united nations.

you deny me my natural merit
of hope from happening.

you go on the world news
to testify. you are the good guy.

a pat on the old back.

got yourself quite a gig there. did you
suck dick to get to the top? brown nose?

you're good.
you're so good, in fact, that

you're already halfway on top of your shit.
aware of half of the death tolls
in the past four years
in the country you stand for.

halfway there.
go at your own pace.

one step at a time.


on and off, since i was a kid, i've wanted
to become involved
with yellow journalism

for the sake of we, the people,
created equally, all along one plane.

the past was undisputed
but now they're saying

out with the old, the fool-proof,
in with the absurd-new. it's the future.

the past is being dismissed
as drivel, rubbish, shit.

syria. i spend some time often

about origins. do they end,

did they yet begin?

things were.
do they remain so?

p.s. syria: today i learned
that fighting is supposed to be
a sign

of a healthy relationship. so don't worry
too much.

it's like a part of life you dislike

but learn to
adjust to.

maybe it is one of those things
we're supposed to look back at

one day
and laugh.

it's up to us to pace, out of desperation,
for love
until we cannot move any longer-

paralyzed, else
quietly rocking back and forth.

suffering all alone
in open-ended questions, in
the infinitesimal, doesn't quite seem to cut it.

does it?



pour one for my homies.

it means some of the moldings of an architectural work are slightly sticking out from the base. it offers a suggestion of something to interpret- it comes forward, it presents itself. it wants to let you in; to tell you something. it is ready to teach you.

i only know this because i loved learning about it this past year. my personal history. i have no choice but to know about it, and i like that and everything else i've learned so far. as i say, as if a mantra, experiences happen to us. that's why when i try to create something on my own, it doesn't work. it's awkward and narcissistic. the experiences are the messengers, teaching us. i have nothing to share except what they say to me. there's something both spiritual and logical at once about being in this position. it reminds me that i'm part of the universal process; that i am nature. i feel honored by this.

i am bored of bulldozing people.
i tried to take up the harmonica
but no- i am restless.
i turned to bulldozing deities.

or the celebration of them.
or something.

every day presents an opportunity to
tell the rest of the world
"go to hell".

i hear it. it is all i hear.
it is all you hear. i glare it.
you know it. say it. say it.
"go to hell". whatever that means.
that's not even
supposed to be my thing.

commit the unconscionable-
reminds me of "go to hell".
pretty idolatrous.

but what do i know. i'm just
a stupid american girl. me
and my consumerism
and my negligence to commit
to anything really

means i'm not allowed to have an opinion.
what can i say? i know i don't commit.

so, destroy. idolatrous. you must know
so much more than i do.
rape. idolatrous.
endanger. idolatrous.
sell your brain, your soul, your heart, your love to satan-on a 
piece of paper you crumple it up and never
look back. you just hate yourself
and stuff. we all go through that.
i know. i'm one of those
"been there, done that" kinda guys-
have gathered some street cred in my day, wouldn't
you be suprised.

"i hate myself and i can't
help but tell everyone." we're in a safe place.
it's okay if you want to say it. in fact,
it's really, really okay if you say it.

the destructiveness takes time
but it's forgivable shit.

we all have a reason for doing it.

but going the extra mile? that's pretty idolatrous.
even breaking your own laws? well aren't you
all unheard of and avant-garde about
that's taking it all a bit too far.
oh, you! you and your transparent dissonance!
you're just so silly.

how, hypothetically, would you react

if you were stripped of your gimmick you
threaten the world with? what if your head
was held captive

and your jugular against the blade of some knife?

"message to america: i'm pretty scared.
i'm pissing my pants.
i take all my militant shit back!"

you know, i wear a lot of black, myself.

but that's me in my own culture. keep us ripped apart, right?

i sit in my place.
i'm supposed to shut-up, right? right.

be still, my restless, monstrous heart. shut-up. oh, you can't.
shit. i forgot.


i was raised super-religious by my mother
and anti-religious by my father.
(though, these are both stories
on their own.)

it's left me split.
because of the significance, i like to 
bring  up the subject
of religion
and its impact on not just myself,
but myself as if a global civilization.
every poem has something
about religion- usually intentionally. but i'm sure
there's a lot i don't notice.

religion means everything but also
nothing to me.
i've been apologized to.

have you?


omg i know! my religion means everything
but nothing to me, too! life is just 

such a masquerade. what is it
you will choose to wear today?

it's a little existential.
it gets so old in the desert.

i lay on my back. the clouds pass.
i see myself

getting my ass kissed
and being crowned king.

there's that conscience
repeating that word.

if i keep peeing
in the same spot

i'll turn the grass brown.
that'll do it in.

if i keep shooting
with the same gun

that'll get it to stop moving.

does "idolatrous" have the gall
to raise from its grave?

aim for that head of lazarus.

if i reason
that my way is the only way i know
it is the only way

i'll start believing myself.
i don't just sit around.
i take action.
i fuck up.
i break bitches.
i break china.

it's an honor
to be this variety of suggestible.

and suppose there is a hell.
you westerners and all
your hell shit!

hell can't be
a terrible experience
if i spent life

busting my back-end
for that man
with glorious violence.

and should it happen
that i fall into a pit,

i'll yell up,
"hey, it's me. let me up."

if i hear nothing back,
i'll make up for it.

i'll chant "sorry"
for eternity. a little hill
will start bulging from

the ground under me.
it'll be heaven wanting me.

i can't remember the last time
i said "sorry"

so i don't remember
that sorry doesn't mean anything
after a while
when you keep doing the same thing
time and time again,
saying "sorry" after it.
over and over and over again.

foolish is the clumsy
motherfucker who

is to fall for my shit.
but who wouldn't.
it's my shit. scratch and sniff it.

foolish are you, motherfucker
who doesn't know
that everyone shits.

i feel uncomfortable comparing
you to the rise
and fall of icarus.

but i can't help myself. you fly with pride,
you burn because
you held onto pride
with all of your might.

see it? i know, right!?

eagerly do what you're told
with a goofy barely post-pubescent
bring your knives and your guns
and your hearts on your sleeves
to prom.


"sorry. not adjusting well".
lo and behold!
you didn't have to say so.