don't feel bad your only alive and living

i lay belly up with saddened eyes. i can hear the empty space all around, vibrant and alive. I turn on turn off the tv. the ground is a long way down from up here. 13 floors up seems like a lot. There are no knocks on my door or rings on my phone. I could use some action so I open a beer. I look at the piles of mail, the laundry on the floor. Then in the bathroom the piles of change the dirty razors and toothpaste that sticks to the sink and just doesn't want to go. I look in the fridge and no I don't want pizza from a month ago. I don't want ketchup or mustard, jelly, or expired milk. I don't want frozen chicken breasts or way overdue flatbread.

I go ouside to smoke but more to change my environment. I sit there and the people who don't know the city walk by. Some of them probably think I'm a bum. I don't buy new clothes til mine have fallen apart. A real bum with nicer things on than me walks by and asks for a smoke. I say no and he looks at me with spite. I bet he has more change he has hussled from tourists in his pockets than I have in mine. I wish I could go to the bar or the track to straighten myself out a bit. Instead I just read and write. Bukowski spits out to me about solitude and love, two things he had all the time, or not at all. It seems sometimes that I've given up on music. I haven't really sat and played or tried to write anything for a while. The chords don't sound right, and i feel distant from the whole mess. I used to care, and work hard at it. Now I set it aside to bullshit myself or write this crap instead.

My mouth is dry and I need a drink.. I get up and down a glass with a couple vitamins and St. Johns Wort. No better than before. I cook a pancake and it it with some jelly and expired vegetable spread on top. I get the pan too hot and the second one burns. It still tastes good. I think to myself that I can't go on like this. I need some people, I need to joke and to laugh, and to be a part of something. I'm sick. I don't sneeze or cough, but I'm dazed and tired all the time. I'm constantly on the edge of giving up. Going somewhere I can crawl up and panhandle if I have to. Go from bottle to bottle, at this point it doesn't seem to lack any of the nobility that a wall street exec has at this point. I won't be annoying or steal, or scare people though. I would be polite, maybe offer some entertainment or service. Everyone likes a tapdancing vet. Hey folks! A ta ta ta! Bin Laden? More like been gotten! whoa here I go a ta ta ta At least I got my hands and feet I'm foreva happy! a ta ta ta I would sing gospel eat from the garbage and never feel sorry about myself or anyone again. The light we see through the tangled mess of lines going from our souls into society is bleak, not enough for a single flower to grow. Not enough for you, for me, or anybody.

irony of my discontent

I seem to be distant and hate so much stuff. I don't like people because they are so self centered and superficial. They lead meaningless lives and don't do anything great except wake up in the morning, eat, shit, and back to sleep. Everything in between is dull and nothing interests me. I hate it so much. I hate it so much because I want to be happy like them. I want to be close, I want to be superficial and pretend I haven't lived the way I have or seen the things I have seen. I want to wake up in love, just living life and being happy. Going through the dull motions, paying the bills, washing the car, buying a dog, a house, settling down having kids. I'm damaged. Damaged goods. I'm the egg with a crack and I just can't see or feel like everyone else does. It saddens and embitters me. The hole in my soul I try to fill up with alcohol and dreams. I write here everything. Some of it is over the top and exaggerated, but that is me. It would probably be less interesting if I was my laid back monotone self. So when I write I scream. It's the only place really to do it so that no one thinks your crazy, maybe you think I'm crazy anyway. Why do I care. Why do you care. What else should I be? All apologies.

Notes From A Blood Stained Coloring Book continued

Sick men have been coming to the house. They bang on the door and beg for help. Mom and grandma get scared. Dad makes them keep a tire iron by the door now. He says I have to be brave because when he's not around I'm the man of the house and I can't be scared. I'm not scared I told him so he knows. Grandma brought out a tape player she had in the basement today. Her and mom listened to Elvis tapes while I played. The music sounded good. I danced and made them laugh. Then I rolled around in front of the window pretending I was in the sun.
My birthday is in 12 days. Dad said he's going to bring me something great since I can't play my video game anymore, now that the power is out. I hope it's a trampoline, one that can fit in the house. I could do flips and make my own circus show. I hope the flu ends soon, maybe for my birthday it will stop. Then we can all go out and swim, and dad can cook hot dogs and cheeseburgers. I want a cheeseburger on the grill so bad! Oh and cake with ice cream, I hope Dad brings some home.
Last night I heard mom crying. Dad and her were talking, and she is sad. We heard booms outside. I looked and I saw a fire somewhere pretty far. The glow lit up and it reminded me of halloween bonfires. I wondered if people in masks were crowded around on stumps roasting marshmallows and telling stories. I miss the outside.

Notes From A Blood Stained Coloring Book

I can't go outside anymore. Mother and Grandma won't let me. I miss the sun so sometimes I sit in the window looking out in the streets. I hope to see other children playing so I can say "look mom the other kids are out playing", but I never see them. I only see the adults. They all wear masks now. Some even wear gloves. I heard Dad telling Mom about the people on the trains. He says that they cover all their bodies and wear rubber doctors gloves. No one touches anymore they only wave but most people don't recognize each other, or themselves anymore.
School was over early. Some kids got sick and they said it had to be clean. They said the flu is a germ and it spreads all over. Mom says I'm lucky because a lot of the kids got it. I think I would rather be in the doctors eating soup and watching what I want. They only like the news. I don't like listening to the people talk or the pictures they show. There are lots of bad people now. They do what they want and it's on tv every night. Mom says it's because they think they are going to die so they do what ever they can do to be mean or unkind. That's why we have more locks now.
Mom started a garden in the back yard. She says when everyone is eating canned food we will live like kings with our carrots and watermelons. I say I want McDonald's happy meal, she and grandma laugh. They say no one is eating at restaurants anymore. The people outside seem in a hurry. They are going out less. When night comes it feels like everyone is scared and I can feel it. So I lay in bed looking at the ceiling imagining what is out there in the dark that scares them so bad. Dad doesn't seem so bad though. He is usually the only one who goes out. When he gets home he takes off his mask and gloves and burns them. Then momma and grandma wash his clothes in Bleach. Sometimes he brings me home presents because he knows I get bored with mom and grandma all day. Then he sits by the television and tells mom and grandma about the people on the trains and the people who are sick and lying around. I heard him tell them about the train cars with the sick people piled up. He said they were going far. They were going to be buried, but a special funeral where they are burned. " Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust" is what grandma said.
I miss my family. I miss my cousin Sadie. She's in heaven now. I remember when aunt Lisa called and told mom. Her and grandma cried and talked. Sadie was my favorite cousin. Uncle Louis died too, but dad said it was from a crazy man attacking him at his store. The man was sick and took things from Louis little grocery store. Aunt Kathy, my cousin Maury, and grandma's brother Albert all got sick from the flu. Everyone was sad and afraid. I'm not afraid because when I die I will be with god. It doesn't matter to me how it happens I don't even think about it. It's just something you can't help like losing a baby tooth.
I think when it's all over and everything is right again I want to be a doctor so I can help. So that people don't have to be scared anymore. So the other children can go outside and play, and I can have fun.

Filthy Swine

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090425/ap_on_re_la_am_ca/med_swine_flu

There is an outbreak of a mutated bird virus that has traveled through swine into humans. It's spreading from Mexico to the north. I always think of Wells's "War of the Worlds" when it comes to these things. The aliens were far superior beings yet they succumb to the awesome power of the virus. They say that human bodies don't have the resistances against these viruses with animal genes. When we look to the not so far past we should think of the millions that have died from the virus, the only true predator of man left.
I don't eat pork but I doubt the virus really cares. A pandemic of this size has the potential to wipe out millions of people. Shadowing the losses in the Afghan and Iraq war. So my friends in Texas and California, be careful and stay safe. Go to the doctor if you feel sick. They say they have a vaccine. We haven't had any US deaths yet, but the factors are clear that the strain is on the run and it is impossible to contain at this point.

slightly on the off track

Oh lovely, oh comely
the draining absence
oh straining existence
oh anti fulfilling work
oh greenbacks and silver worth's
oh rapid descent into babbling hell
oh new clothes and hair gel
oh free man forced out of life
holding onto what made it all right
can't give up memories not even with drink or dope
not with war or crime
no matter what, fucking or crying
la la, la lada la la, da da da, ladadada da

my restlessness drives on the spearhead of a nations comfort
my anger is not resolved in the black and white bureaucracy
the daunting tasks of living dim the nature of the soul
and I am forever in a silent mental clash

veterans dream

It's not that I want to die. It's that it has taken away all the purposes of living. I lay catatonic in bed wanting to sleep forever, sleep away everything. Go to work get a job you'll hate it eventually. Go to school get an education but what does that mean. Higher tax brackets and higher rises and what? Losing your steam. Wasting it, wasting your creativity, dismally, dreadfully, living while sleeping. Find love but is it love. Does that exist anyways? Is it just a lie thats been repeated for so long we have started to believe that whats real is the songs, movies, books, and tv? I'm not doubting it I'm only doubting me. Me and my perception of the world, my ideas on fulfilment, ideas on everything. I never thought going to war would take away so much beauty. So much love, so much of me. Is it the war though, or would I be the same either way. Would I have no hope for a world that is never going to catch up with itself. No matter what fiber optics come along, no matter how small a microchip gets. There will always be the haves, and the in-needs. There will always be traces in the past as we work our way through an overcrowded recent history. Events are nothing, the days entwine. Sweet memory tarnished from the chemicals I absorb and breathe. From the slaughter house blood mixed with the cattle feed. We are all twitters, twittering ourselves out of existence with every immemorable tweet. You can't take your top five anything into the black beyond. So stop telling the world things that no one cares about. When you write, write something real, be abrasive and mean. Otherwise you will go down as the fluffy pillow of the tainted American dream.

sacrifice control

and now I am guided... by those invisible forces that push and pull. I'm in a storm. Being sucked under waves of the turbulent time line of life's curse. I turn to the greats. The musicians, the painters, and especially the writers. I pull from that pool of life experience and mistake. That's why I hate the fakes. The imitators. In music we have phony gangsters, terrible poets who say the same things the same ways. There is no soul. Writers are the worst. I don't want to read some posh novel or story with nothing real for my mind to escape. Everyone needs to go to the streets. Sleep on park benches, try to get dinner without spending anything. We might have some experiences to draw from, more so than this modern sterility. Where everything is so organized, and our paths are all close to the same. This house is like that house and the people inside want more, but they are still ok. That guy smoking a cigar in a ten thousand dollar high rise leans back without shame. He wants more, and then more, he is not the same. He is tho, the one using the pen, the words, the simple act of putting black lines on white background. He uses it like a weapon, everyday. Crunching numbers, writing books, living life in the fast lane. What is it worth. When he walks down the street, which he probably doesn't, doesn't he fear everyone who has less money. I would, I would be stuck in some paranoid greed. You can't live like that. So he moves the family to the burbs and commutes everyday. He loses that little bit of life he once had. Now he's the suckerfish on the side of the building, getting fat, never putting anything back into the city. Except when he needs a new sofa, or loafers, a jacket, or tie. I don' t want to read his stuff. I don't care about his life, his soccer mom wife, his nasty kids fat from the grease of cheeseburgers and fries. It's just, it gets to a point where this is not a country anyone should respect. What do we do? We consume, and now recently we are trying to go green. Sure after we shot the resources to shit and mass produced everything we could think. There are no craftsmen anymore, there is only the corporate entity. People should feel ashamed they are living to buy some crap that they think they need, furniture, cars, houses. How many people have that same coffee table, those drapes or sheets? How bland is that. How many of us have the same shoes, underwear, or carpet? It makes the world seem so much more boring. We have lost creativity. Being in art school I thought I would see individuality, home made clothes, everything fresh and old and crazy. It's not. It's more bland than a computer club meeting. I know this person, I know that one, I live, I love(I think), I'm going to do this and do that, but I don't know what I'm going to do to change the face of the world permanently. I don't know how I'm going to use my work to spark something in the minds and souls of the public seeing me. Thats what these artists don't think. It's just shallow meanings, stupidity, finding beauty in the ugly, filling moronic meanings. Pasting them on like a cardboard afterthought. Doesn't anyone dream? Nothing, nothing, nothing, is inspiring quite like the smooth notes of a Jazz song. Much better than nasal whiney screams. I complain too much. I should just move on. I'm tired of talking, you are probably tired of trying to read. Good luck, and good night.

I am the disbanded masses
I am the pauper on the grass

I am Watching the world through
crafted eyes glazed with pain

Funny is fun and
Sadness it seems,
darkens everything

When that last drink makes you sick,
when your huddled over by organic forces,
stare at the ground and really think,
think about that moment and how you got there
think of how real it makes you feel

We're all sick and dying
sometimes you want to paint over that
you want to give it some color
the deep reds and the yellow golds
the circles and pyramids
the bird and the eye
Everything has meaning
real or implied

I'm the offbeat the late beatnick
on the street separated from it
exhausted from a buildup
drained from what he has seen

lips still into a crooked level line
teeth grind
hands slide

It
is a
swell day
and all the
things that make
it so will never go
away
further down
still
it goes
wasted agitated
by the depths
of
love's
killing
throes

peace, a piece of me
collapses
sends the signal beep beep beep

the thought center

center in on me

waves of nothing sweep across the midnight planes of being
i alone live
there is no cold anymore
there
is
... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ...


digging up the past
spoonful by spoonful of sweet memory
basting the brain in nostalgia and energy
5 4 3 2 start
break ing
I can't say yes!
I can't cope with no!
I cant!
wait
till eye can not
be home

Elyptical Being

What are we really worth? Do you write, create, build, dream? If you don't, I don't know what to think. It's all I can do. It's all I can focus on to gain the strength to breathe. A couple days of shadow and I emerge gainfully. I few lines of inspiration and the world has significance and meaning. I want to light the fluid beams as we rush through the hallway's and caverns in a dim existence. Opportunity is what? Is it the pages of a small publication, or a literary magazine? Is it talking and releasing my thoughts to other beings? Is it fame and stardom, lust and greed? I want to experience the experiences that lead. Once things are easy life is boring. I want to drink and live and burn out pencils in places I thought I would never be. Life is amazing, live dangerously.

What A Waste

Peach skin
tight rope
defending precedence
in the shallow gloom I wake up
mouth missing spit
eyes strain and squint
like a newborn born out of shit
White knuckles
holding onto a telephone
i can't scream anymore
i can't be left alone
social anxiety
flittering twitters and tweets oh my
teabaggers
wall street scammers
Michael Vics and M.C. Hammers
So Co limes, Alabama Slammers
slobberin' drunks
power pop punks
i this and i that
oh no's
Lohan has on a funny hat!
screens and machines
scans and street plans
color coordination
my blackberry is broken
what ever will I do
oh well life is hell
at least I have these vintage shoes
photoshop me
I'll airbrush you
layers and layers
the cellulite blues
tuck this and stuff that
you gotta tighten up ship
acid washed eyes and succulent lips
you gotta have faith
if you want to survive
so take stock in the stock
no sir, it won't take a dive
admire the weak
glorify the poor
speak with watered down words
they'll love you more
and
every
time
the
closing
bell
rings
an
angel
get's
it's
wings

Email to the director

Dear Mr. Mose,
My name is Matthew Ping. My adviser is Richard Deutch. I am not sure if he talked with you about me or not. Therese Quinn told me a while ago that I should contact you and I do not believe I did. I'm writing because here in the last few weeks of the semester I am being suppressed and not able to complete projects due to the schools hunger for my money. I am in a film class and can not use the media center, even though I work there. I am in sculpture and designed objects, I am doomed to fail because I can not use the shops. This is also having a severe psychological toll. I am a war veteran. After surviving choking brushes with death and isolation I have found myself bled out by the school and the American capitalist system. Ayn Rand said the value of a man is the work that he does. I believe this. I am working here, I am building, creating and writing. Only to be suppressed and pushed out by the long blind arm of business. I believe in art, I believe the school helps it develop. What kind of system have we let contaminate so that we do not allow some to flourish. I thought I would be put into an environment of progression and have opportunity. Instead this is a system of degradation. What respect can an entity have when it filters out those that take bombs, and destroy the harbingers of death for them. When we cast aside the warriors we let protect our fragile safety and freedom. What pits do you cast us aside in, as if it didn't matter. You allowed our souls to be slipped by tyrants, no raise of fists to shatter the thought of peace through war. Now I'm even further in that pit. Debt, isolation, loss. May the school keep feeding on the bankrolls of the worthy, and create it's own demise through the shallow banks of need vs. worth. You make money because your worth something to people, but when money is all that matters you lose that spark that made it all worth while in the first place. I am no longer a fighter. Your peers have exhausted my weak hope, and now my integrity. I should not have to wallow and beg for an opportunity. I was pushed to come in on promises of scholarships, and threats of loss. All I can see now is loss. Wasted money, wasted time. These last few weeks curl before me like a black carpet of impending doom. This next year is unsure. I am now on even less stable ground than what I once walked on. I can not ever be sure what fate holds again.

Yet, Again?

Tilt this way, don't talk like that
come on, come with me
no, no there's not a chance
don't like it, just go back
each little
string will
hold
you
from
you
every light blinks in your eyes
washing streets in your ears
my, oh my
stretching the back
the night is on fire
cool blue flames
we are
a part
of
something
so
damn
real

what's the difference
my life, my life, my life
what holds my thought
what broad waste does charity ride on
and who does this earth turn on
in the biblical and all other terms
go
go
go
go
lost

Those snaps
those wild imitation fears
cold November water
a division of there and here
the dangers of standing still
what truth the darkness becomes
some
things
are too
cold
to
bear

acting like its all ok

A sponge that holds no water is not a stone
shadows slice through space and we only see them on the ground
on the walls, or casting on our faces
the microwaves and radio waves dice through our bodies
we hear and see them through the power of metal
I open the old tall window,
my room sucks the city in,
the phone purrs again, and again,
I've been slipping,
responsibility, work, everything,
it's going
I need it to be simpler,
not more complex, it doesn't need to be,
I may take a train,
somewhere long and far,
got love will not follow
got none
got gone
got scars

septic waterfall

Guilt is in our palms. We raise them when we don't know. When we wish we did, and wished we could do something. What cold stares can chisel a man down to nothing. I have seen it in motion. The cracking of some inner moral wall. You don't wan to let go. Then persistence beats you down. Suddenly you feel raped and nervous. When you let that one person do that one thing your not supposed to let anyone due unless it's pre-approved, pre-stamped, in the rules. We hate to say no because this is a yes world. What pacifist pansies you all are. While I'm no different. I don't want to fight. I don't want to work. I want to build little bits of nothing, block by block, word by word. I don't care about people. So I get to the highest pedestal and cry the outrages of humanity. I bury myself in pop culture and scream that the television and radio eat us away. I wear the dirt of a hundred generations, and say I feel old. When do these contradictions go. When do i feel good being nothing, no one, don't care, so long? When does the nice way the light comes through my blinds feel nice again? When people kill themselves, there are those left who can't figure out why they would want to get away from them. That's why I put Hemingway at the head of this little strip of bullshit. He was a man who probably understood life and it's intricacies far better than I ever will. He shot himself in the head. When your father does it I suppose you may feel a tugging in your blood to end the insanity like he did. You have to think about death or you lose something. You lose that which makes you. You lose the true breath and reality of living.

As the happier of man

I diddle in this, dabble in that, sketch and skew, spin and sew, and shit on everything that I do. Scantily clad, gawkily bad, dangerously down, damper and disgusted, my give a damn is busted.
Part of us, a piece of me, I burn a house, plant a tree, volunteer, charge a fee, nothing here is ever free. I Part the waves, flood the gate, miss the bus, always late, gone downhill, in a tizzy, this weak booze makes me dizzy. I pop a pill, do a line, smoke a splif, and take my time, I get up and up until I come down, by that time no ones around. I scratch and bleed, I tear and gouge, I rage and break, I scream it out loud. I hate and I die, I live and I lie, I waste and I sigh, I just can't get by. I bitch and I moan, I'm sappy and I cry, I'm jealous and greedy, God I'm so fucking needy. I'm broke and I spend, I'm out of control, I'm wandering nowhere, nowhere left to go.

Doesn't fail

The dust settles and my mind doesn’t. On edge and on the edge of disaster my body pumps adrenaline. Blinking eyes, beating heart awake and aware. Traces of nothing cut through the corners of my parallel vision. The sounds at night from far away sound like the rumblings of rockets and I’m ready to react. The clicks of the doors down the hall tell my sleepy mind to be ready for that person causing harm to come to my room so I need to fight. The shadows and blankets, the creaking of the old floor make the dazed fear in my mind so much more alive. I sleep and dream of destruction, of devastation. The creases in my brain and neurological paths are where my scars hide. Where the memories last and the feelings are alive. There is so much emphasis on the soul but I can’t pinpoint mine. I think it’s somewhere in my youth before I realized what the world was like. I hope I didn’t do this to myself, I hope it’s not just me and my infinite egocentric parade. Where the floats are all dark on a dismal dreary day. When the children cry when the clowns all have frowns, and cotton candy tastes of gunpowdery sand. All the rides are deadly. No one ever wins prizes. The only thing we can count on is our fear, and it is nothing anymore.

Shaky Memories

Sometimes we drink
and we fall
we reach for anything to hold onto
but we only succeed in pulling ourselves down
into a place or a time where we never wanted to get to
we are weak
these bodies just don't know
these brains can't conceive
so pray you say
oh yes yes that's the ticket
the key to my salvation
is under the guilty blanket of sin

Our Father
that space between knowing and not
who art in heaven
is filled with the reflection of our grand desires
hallowed be thy name
self love and the ego
when kingdom come
disneyfied versions of death
thy will be done
absolute control freaks
on earth as it is in heaven
painstaking moments of regret and knowledge that karma has a plan

Don't give me bread I'm gluten free m'lord
can't trespass now everyone has electric fences
Violators will be towed
The lights go out, didn't pay the bill
everything is temporary
Amen
Amino Acids
Complex protein
Evolution
Me

Hearts are broken all the time

As I sit here I think that it's quite possible I'll be alone forever
No one can relate to me
no on can understand
what truths the darkness holds
what screaming fear does not give faith to
I think the alcohol on my breath stinks
this dorm room is shit
the people on the street are worthless
and I am alone
Full of pity for myself
Reviewing all of my life's insignificance and pain
one and the same
My bloodshot eyes stess to squint
tears form and I'm whole again
a being, living, dying, real life god fearing
I want away
I want far away
life is not worth anything anythinganything
I want to throw this macbook out the window
I want to ball tears
I wan't to taste the salt of loss and never had
the salt of work is not worth living for
I expire to myself
I extinguish all on my own
I call to the dark in mumbled recitations
of all the loss I have had dealt and dealt with myself
I want to push the daisies
I want to hold the dirt like a blanket
I want to not have to think or feel about this place, my situations, or my motives ever, ever, again.

digging me

It began with a mistake. I had went to art school. I immersed myself in art and culture malignantly. I rolled the dice and the gods have yet to shine on to me. I phase in and out of perceivable reality, and delve into personal abandonment. Sometimes it's hard to keep my eyes open. It's hard to feel for what is right. I am in debt to the world, and the money I owe doesn't really mean anything at all. It stands for the greed and indignity of the rich and powerful. It rides on the back of entertainment, necessity, and luxury. My debt rides on chance like a westerner in the street about to be shot down. There must be a direct link from tat to the heart. I hide I disguise my sadness as patience and rambunctiousness. I stare at the television which never brings me peace. I stare at the computer screen, and this only makes things worse. All the connections, the creations, distractions, and then there is me. I'm lost in a decent, forever spiraling downward and out of control. From the most structured form life has taken to the most sporadic and unsure. I fear the darkness that comes with indecision and procrastination. I find myself forever trapped between these things. I find my heart sore after re-sparking old things that just won't burn. I fear the emptiness of not having a god. I feel the shallow nature of myself, everyone, and everything. It doesn't seem that much matters anymore. The more you search, and want, the less you receive.

Ham on Rye

I've been enthralled with Bukowski. His words inspire and enlighten me. From the dank back lit bars and dirty streets he shows me there is some hope in life. Disposition means nothing. Making your dreams happen is the only truth in life. This dirty old man has grown words like flowers in my soul. I've watched "Born into This", a doc about him, three times over the weekend. I want to watch it again so I can know every intricacy of the man's life. Here is a sample, only a small fraction of an example of one facet of the genius that is Henry Charles Bukowski.

Dinosauria, We
by Charles Bukowski

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

Split

I painted the sky
thunderheads loomed
in each tiny raindrop
my sadness bloomed
I caught the cold front
heart does contract
waves of light
in solemn eyes react
perched on the branches
sparrows grew
leaves of the season
god there were few
i painted the ground
buried my soul
felt the pestilence churning
in the little black hole
teeth grind in a scowl
no stopping it now
harvest has gone fowl
no telling how
explosion, cracking thunder
it clings in my ears
it shatters my thoughts
breaks through to my fears
tension, intensity, relentlessly
bombards and discards.... me
no vision, no thought, no words on the page
no works in the halls not sunsets I gaze
no tears, no wishes, no hopes, and no dreams
those are all teases
for nothing pleases me
this pressure this passion
flow like broken pipes
into the page into my night sky
the darkness, the death, the shadows
I endure
waste no time in denying me
anything sure
and anything pure
this onslaught of actions
the lack there of
the putrid sound of silence
detriment to my love
still drops hit my head
seeping my own foul pain
the songs of desperation
all remind me of rain

Adult Fantasy Remix

Stare into the Fire

Grinding feelings deep in the pit
the more I don't care
the more I feel it
Needles of light
cut through dense night
the world breathes
Cool fog forming drops of neon and blue
dance, slip, hang on lamps and windows
Cycles of moisture
hold bonds of matter
with every drift, wave, and splatter
Agitated states
change the world forever
The sloth of our being
shaped moments together
Thin lines wash in and out of blackness
distant pictures of regret and sadness
O my frayed pieces!
I stomp the sidewalk
frantic solution
I stare into the fire
watch my minds polution