Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Tumor

I’m standing on the tree branch
Of a cliff,
ready
to
tumble
Intoaswirlofmeltedcrayons
With SCREAMING banshees chewing
On
The kneecaps of my soul
And mad, mad hounds howling
For their supper,
So
Rip out my cancerous throat and feed
It
to the snarling
Dogs
at the mall,
waiting
To devour anything and
Anyone that
Might
bring them the empty
Joy of living
—Something they will never know
Until
they find themselves
dangling, dizzyingly
From the broken branches of the
Cliff.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Manifest Destiny: The Cuplrits of the Pulpits

Audibly I can say that I am indubitably that auspicious emcee unscrupulously dismantling these unctuously preaching trifles speaking to disciples of greed regurgitating blasphemy, man fuck bling, anxious to be something like we amongst the deities, but y’all you can’t swing from these trees your hearts’ got no root so just leave…

Before I drop words like autumn-gold, or spring growth unfolding in a hundred color morning leaving the dark cold empty winter burning in the paths of new life born of thee, a brief sojourn of glee, can we forborne the temptations of forlorn and avidity, holding dear and cherishing the blessed gifts of divinity exchanging currency for this bountiful beauty of the real green sprouting the prophecy of Whitman who declared that there is no death or Cummings whose breath exalted the leaping greenly spirits of all that is natural infinite and yes

Spouting out like incandescent radiance I kiss the blessed days of this grim lands intent they cleaved from men by cursed ways, leaving the lost and stolen and raped enslaved to a land once grazed instead now paved, while the hungry scrape clouds for a taste of the maize that once abound was plowed by the hands and feet of those who disemboweled by those who disavow what they did as thieves and say gee it’s manifest destiny as if it was meant to be by some hand of Adam that we can’t see that they take over from sea to shining sea and make us free, well minus the 2 million in cell block C, put away sight unseen by the same pushers who invest in grams of keys, who contracting policies skew ontology with ideologies of individuality when refined, defined, colonized, systematized, and itemized, we are identified and solidified as I, an I which inevitably leads to mine, and away from mind…

And soon the ayes are preoccupied with remaining blind to the sights and clime of a time crying for the rhymes of the sublime to unite the universal chimes of the runes of ancient minds whispering from the sky for the ruin of the industrial kind stamping out people on factory lines, rampaging our lives only concerned about the bottom lines and the top dollars whilst lonely scholars, bare-knuckled brawlers, and hard-working blue-collars get shifted like pawns in a game of chess organized to fill their chests with the gold lacking from their soul because they forgot so long ago this feeling of hope…

And no longer believe in anything save sleep, but the seas of the forgotten still dream and we the begotten still breathe and still dance to the sounds of drum beats and heart beats like aborigines embracing this mystery of our phenomenology, chanting and praying for the victory of our cosmogony of the incredible, indelible, ineffable and in other words the oh so simple ripple of kinfolk that unfolds the unending roads of the lotus bestowed and foretold by thee as our one and only real mother-fucking manifest destiny.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Uncle Sam Wants You!

Waking up in a cell I realize that all I have left is the sell—the pitch—the pander—the lie. I see it in their eyes—the people in suits who stole me from myself—the soldiers in boots who don’t ask but tell—tell me the truth that I just need to approve—it doesn’t matter whether it’s true because this world war is new—this world war is not about blood, guns, or food—this world war is a word war and it’s coming for you—we’re in the midst of an epistemological rift—the grand narrative has been shattered to bits leaving the powers that be in fear of revolutionary hits as they scramble to impose a new world order that fits the new world disorder with a brand new bit so they can break the mavericks and rein us in—this shit isn’t about terrorism—this word war is about building prisons in suburbs and shopping malls—it’s about exploiting the use-value of fear so that we devalue the truth-value of mirrors because self-reflection is a deadly weapon so instead invest our world in self-deception—we purchase lies—we rampage lives—working and feeding in hives—purchase power getting us high—we’re afraid of sin so we ingest their molestations of religion—it’s all about those family values—honor thy mother and father—love thy sisters and brothers—but I refuse to love big brother so the rats disembowel me—I refuse to love big brother so they wrap a metaphorical towel around me—but I’m proud to be a towel-head because symbolically it means my mind is sheltered from the reign of terror falling upon me—that’s right I called myself a towel-head because like I said this here is a word war and there’s no victory in throwing a P.C. fit—no—we need to embrace their taxonomic economics and flip the script—think of it as inverting the pyramid of the eternal class conflict—after all slaves built that shit—in every possible way—and now its time to remember that those hierarchical monstrosities of stone are nothing more than a tomb for the kings and I think its time to elevate our queens and put our faith in the womb—in life, beauty, and creation—time to turn away from kings, tombs, and devastation—but then I look around this room—this Guantanamo tomb—and see nothing but stone and then I realize that the kings have won—[that freedom no longer roams]—that liberty has been liberated, confiscated, recalculated, and fractionated—and that masks cover our eyes—so I stamp their document and validate their truth because that’s all I have left—the pitch—the pander—the lie—because truth is dead—there’s only spin, interpretation and relative points-of-view—and if there is no truth than what does it matter who or what rules—everything is a ruse—and perhaps that’s all that’s really true and maybe I should thank big brother because I finally learned just what is truth and it came from all their abuse—this here is a word war and Uncle Sam wants you!

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

The Spirits

Every drink kills a city of ideas
reverberating like an electric-city
of mad abstraction in the
subconscious landscapes of my electric
movie house. So, I drink again and
again—hoping that the next drink
will induce a blackout of
Enron-like proportion. I drink again
in the hopes of hushing
the world within and flooding
the whole goddamn thing
with the sweet ethanol
tides of Lethe unleashed. I
drink for the embrace of
shadows and the silence of
an eternal necropolis unfolding, so
that I might finally gaze at the
speckles of cosmic light harbored
above. I drink to erase the everything
so that only truth remains—that great big
nothing of cold, cold space. I drink to fill
the bottomless vacuum of a nauseous
soul's stomach. I pour this vodka starlight
into a translucent glass and gulp down
a hard bite of oblivion and then I do it
again and again.

The Oracle

Vomit still in
my mouth and
sewer water on
my feet, I take
a reverent sip
of day-old diner
coffee and stub
my stale cigarette;
The ash expires.
Surrounded by 5-cent
vices, I see
myself as I would
in a murky, motley
sludge of motor oil
and rain. How
did I become
this speckled,
darkened
thing?

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Little Piggies

Tonight, intoxicated, I
curled my toes around
the edge of her
table. Then it stuck
me. One day—these
toes—and this foot
will be
dead. Its nails and
curly hair will
grow no more. One
day my little piggies
die and so
—will I.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Purchase Value

Such a world that
pits a man's soul against
Pier One Imports. I don't
want home deco. I
don't want style. I don't
want useless
shit. I want useless
time. Oodles and oodles of
pointless reverie. I want
serene strings of necrotic
musings tangled throughout
my head. I want to stretch
strips of thought on nonlinear
trajectories like drunk laundry
dangling in a stoned wind. I
want warm solitude and warm
tacos and a warm tequila belly.
I want to moon about
beautiful landscapes with hugs
of sunlight kissing my neck and
arms. I want lonely nothingness,
soft rainfall, and thick nights
dappled with endless stars. I want
time--not stuff. Too bad this
world sells time for stuff or
else I'd be rich.

Devotion

Your fingernails became
lies the moment they
collected his flesh in your
passionate clawing. Your pupils
devoured the whole of your
eye when your truth
expanded to tell me of a
dream reality. Your ear drums
ruptured and suffocated the
sound of my voice as I
plead a hopeless love. Your
nostrils burnt from the acrid
stench of our twice-polluted
bed. Your tongue lacerated my
mouth and hung me like a
baby fish. Your life became
mine, for a moment flourished,
and then--
we both died.

Gesundheit

I feel my life unfolding
like a dirty tissue and
for the first time
I'm happy that I
sneezed.

ThanatEros

A limping wolf wanders aimlessly
through a lengthy gorge that sits
atop the world. Sunlight streaks the
craggy rocks to his left. Pours of
moonlight caress the polished stones
to his right. Walking tires him and troubles
his injured leg, but a secret restlessness
pulls him towards the distant horizon. He
howls helplessly at the cold, quiet stars—
never realizing that he's merely crying
upon dead light.

Stamp of Approval

Writing is the diary of life,
so how do I expect
to write
when I sit indoors all
day every day. This isn't
life. It's fear. A poet
in fear is an absurd
thing. It's like calling
chronic masturbation a
healthy sex life.
Perhaps, my poems
are a chronicle of
a slow suicide--a folding
inside. I'm a letter trying to
become an envelope (why?).
Getting licked is better
than getting
read.