Fictitious Lectures

Thursday,
August 18, 2011

8:10 PM

Because I’m fucking
fucked up!

Because I’m just,
just sitting here,

according to Sharia
Law gut-busting

Allah’s been feeding
me pepperoni.

He married Jesus in
New York in Holy Matrimony.

& J.C. Takes it
like immaculate anal receptive passive

crucified on Arabian
wood.

The odd couple wants
to get divorced,

Buddha annuls their
disjunction when they seek the truth.

Yahweh is a false
anachronism past skewed

evolution of the
better attitude strategy success

is shellfish: don’t
eat, reminds what it really is

a dress for men who
teach the tradition of what-this?

I’m a believer in
the false tool acting,

that our perception
is a petty pathetic half attempt,

foreign from a valid
subjective compared to the ample objective,

we’re misaligned
perceivers so ego warped survival pumping

our better angels
casting shadows in the hypothetic of our knowledge.

We’re Greek myths
even, maybe especially at the genius level.

Where light eats
speed and fades antiques.

We’re instinct in
synch peeks bleak cogniscence.

 

So truth combs over
balder failings.

The driving will
computes in higher mediums.

Calculating at a
level of idealistic freedom

floating like ghosts
over an ocean of superstitious

I’m just the peg
value set by  tougher  variables

acknowledged in a
lifetime fashion where my actions vanish

reappear as just
reactions.

Linger meaningless
is fate for every optimist.

And self defeating
succeeds just because

Beauty ekes the
seeking of something else,

a deeper freedom for
the soul.

Awaken I, third from
the middle center being.

The cycle focus
sleeps for us,

the dreams of gods
who greed and lust.

Assign a sin to even
dealings

where the weakness
pricks the profits

knicks at armor,

bleeds coin to the
coffer

prince dictates to
the pauper

who must believe the
news is fiction

propagated as the
info delivery

while the real shit
undocuments atomic war.

The devil cries
Encore! Encore.

I don’t weep this
late in life, advanced in years.

could you call
it  fear?

that any momentum I
lend through good intentions

redirects to the
third world murder death express

or at beastly best
stagnates as just animals slightly suffering less

so desperately
wanting for any kind of progress

that the bleak
intercedes on our behalf at our behest.

or is that how the
damn bourgeoisie,

rationalize the
acceptable suicide rate at their IPhones Foxconn factory

desire tucked inside
the poorest proles leaves them fighting

for the chance to
hog the scraps and still they rub it in each others noses

easy reason for the
robber baron not to care as if he could

except hope and ‘I
don’t know’, call it just a strategy,

lend a free hand
while we got one, smile at scowling strangers,

still assume the
spirit of justice might posses us even for an instant

and that giving up
makes the wrong people happy,

some may despair and
pray for salvation

I’ll settle for the
satisfaction

the simple fact that
not just yours and mine but any kindness,

perplexes the
triumvirate

amass, control,
consolidate.

Isolation not the
noble thing to do,

crunch the numbers,
I must be carrying the tarry-an

just want the
liberty to

fuck over common
folks without some liberal government official

getting in between
me and my rubes

I need a free state
where I can fashion my own fascist household

and there ain’t no
agency with any say,

bout how hard I can
turn the screw on my suckers

cause nepotism makes
sense to me,

my families
financial leverage serves as the fulcrum

to shift the balance
tip the scales in my favor

the only things I
understand, benefit me.

and those damn
spoiled brats dare call it a philosophy

but that’s how
knowledge works, who built the academy

you loan your future
to?

They give you sixty
some odd options,

 none of which will do more than study the
status quo

I’ve got a degree in
not complaining about the state of things

I’m graduating to a
jaded salary

at least I can
afford sushi, 

and save getting fat
in safety for if I ever run out of boners.

I guess to conclude,
ride bikes and avoid the police.

and you don’t need
all the shit they say you do.

 

ain’t a way around
it twas if an only it’s purpose, we are their plural people

I’d wager that more
folks understand the meaning of my common errors

than do your desire
for superfluous grammatical perfection

but, yes I recognize
the mistakes when Ii make them

and Ii reread
everything I’ve ever used to be,

better levers never
spoken, pulling letters together

maybe just as well
off doing push ups and practicing  my
shadow jabs.