Perish Into

Monday,
December 19, 2011

7:34 PM

Happenstance.

 

 

Why do I wield the
blade that cut me? As I grip it I feel the wound in memory. That pain then was
proof to be, evidence which trained my empathy.

 

I know how the
victim feels, when I, villainous, make trauma real, for what else are the bare
intentions of one who holds a knife, concise, trim, implement, simplifies the
medium, and makes little pieces out of bigger problems, cuts little hearts into
shadows of involvement.

 

On my knees I truly
prayed, and asked faggot god, to switch my soul with the little baby abortion
to be.

 

That the baby should
live my life, happy and absolved of sin in a body that his father gave to him.

 

While I would perish
into nothingness.

 

In a fever fantasy,
the deal was done, and we were crossed as one. The premature consciousness of
such small life was his, now occupied the flesh and frame of strength and speed
in magnitudes of factors exponentially.   

 

The young child
cried out in a man’s voice, I feel the weight of the world on my facial
features, I smile and lift up the earth. Exclamation!

 

The new soul free
from the pains that brought this body to this place and time, seized the reigns
and made my tired limbs surge with wild power.

 

While I now, crammed
into a ovary, half-dead, asleep, a coma thinks, stop, barely, wake, long
enough, to rumble, thoughts.

 

Waiting for the
vacuum tube, the relief I was waiting for, would come with no ulterior dread.
Just non-being, just, …

 

And then I’m taking
birth, from the womb that I conceived me in, the light is red, the doctors
hands, the ceiling white, that devils grin.

 

My childs eyes in my
old skull staring back at me to believe he had aborted the procedure, producing
me another life to live,  I a new born
air-sucking, infant.

 

He was a better man
than I.

 

And I will resent
him for it, until I outlive him and watch the life peel off of the calendar
page every year on the day he died, drinking whiskey and copulating recklessly,
I’d like to buy the next poor bastard a round of applause, so clap for damn
near anything, our fate is not worth mentioning.  

Recoiled Kiss

Monday,
December 12, 2011

5:49 PM

I wonder what it
feels like to tie the knot,

around my neck right
before I really do it.

I ain’t that
curious.

Merely mildly
interested, like the steamy flavor

of cinnamon apple
oatmeal eaten off the

flesh above that,
(little-monster-Goldilocks)’s snatch.

Just a tingle of
implied insight, want to crave the better angle

where I can see up
god’s skirt, and snap tweet pics

of Thongless-Sunday
pubic hairs, a freely flowing

+1 up-vote and like
talk about a hash tag. #smoke#ish

I don’t need the
uniform can reign hell in civilian attire,

carrying the
standard issue hole punch

bout a switch-blade
in length and as wide as my fist,

the girls really
seem to inventory it.

Your life is
meaningless because:

your sour grapes
dried up into bitter reasons,

the context of your
day-to-day is overly vanilla,

you’re too smart to
live love laugh and languish

like a
contraliberbarbarian,

pillage on like an
art star,

forage through the
foliage like you’re looking for a fuck,

I see smears, and
stars of devils , and the blinking wonder,

I’m mesmerized
staring right at it until

my eyeballs are
nullified,

not seeing,

but understanding

like an electric
wire

I’m on, bright as a
the setting sun

starring me down on
my evening commute

eclipsed by my
raised hand.

Twatted Admiration

Thursday,
December 08, 2011

11:26 AM

Sitting on a park
bench, sun on my face, and I’m eating a cup cake, white cake, frosted with
vanilla coconut shreds.

When an ex, a jilted
lover, turns her head walking by and recognizes me. There in that flash across
her face the hate, the contempt of my being is perceptibly clear.

This just as I bite
into the cupcake revealing the raspberry filling, the sweet joy of sugar
dopamine, I’m truly happy at a chemical level. And she can see it in my face.

This enrages her to
no end. That I dastard, evil deed doer that I am. Villainous scoundrel, rake of
damned devilishness, should deserve the bliss of sun, and air, and sweetener.

She was kind of a
bitch, so I savor the next bite, wipe my mouth and call out, “Do I know
you?”

She just shrieks and
runs off to pinball inside the twisted world her errant cunt fumigates.

I smile, I’d never
call her so foul so intensely to her face, but in the warming waters of my
sapient sentient  sea serpent, I feel
like she’s a real twat proper. 

Treaty of Will

Saturday,
November 26, 2011

6:37 PM

I idolize con-men,
drunk-drivers, and gamblers.

Dyings just a cunt
won’t let me buy her a drink yet.

Am I offensive?

A savage conditioned
to flinch

cries better worlds
than the one we live in

conjure up some damn
feeling,

won’t mind the
reality so long as she doesn’t have to listen to it.

I’m slitting
children’s wrists with a glue stick

basting them in
glitter and watching them bleed confetti

arts and crafts are
cut like whimpering teenage girls

fat farting heart
attack fathers, neutered in a nuptial

look at me, the
daughter-fucking dark knight

like I’m supposed to
anchor their tornado

 you’re the one that bought her a telephone,

if I was responsible
for this thankless sack of brittle bones

I’d let ’em pout
about it in a corn field,

where your wounds
leak the grease of hard work,

and they can learn
from the earth that there is

real worth and
significance

in chopping and
stacking and storing

cords of wood for
the winter that comes.

That’s the power of
individuals,

that maybe one woman
somewhere did something amazing,

but women as a
whole, ain’t nothing but

the plurality of
holes,

for they suffer so
well,

their toleration of
injustice,

boggles the mind,

they’ve been bred
for contempt,

the childless
suicide

breeds no followers

flowers in the grass
at the edge of a slaughter house.

if she let you get
this far,

you’d know that yet
men are far worse

cowardly objecting
to their role as

hero.

Bragging to their
diamond wives

at the extent to
which they can ass fuck other

harsh beaten dog
brained boys out of their money,

how they can roll
over for the top wolf,

the one holding the
reigns and designing the knives

at their throats,

men of passion hide
dreams of peace

and shy from
righteousness,

who grow portly and
strain to both be

and not be, as cruel
as they can.

I want to talk to
the person inside you,

not the cunt that
runs wild with your emotions,

or the stabbing
stubborn dick that controls you.

be less of the bitch
of the cock of the salesmen

less of the chief of
the title of the label of the namesake

and be the human
that we all have in common,

the one that shares
light with its friends in the darkness

you soft and hollow
heart of chalk dust

teach another
fucking primate how to shred ,

to edge, to bellow
the silence, to fly in the face of defiance

to last longer than
the hyperbole allows

and to seek and be
sought by that which by all rights

is owed them.

I bet you didn’t
know you have a favorite flavor of dissent

that you notate
isolation with a paradise grin

that what you want
is not satisfying,

when you have it
you’ll finally be dead,

and I’ll be off
somewhere

toasting ghosts of
muted microphones

and buying you a
drink.

Salute.

 

 

 

Damn Delusion

Sunday,
November 20, 2011

7:39 PM

I jitter jab grip
the handle and turn the knife again. It starts the car and memory flashes like
tail lights flickering.

I’m a brass ensemble
heavy on the lower tones.

Resonating thunder
themes until the lightning strikes.

You need a crash and
crater bottom catalyst, a dark horse capable of bucking wild and biting the
hand that sugar cubes.

I wonton inferno
rally I. The volcanic gestures of consolidated effort. Arrow tip point of
consciousness, I’m a vector of my best intentions.

Direction and
magnitude. I really do hiss through the stratosphere, I’m reading sketches set
signs as symbols of my own introspection.

Honesty don’t cut it
if you won’t ask the questions. Gotta be proactive actually dissecting nested
knotted actions.

It’s impressive long
term plans unfolding at the faithless intervention of your own self deception.
Rise up godless primitive, and be self-imbued, or ain’t you  an armor plated ace in blue?

I wrestle
rain-coated with you wet winded storms swirl our coat tails as the gust bluster
weather wiping water from our faces.

I settle sighing to
myself in the mirror. It stands to reason that I’m leaving my existential if’s
and or’s to bear fruit, if the sun’s going to shine, why not proto-synthesize
creations?

So I’m click clack
weave threads into the execution. It simulates the inch by inch appreciation of
the stimulated thinkers, it toys with our ideas and takes it for a tinker, hack
slash and thirst for altering our investigation.

Blunder younger than
the number. Tally count the occurrence of your better wonder of the emerging.
Surge freely like the river fiercely meeting rocky stones to erode continuous
circuit is the method and throughput is the goal.

Idolize the
demonization of grace. Exalt the release of breathe from your lungs, worship
respiration, inhale Zen fumes from your environments karmic engine.

Wield the infidels
zeal for distinction, his appeal to un deified instincts.  His precision of blasphemed details lets a
woman drive a car and governs justice in retail.

But function like a
flower blooming daily resting just as often.

 

   

A Foiled Thrust

Sunday,
November 20, 2011

6:41 PM

In the daylight the
hills shone green and bounding. It was a time of polished steel and woven silk.
Where the men were raised to be true, honest, and dignified. The women were
respected for their elegant wisdom and grace in character. This was the Land of
Lords and Ladies.

The earth was still
wild then, mankind was young and unpracticed in civility. Yet in the throng of
dark cruelty, men and women of noble principle rose up, recognized their common
good and united to rule the realm.

The Land of Lords
and Ladies

————————–

Casual Elapse

Tuesday,
October 11, 2011

11:33 PM

Can I signal seize
up,

muster thunder

gutter grease these
gears.

Infatuate the ennui,

dispirited ghosts
taking an interest in me.

Sweating specters
desperately perspiring.

 

Just a dusting from
the fallout,

must a been the
hallow cavern echo call-out,

that ruby pump,  heartily punch and gushing  now about

you scratched my
tougher hides, I smiled wide,

didn’t shy my eyes,
you saw the look of a man

happy healthy and as
wild a ride as you’re likely to find.

Now that the valve
works, watch the blood flow

turning on the
pleasure put the details in the ledger,

I could fill the
hours twixt midnight and morn with all you don’t know.

It’s a slow show,

I’m making
everything now, like the damn globe broke

and the earth needs
somewhere to be,

all of creations
gotta have me.

Putting the grass
under your ass and lighting farts

to let you know the
fires fanned,

the flaming asshole
of so-and-so

made the papers,
headlines and newsfeeds

reading at the
breakfast table, soon as I’m able

got these two broken
arms I got for

talking about how I
got my two broken legs sore,

but at least I still
got that civic debt to pay,

voting the other
way,

elect the right
white man

or the business dry
up all the

handout graft it
certainly can.

Now the bills come
due,

I got the message
you

are the
re-pig-fugly-uck-icans

elephant
industrialists, sarcophagi posture pederasts

and you’re here for
blood, chains, and salvation

you won’t secede
control, but you might make a donation?

I see you
greedy-eye-ing my kidney,

gotta take it from
me fighting,

knife blade sharp
side with and against me

ain’t got no problem
taking you to hell

cause I’m excellent
vacation company.

I’m slippery, no
butterfingered prison nanny can hold me,

I torture torments
that turtle shell dormant

until the sick
moment when your vulnerable worm hole

brains gone err-ooo,
you’re fleshing out solutions of abysmal

killed your iron own
side, ego master mind mink coat on the rack

steam press the wax

defenseless estrogen
the suicide pill before the battle lessens

lunar charts a war
path in concrete you scream in abstract

heirloom ramblings,
the fixtures are shaking,

glass reverberating

the shrieks of a
murderous wren restrained

by the modern woman

best as we tamed
her,

oh wife how we named
her

trumpeteering
trollops maestro

occupied by
occupations, I conduct my affairs

with secretaries,
veterinarians, dental hygienists and the occasional librarian.

Wouldn’t want to
reference something

I left on the shelf

excluding all else,

I live for the elf.

 

 

Sweet Twang

Saturday,
September 17, 2011

7:17 PM

Ran off with my
ears, sounds cheeky, so I smile whitely while I shaft you  nightly.

Eww for gross, good
taste, poor choice, your sick lamberts, not bright enough to floss your potty
mouth,

Drawn like butter,
born to drizzle, melt my shine,

smack your lips,
syrup-syrup,  hissy s.o.s.’s is best for
a rescue ,

Gristle slipped and
criss-crossed the concourse,

I’m petty, in
staccato octaves to boot,

I other one the
Ottawa and must of meant Toronto.

If all the sniffle
snouts waft us

from the mist hot
spitting off the pasta

still mucky steaming
up from the cast net colander,

then I’ll holler
fe’r to calling you to dinner.

I prittle prit pat
the pattern activate. I peek past the histories and we last from persistence
press perks up and prints coupons for the trash they’re selling, audience
establishes continental expectations, gotta draw the line so long and round
that the fence will come out even bigger ever the border we cross is the fringe
we name with ecstatic discovery re-founding the native civilization and
stretching our legs like we own the place we put a man on the months third
Thursday and we celebrate the second grade and never learn any fuhrer further
even though the light touch chicken hawks feathered a few prez who certainly
came home to roost with the foxes like he figured out how to finance his
entitlement, and we voted for a videogame where the angry birds steeping in a
kettle party on and explode the foundations of their missing eggs and abortions
legal bitches, register their litters with the legislature, neuter the senate,
spay the congress, elect the meaning of the mis-information and interpret your
government however you like, ride on Harley anarchists, so easily bought off by
cocaine and bar-rooms,  maybe you’ll
sober up and king George like the rest of them poor dogs porch tied and picking
all the pictures where the premature babies looked the alivest, are you a funny
troll now scowling all the hounds of heart taint and stuck with needles
bleeding necessary in order to let life leech and complete, engorged on the
poison pumped in your veins, the vampires are dizzy and sloppy as hell, might
just make it obvious and enslave us in the day-light, like a prom queen
finally, for once in my life, fire bombing the embassy just when the explosion
smoke blows bits of her perfume and she asks me if I want to just give in to
chaos, ride outta this casket trashing the powers above and around us, just
because we oughta, winning one for the individual who cares not about the
repercussions of society, it’s the enemy, and I don’t even consider saying no
to a pretty girl, wants to give me an excuse to lead a revolution, and let the
bones roll, fight hard for as long as I can find a reason, cutting down bridges
just to make the rats swim, plastic floats, spraying all the law offices in
kerosene, showing justice to a lost cause and giving the poor peoples
collective memory lasting scars I want to watch the battle roar from the hole
in the wall of my living room, when we’re fighting in the street for no reason,
just because we got a message, it’s over, rabble on, fierceness takes it in the
last impact of the gavel strike is irrelevant, that the law is actually all the
violent possibilities of force in the hands of lesser men, ordered by the
primal need for dominance that obvious, animal ideologue barking but they line
up for a talking dog, so thanks for the designer camouflage, now lets get your
slaughter on.

The old man buttons
his cardigan, sips his tea and says, “Savoring the feelings of a young
man, wish I had a reason in my time.”

 

 

Old Teeth

Saturday,
September 10, 2011

2:17 AM

It was only a matter
of time before 8 twenty some things, young folks, as they’re called, seated
around a fire, drunk and stoned out of their minds, and on the eve of the ten
year anniversary of 9/11, only a matter of time until they start talking about where
they were that day, what happened to them, how it crippled their child hoods,
the way it reminds them of their parents divorce, the realization that adults
were and still are scumbags, none of them had so much as threw a punch before,
estrogen in the water maybe, mind control, government conspiracy, life is just
a bunch of assholes taking turns fucking each other, so they got high and
boiled salt potatoes.

Un-employed with a
glass pipe, cashing out the Department of Labor ATM cards, paying Bank of
America $4, from the fee on an un-unemployment debit account, where weekly
money makes it way, 1,200 a month between 3 people in food assistance, waiting
for a pending court case, grilling shish-kabobs, chicken, baby corn, water
chestnut, credible non-specific evidence that we barely exist for real, so
meaningless reports that another attack is planned, D.C., NYC, and no one
admits it but some of these intoxicated humans secretly wish that something
interesting would explode, maybe a church.

Because some humans
became cast as jaded nihilists when they were 13.  When the sanity they had left had no context
to frame the decay of our better selves.
Was it post traumatic or actually, the whole event just a name, nay even
a catalyst, for the dark realization that we had lost our childhood. Queue
social turmoil, gaze awkward at the prettiest girl in school, white flowered
dress and her cocaine change purse, pledging the flag while she’s half in the
bag, like it means something other than Hail G.W.B. W.M.D.

All before we could
learn how to drive drunk, watching our parents from well-buckled seats, letting
me know that they cared enough to strap me in, that they had done the
calculation and decided that it was safer for me to be latched while they
swerved through the lane. They gave me great strategies for coping, because I
can scream louder even without the correct point of view, I can assume wrong at
the hands of a civilian, who votes like the sun’s not going to come out
tomorrow, has 4 years, has 8 years to wait for salvation, for the
optimistic dream is one I’ll sleep late for, until we woke up and realized,
that one man, even one of our best, can not heal the corrupt cruel minds of
scared old white people, who are famous for raising a bluster, bursting their
hearts over high blood pressures,  and
spoiling the good of the upbringing of their children. These damn republicans
want us to just buckle up, and we just want them to drive sober.    

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.

 

True Confessions

Wednesday,
August 03, 2011

2:52 AM

That I’ve avoided.

Oh last year. The
winter of the newly arrived 2011, January.

I entered the
deepest and darkest depression that I have

ever known. I
flirted dangerously with acts of self destruction.

I self medicated
with illegal and illicit substances. I drove myself

into a shell of
isolation and bitter neglect for self perseverance.

I gambled, drank,
smoked. I refused to talk to loved ones.

To visit with
relatives. I gave up. I sought the absence of my conscience.

A girl/woman I
loved. Truly. Whom I was with, together were we

for over 3 years.
Left me, I left her, we said things, we hated, we loathed, we loved, we cried,
we talked, we kissed, we pretended that none of it had ever happened, we were
viscous, sweet just long enough that it would really hurt, and in some ineffable
pit of emotion, we knew both that this was true love, and that we were not
ready, that we were squandering it, that it was wasted, that we were wrecked,
and we tried to get out and back in, and we have the wounds to show for our
months of meandering indecisions and our moments of callous decisiveness.

I had not recovered
from my taught and tearing heart strings. I rejected all attempts to save
myself, I threw myself upon any and all rocks, from every available cliff, at
heights that nearly proved fatal.

I found pure good
happiness, and I savored in its presence, and I squandered to avoid it. I did
nothing right, and steered towards and away from love, I was hurt, I was
reckless, I hurt others.

I failed three
courses, abandoned my studies, to this day, am unsure if my academics are
salvageable. Though I am trying. I am renewed, in that I feel strong like when
I was still in control, I feel real like when my books ran black with ink. I am
making plans, I am setting goals, I am keeping promises. I am healing slowly. I
am staying fit, I want to succeed, I am true to form, avoiding the consumption
of the bitter substances which haunt my desires. The future replaces my longing
for the drugs. I must be consistent. I must maintain the steady course.

I crave sex, and
emotion, but seek it in the light of an honest rightful nature.

Will not throw my
hungry eyes to dark pleasure, though I be young, and wild and crave the astray.
I am the vessel of an old man of gentle wisdom, who is waiting in the years
ahead, who is measuring his blood pressure, who is stretching his arms and
legs, and who holds the small hands of children who share his name, and the
spark of light reflecting in their eyes shines out to me now, and I am eager
for their joy.

I take control of
this only slightly worn automaton. I seize the reigns, and emerge from the bare
fabric of a simple wicked creature, I am conscious, I steer towards safer
harbors. I am responsible. I am not the deposed ruler of Egypt, behind bars and
failing, I take spirit from the Arab spring, those that must now create for
themselves from their wildest imaginations a future worthy of their
opportunity.

Rise and be well. Do
good.

I love you,

 D. Edward P.

Rather Naught

Sunday,
July 17, 2011

4:21 PM

If all for the
freckled identity,

in debt with free
castration.

I want to get
renditionous  with my claims.

A perch, a peach,
incidentally all false families

intensify the
abjugate,

vernacular springs,
leak ventricle

unwashed utensil

must ask attention

brittle little
reckless red-headed hydraulic valve pump,

ain’t she fetching,

won’t ever cast
doubts on

what you mean to
say,

got intention,  sight out destinations

but stubbornly

can’t stand face in
that direction,

so in a second let
the which way take you

if a better
understanding were available

why did I speak
ancient angles

trajectories of
bitter wordlessness

starving harmless
under water gurgling’s

eating etymologies
and passing the yolk

to any Tom, Dick, or
Jane that dampens my wick

and would care for a
smoke.

——7/25/2011 1:07
AM

In the effrontery of
your angry moments,

I make you
invalidate the meaning of your passion.

With a child’s rhyme
and the twist to suit,

I render the stem
from your apple-core.

Now doesn’t that
feel better(hollow).

Because the truth is
often more shallow.

You’re a creature,
or so you think,

whatever navigatory
phrasing necessitates

the required
actionalability of self- permitance.

What you let
yourself get away with,

parting from the
Devices which entertain you.

Splitting would
require two hands

 to get a handle on the axe

The furnace if fed
another log,

burns on, and on,
and on.

I don’t care if you
never clean this one up,

the nurse is not
fond of this Dr.’s patience,

who put the phantom
you fell in love with

to bed some time
ago?

What tucked him in
and knocked him out?

Excusal dreamt him
up some butterscotch,

now we is the wan
ton printing

eat the impersonal
cookie,

believe the nonsense
of your wisdom,

if you tell me
things such as,  rue the,

might those days
prevent it’s subtle comprehension.

 

These Walls

Monday,
July 04, 2011

2:15 AM

As a matter of
fact,  I’m feeling manic.

Queue unshackling
cackles of unchained cacophony.

If I were blind
still would I have seen it,

made so tame the
standards of derision,

that too, all as
well, the rain unfolded,

the water wasted on
the symbolism,

defeatists daunted
by a thunderclap,

arise generations
redundant to the aftermath,

counting the
Mississippi’s overhead of me,

feigning knowledge
from the wisdom

of story tellers and
firecrackers,

detracting from the
planar view,

seizing flat lands
where grass and grain once grew,

until the failing of
the thoughtlessness

the tide rose, a
thorn, a fragrance,

mistaken forms of
woe and awe was this

the object force is
facing us.   

Brace yourself for
this.

Time Displace Ya

Monday,
June 27, 2011

1:19 PM

I’m tuned in to this
moment, waiting for hell to freeze over. What I want to tell you, is that you
can live forever in a single instant. I live ten years every time you count ten
seconds.  I perceive the eons  of the every-day, I could count the moments
on a calculator with a single Monday maxing hex memory hashing out past the
32nd bit.

The worst part is
conversation, hate it when I have to do the talking, having to make the same
sounds for hours as nary a single thought fails to express it self so elongated
along the elocution line.  LLLLLIIIIIKKKKKEEEEE      TTTTHHHIIIIISSSS…..

That’s why I don’t
believe in time, change seems fast but reality is slow, depending on your
salience flow.  Perspective doesn’t
participate in anything more than hungry observation.  Your experience of a situation relates upon
an organized framework whose temporal cues are constricted by the context of
your life-sum total.  If the weather
weren’t  merely a brush stroke, if
pressure weren’t the cause and also still the end result, the narrative would
yet exist in the tension of your tight rope, that’s your heart string the fates
sever with a knife stroke,  the measure
of the nearest hair-split trigger photo finish by a nose is enough data to
relate the cell-at-a-time construction of the myriad microbial growth.

Data ain’t fast
enough because the equation’s already been computed in the sense that
probabilities estimate a continuation
which is most consistent with our lack of comprehension.

The speed of
function is implied to be the physicality of the numbers crunching.  Constrained by the stain of friction  in our overly repercussive universe. You can
choose to infuse the dream of meaning with a bank account compounding interest
a la the pipe dream the turded computationalists call infinity. I’ll be caught
countably  deep into a “never ending
loop” that breaks free when the powers cut. 

So keep taking
pleasure as you sit and watch the ‘random’ pattern of pre-destination deal out
52 unique cards, are there enough permutes of combinations to entertain you
until you die? There are limits to experience.

The
inevitability  of what’s already
happened, haunts the empty space. But you can live forever in an instant.  Keep that second hand perched on the breeze
of eternity, while you note on that moment, the decrescendo volume of a watches
tick as the echo fades from it’s persistence.

You all are living
dog years compared to my life. Not that it do me much good. Just a different
kind of waiting I guess.

Stark Raving Mad

Tuesday,
June 21, 2011

4:00 PM

I came home and
trembling, took out my contact lenses. I opened their case, sought my glasses
for that at-home vision, looked at myself in the mirror. I was that skinny
wordy nerdling again four-eyed skinny wordy nerdling.

Retreating from the
speckless eccentric, who feels the need to be social in a certain scene. Looks
more normal, speaks more plainly, wears blue jeans and smells of
aftershave.  I who acted in the affairs
of that cool self recently suffered trauma, real emotional trauma which came by
the hands of tense betrayals in twisted love affairs.

So, so, I’m shaking
now, typing in a cardigan, with my glasses and my  head-phones on. Zoe Keating’s Legions
orchestrating endlessly on infinite rotation album all. Frantic at the blasted
keys and trying to make sense out of any of it. Hoping that my cancer crab-like
shell of wordy hurting observations can pierce the strange experiences of my
former falsified social being, these personas I shed when they break down.
These are personalities I adopt to interact with other people. When they mess
it up, they are disbanded and replaced in favor of a newer better adjusted,
heuristically recalculated and truer estimate of a more successful outer-self.

What the fuck
happened? Is it strange shit, naw, just raw in the moment, see like, I met this
girl, Aprile O’Neil, was hanging out with her, just friendly-like, no naughty,
and she started telling me all this shit about her one-time fuck buddy, Chet
Scuffter. It turned more into she’s like obsessed with him, but he don’t pay
her no mind really, and turns out he an outright asshole in the sense that he
got fired from a sweet art museum job for not being able to show up to work on
time on account of the late night drinking. But he did try to do 15 hour days
on no sleep but went off track rather quick. Got fired and avoids his friend
who didn’t fuck it up and he even got a promotion. Also turns out Chet is gonna
get evicted, cause he had a room-mate moved out and now Chet can’t pay his
rent, and Chet doesn’t have a job, but he does help out a kid make music
videos, says it’s his day job. The kid he helps is a fricken hip little shit,
synthing out trance style pretty solid verses of sly menageries, he go by the
stage name East, Fly West.  Aprile O’Neil
telling me all this for one reason, probably one reason alone.

She’s making Chet
jealous, I mean come on I’m a decent catch, but the three of us outside his
house talking, brought me there all of a sudden when we were supposed to see a
movie, under the guise that we needed to borrow more Frolf discs. It was true
at the time I had never been Frolfing, but still I played it cool, Chet and I
sitting on his porch, a peace pipe passed, were talking, sharing things we had
in common and we both had understood, just from looking in each others eyes,
that we both were honorable men. For Chet did not know, that Aprile O’Neil had
told me all about his recent failures. Then as we were thus so laughing,
exchanging stories, and  very much aware
that the lady was playing us, but still
we were of like mind and didn’t really care.

That was until April
O’Neil blurted out, “So did you get evicted yet?”. Chet immediately
lurched forward from the porch and said, “I’ll see you later” and
stormed off into the house slamming the door, a house which earlier Aprile had commented
‘stunk of mold’.   

We, Aprile and I,
walked back to the car and drove off. I was seized with emotional terror. You
see men have all of these built in emotional triggers when it comes to women
and other men. I was tensing muscles in case of confrontation, I was nervous,
anxious, and alert. I was consciously overriding these emotions, knowing that
“There is no need to fight” which is what I decided I would yell if a
skirmish had arisen. Or if forced to defend myself I would at least recall the
soft fleshy areas I would strike, throat, nose, eyes, ears, kidneys, and that
to crush his knee or ankle would assist in my fleeing on foot. Just get the
right leg, because he could still drive after you otherwise.

So we’re driving,
she’s emotional and the car starts swerving, just a little, the machine has a
cracked windshield, no passenger side mirror, and she says the cement pulls the
tires in either direction. She looks at me instead of the road and says, “Let’s
play Frolf.” The car is switching gears at 45 miles and hour, all day
complaining about her blurry contact lens, I’m still scared, stomach turned and
just to make it easy say, “Oh Yeah, Sure.”

Which then I
immediately realize is not what I want to happen at all. I have no intention of
rescuing this girl, I might stand up for one who wasn’t quite so manipulative,
but this tricksy vixen scares me still, I finally speak up.

“Though maybe
its best if we all just go home right now, and you can figure out what you want
to do.”

“It just came
out, I didn’t mean to say it.”

“I thought
maybe you made a mistake. It was on your mind, but you shouldn’t have said it
like that, especially in front of me. That information could be seen as rather
personal.”

“It’s just I’m
still mad at him, he always attacks, me, he blames me for why he can’t get
motivated, I’m sick of it, sometimes when I’m mad I just say mean things. This
is what it’s like when your conscious and your sub-conscious don’t agree.”

“Cognitive
Dissonance?” I ventured.

“Yes, but at
the emotional level.” She made obvious implications that she had read some
psychology and such that she rationalized these be-deviled compulsions with an
amateur prognosis determinism.

“Well, what
ever you decide to do, its probably better if we don’t play Frolf first. It
might be that anything you did after a game of Frolf would appear less genuine
or  more insincere”. I was trying to
dodge this game with honest clever wit.

Aprile scrumpled her
face and began to drive me home. I relaxed and sipped from my canteen, there
was mango juice inside it, and I must admit I felt empowered by its sweet
goodness. I was also simultaneously quenching my thirst, and reflecting in the
fact that I would soon escape from this tumult.

Stopped at the
light, a zoo advertisement involving a very large tiger sticker stared at me
with its fierce and magnificent eyes. It’s tiger  face, straight whiskers, and proud tooth
showing smirked at me in the sense that I knew what it felt like to be seen as
prey. The tiger face lingered in the longest red light of my human experience,
and I shaped my face quickly matching it’s stance, mirroring the predators
impression. Somewhere my future self was taking notes. Until the cars moved,
and we were driving again.

She missed my turn
twice until I verbatim gave step by step instructions. Which she followed
automatically. As I left the car, making sure to leave nothing, I turned and
spoke.

 

“Well thanks.
We should probably just take a few day or so, to do what we need to do. So I’ll
talk to you later, if ever, who knows. Bye.”

I walked inside. I
took off my contacts and FUCK.

What if she really
is just  a poor girl trying to escape a
bad situation, and she doesn’t know that she subconsciously lured me into the
equation thinking that I was someone who should have recognized the objectively
poor condition of this buffoon Chet, and spoken up explicitly in positive
re-enforcement of her correct judgment that she should leave him entirely.

I had given Chet the
benefit of the doubt, and had looked into his eyes man to man, and determined
that he was somewhat honorable. This man who was so short of character, knowing
what I did about him, its possible I was fooled by a  persuasive wretch of a man, its possible,
dare I say it likely that my judge of character was askew.

 

If we were ancient
stooping men, we would fight, and if he truly were weaker of heart and mind,
I’d defeat him, and Aprile would perhaps begin psychologically weakening me in
ready of when she again sought a newer stronger mate.

These questions
became irrelevant when I heard a strong pounding on the door. I had used
scissors twice that day, once at lunch to cut crab leg shells, and just moments
before to open a bag of dried cranberries. Their sugary resin was on my fingers
as I sent a text to my host, the friend whom I rented a room from, Nelson
Glidden.

The text signified
my agreement to substitutionary play on his fast-pitch hardball baseball team.
I would have to leave immediately, and bike there, then play in a game which I
had hardly practiced in some years. Team sports are their own kind of stressful
excitement in the minds of competitive men.
Now I was in a rushed state of mind to get to one. I could not see
myself as a man, if I could not play through my emotional turmoil with a good
godly game of baseball.

I quickly put on the
uniform, the real major league style uniform. Stirrup pants, cleats, the
uniform tucked in, with a matching elastic belt about my waist. I straightened
my cap, and hiked up my socks. I slipped my glove into the center of my back at
midwaist .  I got a text from Aprile.

“Chet said he
was just nauseous. He ate chicken broccoli pasta earlier that sat out for 3
days.”

I replied, “Oh
that’s good.” I filled my canteen with water. Another text.

“We’re gonna
come pick you up for Frolf.”

“I can’t. Made
commitment to Nelson.” Were they both coming over here? This was too
strange, I had no calculation for why they would both want to come over.
Especially so soon, unless he really was just nauseous, and they really did
want to play Frolf.

“We’re already
here let us in.” Aprile texted me again.

Oh shit. They were
there in the drive way, this was too much. I locked the door, I shut two
windows. The only other person home was Nelsons wife, a bookish woman of a
humble nature by the name of Roe.

They started
pounding on the door. Aprile had been with me at the ATM earlier, she had seen
me take out $300.00 it had been my banks only ATM in town, so I had to stock up
on cash in advance. Aprile had been in my room, had seen my laptop, my GPS, my
freaking mp3. Was she robbing me?

Roe started yelling,
“What’s going on?”

Aprile and Chet were
kicking the door in. Chets friend from the band was there, we later found out
that they were all high on methamphetamine. They were definitely trying to rob
the house. Roe was crying and scared. I just stood holding my gear bag.

If you’re like me
and think the story should end here, just quit reading. But if you need to know
how it really ended. The plain facts are here further exposed for you. That is
of course only if you believe that there’s any truth in statistics.

I unlocked the door,
gripped my ball bat, smashed both Chet and his friends in their right knee cap,
and then threw Aprile into their rusted Isuzu. She drove them from the drive
way, I apologized to Roe only once, locked the door and rode to the ball field.
At which I batted 4 for 5 with a triple, a double, 3 RBI’s and 1 hit by pitch.

No one ever spoke a
word about the violence, and today if you asked Roe about it she’ll say she
‘heard a noise’, but it was just the phonebooks getting delivered.

Eager Chores

Wednesday,
April 27, 2011

4:04 PM

4/27/2011 4:05 PM

…and
so thrusting the bitter breaks the space.

In the every-day
ether, the medium is the experience
between we the perceivers,

any flow from our
writhing gut-checks the instant with a zero sum-cycle loop reduction

to assuage the
visceral of immediate-reaction redacting contractual synapses.

Snare drums
clickity-clack, at a tatters tattoo, rat attack, at that a soot panting  pre-amplified pattern actual, Champagne.

Hard pride am the
man who stands before you, never had a chance to go after the grail or grow
oranges.

With a face like 60
years of waking up still tired, grim lines abrasive to time, as if it could
only be conceived so simple if my arms were enough to fight back and strangle
the personification of

bland cruel
worthless universe wanking our souls on to an empty canvas with no frame, and
no statement, just animals comparing the taste of their favorite foods to the
feeling they get when their bodies betray them, like nearly stomaching the sour
flavor of rancid corn spiced with gristle fat from non-dharmic creatures of
lifelong containment, and its stuck in my teeth, what a smell, the decay inside
you.

6/3/2011 8:58 PM

For a free metered
mode of expression, It’s completely unlikely we ever stumble across the context
fence post, which divides the line in the sand from the unifying sedimentary
consolidation of pressured compactual’s, crystalline unhindered by the contact
of like mounded molecules indifferent to the metamorphic, thinking about
changing shape, you could relate to concrete abstracted by wet cement chaos
interactions, child sized hands, life was here, then it dries up, and all the
while the igneous down at city hall funnel money away from roads and sidewalks
to buy hookers and wet cocaine.

6/13/2011 4:34 PM

Not today, a little
line, g o  s l o w l y.

Wilt offends the
better image, photograph of a gondola, cart on wire,

the mountains
between the fore and background makes you think that space has meaning, why?
Because it’s bigger than me.

A light off write
off.

True.

7/9/2011 11:43 PM

Stop thinking about
me, please.