Progress

A metaphor is a metaphor is a metaphor.

Stein feeds off Nietzsche’s cortex

Regurgitation ad infinitum.

 

Supernovas come alive

Bodily as elliptical doves

Flutter forward.

 

Eyes crawl through

Language, the soul’s

Barricade.

 

Descartes smiles.

Skyscrapers

Every narcissist is an insomniac.
Skyscraper teeth slurred
Skyscraper delusions
...

Of grandeur.

There is no rest for cyclical
Aggrandizement
Hanging isolated
Like and Icicle , or a steeple
Alone.

Loneliness,regret and the dull pain of
Broken bottle relationships
Waylaid by the elixirs of pride
Poured out on the curb of eternity
For the world to see whom we chose:
Ourselves.

Because we spent most of our lives in the prism
Of overcompensation and over-masturbation
Out of touch with reality and touching all the wrong things
Believe me, if I could, I would take this bloody palm and
Make a dial, but I’ve swallowed so much soap in my lifetime
That my throat just vibrates empty consonants.

Consistently swallowing my tongue so that I can’t even cry wolf
And help myself out of this forsaken pit,
Or maybe because I’ve played wolf for so long,
Being a rabbit won’t manage, and outfit is too small anyways.

Can I just grab a hold of truth?
Which is spinning along side of humanity
Like a bowling ball looking for a pin to knock over
I’ve been hurling my own balls for awhile now
At the pins I’ve made of the world,
Maybe it’s time for me to assume position
And stand erect, letting the balls fall where they may

And be still and know that the world will not fall without me
And know that I am, that I am not, and in being not
I can finally be
Awake

Dust

Dust

Monotonies’ hunger pains

Gray dust spans

Reactionary hues added excuses

For believing

Crosses of intolerance

Slumped the others’

Shoulders

Bleak dreariness dressed

Faces

Sacrificed to dust dreams

Expo-life

My life rests in pieces of other people’s words, thoughts and ideas, yet I call myself a creative writer. Tennyson said that we carry a piece of all we know with us, like all those potential relationships that I have – rotting apples in my heart molding to form a fragrance within the aroma that I shower the world with. If I can find myself here, I will let you know, but who I am is a kaleidoscope of you’s and other I’s approval, for I’m a sucker for a kind word.

My life is not my own, I knew that long ago. But, there has to be something that’s mine? My memory, the camera in my brain replaying the moments that  I overcompensate for, yet, it’s mixed with a cocktail of my best friends’ story about his last girl and my own sense of pride and image. So, that’s not anything to trust, yet, maybe my past, what I have gone through and my experiences. But, it takes no philosopher to know that our past is the fabric of others fingerprints slid across the petri dish in which we live, oozing with the other molecules at the speed of light in the night of day.

I am not a person. 

Pop Tarts

We're told to eat slowly,

So it's no wonder that with

His pop-tart-on-the-go

With a long board undertow

He crushed the few women that came inside.

How can you blame him though?

Growing up on TV dinners, medical marijuana marches

And the rear view of many towns

He never settled, and so, relationships

Were seen as just another one of those

And compensating meant chewing with his mouth open

Without water, on the go. His esophagus,

 Shaped like a horse shoe made the pain

bang in his chest, like thugs.

But, the lightness was too unbearable

And love's avenue was too narrow to saunter

In unison.

 So he always led the way.

SLOW

                                DOWN

The signs flashed like tits on Bourbon

But he knew how to play hide and go seek

Alone.

English muffin hearts, buttered up with all the right words

Even if they were wrong.

For truth is beautiful only when it can be sung

And he was damn good accapella, but couldn't

Harmonize, her needs.

So she was crushed under the weight of his

Sense of control or a lack of

For, his whole life had been sand through hands

Now, he was just building sand castles

Foolishly.

Bixby

Under the Bixby

Pine altered thoughts

Flickering pixels and snowy TV's

Littered our souls with static

Movement, and jagged lines

Bore the flesh

Of sleep spent, In a haze.

Bixby

Under the Bixby
Pine altered thoughts
Flickering pixels and snowy TV's
Littered our souls with static
Movement, and jagged lines
Bore the grind and demeanor
Of sleep spent, In a haze.