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.

God.

There is hope for a tree that falls,

And we cut down God a long time ago

Only to leave him there

As we wandered about in pride

Cutting down others

As a form of evangelism.

We hadn’t changed

We still put quarters in the machines

Hoping for dimes,

And were short-sighted

Chained to ourselves

And our minds

While

She

become a rose. 

apathy

What is apathy, but a natural response to pressue, to a sense of responsibility-- to the gnawing of the spirit compelling one to accomplish it all, to seize the day, and the resulting desire of vertigo, to fall.
To fall, to say, I can't; I won't, 
'tis to heavy of a burden, I am only part man, part dirt clod, trotting the earth heavily, for our shoulders hold boulders. Yet, we can always carry them together, but that was never our generations thing. Interdependence was a thing of cults and archaic societies, so we chose apathy as the ultimate form of individuality.

The Wasted Days

the wasted days

savage grace

no salvaging or saving

the preacher eulogizes

to the future

and harmonizes a past of certainties

for that’s all we can be certain of

our past

and the collective memories

I guess

that’s our Truth, our Bible. Our love

the moments were all we had,

for the moment.

The Widow

the widow

her eyes carried the rearviews

mirrored perceptions and we all

knew that she wouldn’t live

another year

clearly, she was dislodged from her body

when she heard the news

Knew that her soul would be homeless forever

Until, her lids dropped.

He was a good man.

Train Song.

Brand me a hipster, but never black

For that’s too heavy of a cross to bear

And I never had a choice anyways

So I slide sideways, between the

Color lines and bleed red,

White and blues. But this isn’t

News to You.

Knew that beyond the purview

Of us, there was no justice

Because we would just reincarante

Eachother, and just have more blues to sing

Efterklang, our modern drift

Had the draft of Slyvia Plath’s  baked head

For there were only carcasses in our wake

Up, we ran until our soles bled

Existential dread fed the mouths of babes

Watch us fall out of the zeitgeist

Swerve through purgatory

Middle passage immune system

Systematic theology Calvin

Klein Jeans ran through our

Family tree

Trunkated  wisdom, pulled out

And abandoned in emptied parking lots

Where tricks pull out tracks near the

Train. 

Burns Day

My theory is that wrinkles on one’s face directly correlates to the

 Amount of face palms administered in one’s life

Which is why I do a double take

When I look in the mirror and see that my face is still clear and

Without rivers crisscrossing my face like canals through Venice.

Yet, I know that I can probably blame that on my ass hands.

That is, my ass hands, soft as a Michael Jackson caressed booty.

Yes, the same Michael Jackson that has a female pork face,

Ala, Kat Williams.

But, he definitely didn’t let the cat-out-the-hat

 And don't ask me where his other glove is

I knew from a tender age, that Michael was a dangerous man.

When my mom played Thriller in our Berkley apartment I surerly beat it.

 And that was from a four year old living in Berkeley who saw gays on a daily.

I mean, they beat it too, but I wasn’t scared of them, like some…people

I was scared of MJ.

I hope from my face-palms I can rise like Fredrick Douglas,

 But I know that ascension mirrors pretention in some parts

Ambition is a lost art, our generation rides and dies to the beat of apathy

Because we don’t believe in the gum under our shoes

I mean, ignore it as we may, but that shit is still there

Now, I’m not trying to get you to pay homage to some pie in the sky

I’m just wonderin’ where the Ginsbergian howl went.

Because, I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by apathy,

starving hysterical head full of pride and ears of lettuce,

dragging themselves through the negro streets

at dawn looking for an excuse not to believe,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection

 to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

So , I scream fuck your ethnicity.

Because maybe we can start there.