Poetic & Spiritual Delinquency in the Modern Age

The day pulls on
not as harsh as being quartered
maybe just split in two

and the minutes run by
and I am robbed

I am robbed of the by
the butchers that just exist
and in thieve’s cant
they remind me, they mock me

they fire nuclear torpedoes
at my grass thatched hut

but its okay
I’ve been trying
to break free of this too

and I know I haven’t read enough
and I can’t write enough
and the days are stolen
like precious gems
cigarette butts
and spare change to the homeless

and I am robbed

the minutes slipping by
with the thieves of the night
along with my dishes, my books, my insanity

and I am robbed by them all

the toothbrush
instinct and hunger
lunch
and sometimes dinner

I am robbed by the dayjob
by school
strangers asking for the time
beggars asking for a nickle
phone calls, e-mails
women, coffee, wild animals

and the robbers never cease their bout
with my soundness of mind

and it seems like some sort of test
leading up to something, somewhere
some gross finale
some sort of prismatic rainbow of a conclusion

maybe a miracle or two
some sort of place to rest
but even then, I already know the ending

and I am robbed
even of the excitement and mystery of death

It seems like I’ve been around too long
and even then the words don’t come out right

a herd of lemurs in your mind racing with the night
and the fleeting and overwhelming feelings

a flood of dust with your evening tea
and by then the day has worn you down
and you remember every day why you have the blues

and you try your hand once more
to remember
to forget
to tie it all together
with threads that disintegrate
like the century’s brittle pale bones

threads that
lack purpose
lack poise
lack very little
and somehow hold it all

and you try not not be allied
with any causes

even the good ones

but it still falls short, chasing the
neurotic monkeys of the night
and the guts that have burned your wits end
and the day’s frayed hours to point out your madness

but nothing is a surprise among old friends
and I’m still here, and it has taken so long
just to get here

and like the dream I had so long ago, there is more form
and maybe there is some art to it as well

and the rest of the words are somewhere down the road
ahead of me
leading me on
and for what, I really don’t know
and for what, it doesn’t really matter

The last of the Skid Row Bars is waiting to be closed
and the bums still sit outside of Los Angeles Central
with their bottles in brown paper bags

and the library is waiting for one more fire
one more budget cut
to bid Los Angeles eternal good night

Far exceeding imitation dreams on Bunker Hill
past Los Angeles’ hunger
and the craze of the barren desert of East Hollywood
through bloody and broken chains
and bus stops made all around the country

Through expectations left behind with your ticket stubs
you found your voice, and you lent it to this impoverished city

Beyond the seedy side, bathed in a palm’s shadow or
glowing in brash sunlight or sleeping noisily through out the night

onward, to the mythic place where
its Stars, its Politics and its Attractions
all shine as a beacon
to let the world know that this is the place to be

and Its call is heard and the people come
but your Los Angeles is gone
what’s left belongs to someone else
and for them it’s too late

The commercial that is life here
is no more than a shallow feeding frenzy
And there is not enough to go around

The bars are closing, the hookers are disappearing
and there aren’t many places left to shoot new films

They continue to drain the life out of this city
and you were right old man,
“No rose will ever grow here again”

You know you’ve been at the office too long 

when you start calling all your clients

asshole or dickhead

Careful who you share your poetry with

they might just pay attention

be even more careful

they might just figure out it is about them

Assailing Forms and Reasons

It’s the forest at night
It’s the jagged cliff looming before the climber’s doom

It’s the world’s fleeting cares
And the fattest man’s lust

A funhouse of horror
Shackled to the duty of the peace officer

A vocabulary barely explored
And a stuck point

When the movie cuts out
When the CD skips before the song climaxes

And I feel it burning
And I don’t know how to make it stop

Like quick sand
A stick in the pig
Gutted with no new entrails
To replace the old

And I know its there
Out there
Somewhere, waiting

And it is a duty
To evolve beyond this

To thrash and scream
To break the truss that binds these dreams

to pay respect to your influences
and honor the dead

wtih an ultimate aim of surpassing even them
even yourself
to be unchained from any format or etiquitte
and leave them all in tomorrow’s grave

To assail reason and rhyme
And habit and crime and to murder it
With the nu-word
The nu-gospel, the only truth

It is a duty, to get to know one self
It is a job to evolve

Does it take more study?
Is it time to learn?
Or is neglecting mind best?
Where to say is the name and
The castles in the sand?
Evolution turning to dust in
Eternity’s fickle embrace

Forever is nothing
But where are the arrivals and departures?
What is the schedule?

I just don’t know how to get there at these times
Will giving up be the call to bring it home
A caress in the sack of a tantric love demon
A vicious gesture and turning it over?

Or does it require all one’s grit, all one’s will?
All the exertion and perseverance until your
Eye balls burst and melt away and
Through blindness, one truly sees the world

See all aforementioned articles, burn them
Turn off the TV, kill the lights, forget her, forget him

This job, isn’t certain
This job is not clear
And there are no instructions on how
To just get there

funny how we open and close our selves as we see fit…

Selectively holding on to a few, maybe even loving them, dreading to lose others, willing to be demonically possessive of some, possibly, and to ignore and maybe even despise the rest.

More interesting is how we choose some and some choose us

and in others, we find in each, a mutual solace

Like coming home

Some one you’ve already known perhaps

Like friends five life times old,
Its funny how these things can work

As time makes us whole and takes us to it’s next point…

Funny how we let some in from time to time, and continue to assume, definitely right in our judgments, that the rest should be kept out~

_____________________________

I prefer to just lump ‘em all together, to not discriminate…to not recognize individuality, if there is any at all

it’s easier to ignore and dislike ‘em all this way

and hopefully this is all a joke~

I am the prototype of a new man

a reconciliation in deficient personalities
warped social senses
and religious bewilderment

a testament to what is possible under the gods’ eyes

an accident, a freak, a real individual

complete in antiquity and new life
in new generations and in new strife

extremely flawed, broken down and rebuilt
the new prototype is not revolutionary
but perfect in it’s entirety of existence

accidental, and smooth
rough-cut and poetic

perfectly defective
in all of it’s fragmented miracles

dangerous and beautiful

but you don’t want to meet the millions made before this

if this one is hedonistically heinous and virulently volatile

than the ones that came before were obstinately obsolete

complete failures, a field and a pasture that needs to be pruned

razed and burned
as room is made way for God’s new mutants

No news is not good news, it just isn’t news

and I could definately use some good news now

plenty to post, but no time and energy to do much of it now

so I guess I have to settle for

no

news….

Life for Life

When you can’t remember
your supposed trouble
you know the day has taken a turn
for the better

Funny, the trash you couldn’t deliver
on account of not knowing
where the dump is
was forgotten when
you began this trip

Then Night falls, and you remember
there are no freaks, just nature
You remember the
embarrassment of your own mortality
you remember you don’t know
and never have

You remember love’s transparency
pain’s jealousy
and what’s only seen in
the moonlight is lost in the
white, white day

You remember life longing for life
and all its attendant suffering

and that no one else
can do it for you