My American Dream

I’m only 18 hours away; from finding truth. I’m only 18-24 hours away from being enlightened and amused. I’m only several days to a week away from being the best person I can possibly be. It’s not just random chance, I’m waiting for it all to come full circle and for the world to open its sleepy eye and say we found a fucking winner.

I saw you bright and luminous, and you made sugary promises to me. You told me I could have abdominal muscles and true love, with one simple machine. And you yelled to me;

Bla bla black sheep,
Haven’t you any shame.
All these blokes on QVC,
Aren’t they getting to your brain?

What do you lack in kitchen cutlery,
That keeps you all alone,
Surely if you get that bargain treadmill,
You won’t always be stuck here at home.

There is hope for you my chubby friend,
And it’s not in a face machine,
Because when you go out, we will make sure you stay out,
Or go home with a just of age teen.

So tell me the price of your happiness,
Before I fade to blue screen,
Just one chance, if you call in the next half hour,
Your credit card condensed to dreams.


I switch to talk shows… I wish I could put Popsicle sticks up all of their butts, and keep them in line, talking cheap falsetto over their voices as I solve their problems. It’s taken years of skill building with the ol’ remote in hand, but I consider myself a cultural commentator and veritable warehouse of human relation skills.

I could do it alone, but you will see how much easier it comes after I have read “Who moved my cheese?” I’m only a small excited jump away from unpacking my new lives from Styrofoam and flimsy cardboard, and assembling them with poorly translated Chinese instructions that tell me “do no use, keep out of children…” or some nonsense.

Laugh all you want, but ill be a new man soon. Women and stock buying powers. Sipping the ice of good life, what a solid American dream.

On Sleeping with a Human

The things I remember, I mean thoroughly recall; they are flashes of sights and sounds that shuffle like shaky movie frames, like dull light plunging headlong through diaphanous film reels.

They are the strange combinations of body chemistry or the succor of another person saliva, the sweet taste that her sweat leaves on my body. It is the rhythm of blood in my ears. It’s the texture of her breath on my neck or cheek, or the feeling of her eyes looking down my body over my shoulder blade.

Again, the memories are more of a stroboscopic rendition of my reality, pieced together with loose frames and poor lighting, sometimes missing a curve or with a hair out of place.

The pale lemon glow of her skin under the incandescent lighting. The stark hue that the human body takes when under lit, when on the fringe of good light and the envelope of darkness. The glow of flashed smiles and the subconscious covering of the body with movement and hunched shoulders.

All of these pieces have place, in the nonlinear crèche of the mind. In the perhaps bulbous entity of memory making and storing, the unkempt repository of old thoughts and passions, of untidy regrets and hopeless pursuits, all of these have their place. Though the strata may reveal unwieldy combinations and conscripted falls in personality, the faculties remain and waiting like a pervert in a snowstorm, drawing in all the bits he can with eyes closed, and when all is said and done opens his lids to think that he has changed the world. These are memories that border on precious and precipitous, that stutter between the curtains of fact and faux.

I try to write it down quickly, before I forget the minute details that have made the situation, and I hopelessly feel that with pedantic prose I can record the emotion and the environment to totality, so that if I am alone I can take another dose. So that if things were to change, I can grow and methodically piece together what remains, what can still be found growing in the pastures of distant history.

I could most certainly begin writing a Haiku for the simplest piece of her body, and how it inspires me. Something like her toes, or about the way her stomach folds when her jeans are too tight and she is bending down to retrieve her rumpled shirt.

I could try to sculpt in words, on how the air in our closed room carries a simple breed of dust, and how it in practice responds to the sunlight wafting in the high windows and speckles her cheek. I could draft out the somber song of many lonely mornings, waiting on a step, or looking at other people, knowing your doing the same, knowing I could be touching you.

That could be me in the bell tower, or in the park breeze. It could be you I see in the coffee shop with your nose wrinkled at the crossword puzzle and your teeth holding back the bag of crushed lavender tea. It could make one irrevocably frantic.

Images spliced, pieced together from the mounds they are clipped from. Tragedy embracing farce, tumbling this wheel into awkward jerky motions.

Love doesn't float

I found Love… She was left behind some nice Italian restaurant, beaten and battered. She was bunched up behind a crumbling dumpster, graffiti ironically commenting on the situation with a few prize four letter words. Laying there, holding her stomach, black eye up to the fading daylight. The cold brick alley lay somewhere in a blind spot of the city; only a bent light pole motioning me subconsciously to seek her out here.

She sat catatonically, coiled upon herself. Onyx hued refuse bags craned their necks over the mottled dumpster as if to scan her weakened body. I did the same, watching in shock, checking for subtle motions or signs of life. I caught a lung rising and quickly stopped holding my own breath.

“Love…”

I bent over her as she whispered, and as I pulled her frail and fractured body into my arms.

In a weak voice, she asked me to carry her to the river, to its muddy shores, and to throw her into the cool surging water.

I asked with half of a smile, if she intended to give up on me so soon.

She laughed; and coughed, and laughed some more.

She then looked into my eyes, and rather surely told me that I didn’t need to be afraid. She said that sometimes people make up great ideas in their minds, and the fun is in searching them out, giving them our own meaning. Shaking her head and speaking in even a more hushed tone, she explained that it was just in believing that these things existed, just giving your life some strain of meaning…

I thought… Large steps carrying her out of the alley and into the sun dried street. I thought as I hoisted her higher in my arms, being gentle on her tiny crude ribs, and letting an emaciated hand drape over my shoulder.

I told Love that she was full of shit. After all, I did finally find her, even if it took all my life and even if she was in my arms bloody and hurting at this very moment.

Her hairless head rolled towards me and with wetness on her cheeks. Her eyelids unsealed like dry rubber as she unlidded her dilated pupils and focused on me with the whole of her eye. It was an action of sincerity; I read her mottled cornea to say she needed my gravest attention.

Paused on the sidewalk, a limp Love in arm, guilt and consternation in tow, and a burden of disenchantedness; I was wrapped up in a moment of fog. In such a haze, the memory of emotions may become blurred or numbed. It is difficult to draw perspective on an important moment when you are submerged in feeling it with the present.

She whispered again and begged me to pitch her into the swift moving waters. The lake, she said, waited to couple with her lungs, waited to suffocate her as an obsolete construct, as though the world had outgrown her and become comfortable with dying alone.

She was tired of being hit; and blamed. She was at the end of her abilities, of her tolerance for guilt. So she breathed in sobs and hushed gasps, like hiccupping air. Love lacked a certain self confidence.

She grew heavier and more bitter as the steps passed, as the distance bit into my feet. Her sighs turned into moans and morphosed into wails. Her pain was warm and harsh, sitting all too close to my tired fingers. She was losing herself. She was dying…

I sat her down in the dry grass, her back still against me; and I took a thin cheek into my hand. It gave like a paper wrapped stone. A hard mass under a sloppy brown bag, disguising the strength beneath a papery sheath.

I dared not look away and gamble with missing a single word or gesture, but amiss was my attention, for her movements slowed and her eyes quit from blinking under their lids.

Her chest rose no longer…

With a wet splash and a watery clamor, the thing I once knew as Love went into the drink. She united with the water as one gulping noise and invisible crescendo.

Dive, Dive, Dive, to the bottom of that scorched and brown river. Brush your calloused body over sharp stones and through porous sands that wear down your skin and bones into unusable pebbles of human less essence.

Don’t leave me Love!

But, it was far too late in graceless plummet to the black water. She was at the event horizon of oblivion.

People watched me from a distance, still bodies and wide eyes. They listened to me wail at the bubbling gulping water, screaming for it to give me back my Love.

And what an idiot I was, because Love was gone forever, pitched into an oblivion of seas, driven by the monstrosity of society. Now Love is just a snapshot in the memories of those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time to be touched for a moment by a confused and restless metaphor…

It all ended with a tug at my hand.

I looked down slowly, searching out who might have touched me in my time of need; when the world had its back turned.

She was so… tiny… and she looked so familiar with that little upturned face. But the eyes were different than I remembered, they looked… untouched.

“I think I should grow up with you.”

So I walked away, eyes on this precious new part of my life. Hand in hand with the little one who pulled me from doubt and back into life. Really, who else ever gets a second chance with Love.

Gummy Bear kisses

One, in just simply catching,
Two Gummy Bears entwined in kissing,
As though it were some fact I was missing,
About their rather strange predicament,
Of in the plastic confinement…

And with a rather hurried touch,
I aim to break their amorous lock,
With jellied fingernails set prying,
With a hard jealous eye a spying,
To split these vapid bear from such holding dear…

As though they were birthed of an eternal mold,
Their touch stays fast,
Their bodies hold,
And as with an elastic “twang”,
Did “snap” their arms around each other again…

Their lips turned gently,
To let the furry noses pass,
Such sweet gesture cannot last,
As if it meant their merriment,
This concept now,
It had me quite bent…

I hacked with toothpicks,
To sever their fingers,
A butter knife,
But the caressing lingers,
Nothing less than flaying their chests,
Would from this entanglement wrest,
Admit defeat,
Is not within,
My grasp of letting this horrid sin,
Go unabated uncaringly in,
My morbid gaze,
My hate now brimmed…

Matches succeeded in burning me only,
And keep me rather precociously lonely,
And with baited consequence,
Relinquishing myself to the gummy resilience…

I sit on the floor,
And cry with a vision,
All hateful and spiteful,
Devoid of compassion,
I begged of my brain,
“Who allowed this liaison?”
Of who promulgated this union without reason?
Without necessary rhyme,
Out of contrast and season…

Why do you mock me?
In pastel shades of jelly,
So inhumanely defrock me,
To reduce me so utterly,
I profusely detest,
As I’ve waited the best,
Of my fifty plus year of betting,
That PEOPLE are human,
And thus made for loving…

I put them down,
Like so much jelly,
So much dread up heaving,
In my churning belly,
Joining such concepts with reckoning folly,
Two bears embracing,
I calculate and tally…

My hands are limp from jealous prying,
Eyes read and raw from crying, dry them, crying,
Fingers dead from so much groping,
Breathing gets tired from long hopeless hoping…

Lips now sweet,
Hopelessly sticky,
For finding a place for my friends so quickly,
As they plummet and turn down my narrow throat,
Their disappearance is surely worth quite the gloat,
For I am ONE with my captors,
Those that tease me with love,
But now that I have consumed them,
Perhaps I’m vicariously loved…

The Tub

The way she holds her body in the tepid water, I can admire that. It is no experience in tenseness. It’s soft swirls of dirt and pitch in the gray water as she brushes it off like so much sin.

Ill sit at the edge of the tub and listen, she needs this, to be cleaner in other ways. If there was anything I could say that I would truly miss from my life, it would be these moments where two people can be so open and naked in front of one another, so genuine and comprehensible.

I say that I listen. It’s true, we don’t take turns with passiveness, we share, I tell her about my lingering dread for the city and she shares a day a week of apprehensions and misgivings.

That’s the gist of it. I need it just as much as she does, it cleans me up inside. What a nice human story.

A Snapshot

The night was one without particular virtue. Sad clouds sat nestled in a gray tumult of mottled sky, hidden by the streetlights and uncaring of the human crap beneath. Shards of shattered night fabric, cropped up against erect towers of huddling, glimmering silver, and endless stories of wet brick apartments. Trees bent lazily from smog and sunless ness, whittled out by the collective loneliness of this forsaken city of shit.

Somewhere in the world, I can imagine birds singing their songs in happy daylight and kissing nectar from tree buds, fruit from the tassels of berried vines.

Drown all of that out with traffic. Its time to dwell in the city. It keeps you going, and supplies you with reasons to keep hating yourself.

Now all of that disappears under the mist of hyperactive pop music and screams of the joyous underclass. Alcohol brings out the best in the citizenry. Sirens have long ceased their wailing in these, the most emotionally desolate parts of the world. These are still the less enthused about lining up to be parts for the big machine.

Somewhere in the world, a quiet family evening at home is being interrupted. It could be the celebrant new mother in the upstairs apartment or even the grieving old mother below you. You could hang your head out of the window and feel the sluicing of group angst, pouring through hollow streets and running into hollow hearts.

I'm laying back on a soft mattress, lined in cheap satin, feeling the chilled springs that prop up the complex artifice of my spinal column. Surges of lazy strength pulse down its length, twitching my fingers with an unfired anger.

The walls around me ache with memories of an old life. I sit in the bedroom of my childhood. I was nurtured into life in this very space, took beginning steps and falls on this coarsely grained oak floor. There once hung a good collection of pictures on these walls, frozen frames of the better parts of my life, times when people cared enough to step out of their lives for a moment and be a new actor with me in front of the camera.

A lone blanket covers my legs as I recline, reeling from the vicariousness of the day. My mother made this threadbare garment for me, working patches of cloth meticulously into one another, for nights on end. She lent her blood and countless hours to this worn gaudy blanket that keeps me nominally warm.

I'm lying in this giant mess of shredded experiences, each one bloated by the new problems and the disillusionment. Each memory is just as threadbare as my sad little blanket, torn from being worked over and over again by tired fingers, with them searching for the faded meaning they once held.

daytoday

March begins it's progression of days upon me. Promising a longer exposure that last month, sinking its teeth into the meat of my cerebellum. It hates to admit it, but ive got it all won. My days melt together like a fretful roadtrip, naps between the jumps required in time. And, when its all done and said, when this month flickers out like all the others and I'm left dangling in monthlessness...

Journal, journal,
where to start,
where to display,
this broken heart...

and birds chirp, and with a cacophony slam headlong into picture windows and sliding glass doors, stretching screens and breaking necks. They drop babies from high limbs, and feed them the accidental wad of cellophane. They crack an egg with a beak meant for scratching. They forget their home and leave the fiends shrieking; to death. Infanticide, ignoricide, forgetacide...

Squirrels rip up nuts from the forest floor, packing heat and stuffing them in their cheek pockets like so much heroin picked up discretely on street corners.

Deer nuzzle and scrape at tree limbs and bark, eating the lichens and papery skin of sapling trees. They are like crack addicts, rubbing up to a dumpster or a back alley wall; coming down from a visceral trip. Tongue out, eyes rolled, eating it up...

The trees team with alcoholic banter. Beaver that beat their wives. Frogs that elicit underage and occasionally non-consenting sex. Bats with depression, and insomnia. Crickets with a goddamn headache; stop the bloody racket...

and that's just a walk in the park. I think the city has changed me... All of us...

handy

I can change a light bulb, and wire a bathroom. I can sew curtains and type 55 words per minute. I can cook broccoli in a cheese sauce - without a packet. I can change my own batteries in the remote control. I can clean dishes, without leaving spots. I can orate the commandments, or H.C. Anderson, or my favorite movie (based on my favorite book). I can put the seat back down. I can lock doors and shut out lights and recycle garbage and rewind my video tape and look both ways before I cross a busy intersection and stop at stop and yield at yield and go on reds after stopping and having a good peek around the corner.

I can stop and ask for directions...
I can lend you a quarter... or 27 cents...
I can hold your hand when the baby is coming.
I can hold the baby when the drugs knock you out.
I can keep praying.
____

SWM seeking Personality- age 43 - 217 lbs - blonde hair, green eyes - robust (?) build

Absurdia Productions

To: The faithful and impressionable customers of Absurdia Inc.
RE: Stock Renovations

The associates of Absurdia Productions regret to inform our faithful patrons, that during our stock reductions coinciding with the supply and demand of the new mental market, we will be discontinuing a few of our products.

Our "religions" section will be eliminated in our new catalog, as it has been the decisions of our staff that the numerous recalls and general inconsistencies have rendered this category all but obsolete. We will be carrying scarce little in the "spirituality" department too, as it seems to be compatible only with the "intolerance" or cheap "elitism" available from other outlets.

It has never been our practice to offer the lower line of products, yet it still has surprised us to note that some of these memes such as "misogyny" have built quite the name for themselves. We will not carry it nonetheless for the simple lack of any complimentary products such as "narcissism", "xenophobia", "perversion" or the generic "redneck".

One might now ask us what we will be carrying and the list will be none to sparse. e have managed to secure a non-imported "social conscience" a "sense of place" and a "common sense". These memes are guaranteed to make wonderful replacements to the old feckless positions and attitudes. The newer models of "tolerance" and "personal responsibility" work with any other positive reinforced schema.

On the other hand, while "religiousness" and "spirituality" are more easily controlled through a hub module (Cardinal, Rabbi, Yogi or Mastermind), they have the obnoxious tendency to be noisy and totally incompatible with everything else in the category. For instance, take a perfectly good synaptic network and introduce a dose of "catholicism". Under further study, you are prone to exhibit symptoms of "patriarchy", "nature was created for human men" and "the woman is a vessel", which are completely separate items available for purchase, and it is our wish to provide only products that have been requested.

As a footnote, we would like to preface any further inquiry into "morality". No! We do not carry it, nor will we ever. It's an absurd notion that one can purchase this trait or that it is independently found in other products. It is well known in the neural profession that morality is beyond any code, religion or creed.

We would like to extend our thanks for you continued participation in our company and in our goals to bring a wider model of ideas to the global community.

small talk

At 1:11 in the morning, nothing feels much like morning at all.

Its a sad excuse for late february. Ice coats my outside world, my last escape from my inside world. Winter still not gone and shriveled away, receding like milky starlight when the sun hits it dead on. Piss off cold wind and hellish flurries.

Aint that the truth Marty.. Tell it like it is Bruce.. When the country was run by _______ , there werent these problems with the _______.

For whom the bell tolls, drop the bomb, agents in orange - eating orange oranges...

God can take away the pain, fatness, abuse.. God uses your love, sounds nice.

You can't get there from here.. The world is a vampire.. tick tock, bang!

Spam me my friend

I get an e-mail that reminds me that horny housewives from all over the country are seeking my attention. It tells me in descriptor phrases, what they are looking for me to do to them, and at what angle. It gives me descriptors like deep, hard, wet. It sometimes flashes me a picture of what I'm missing out on.

It gives me the impression that there are lines and lines of women, shelved liked produce, stocked up in some stuffy suburbanite home, waiting for the ephemeral escape to sexual enlightenment. It defiles my senses with qualities of arousal coupled with regret and imposition; a sense of intimacy battled with a feeling of violating.

It's stretched out on some arid Ohio wasteland block of community, several acres of modern saltbox homes. In these prefabricated cardboard houses, welded together with starch and finish nails, doled out one per home, sit the actors that play your lonely housewife. Acting on instinctual predation urges, the site due paying male stalks the front. No jealous husband... Sneak a paw into the trousers and prepare to wow a member of womankind with the beast of harmonious love.

Check this out; I'm awed again by the intuitive knowledge forthcoming in my e-mail box. Not only can I shag someone's wife, I can with certain guarantee lengthen my member by about 3 inches. I have never been happier. I can have it all...

Mail be a beautiful letter, babe

I got a letter today... It talked about my insurance rates, and how my seeming ability to avoid accidents, combined with my propensity towards paying the insurance company on time, all came together to give me a lowest of low premium charge. Much to my chagrin, I gracefully accepted their offer to charge me less and walked with proud steps to the mailbox with my check in hand. Never have I been so happy to pay a bill, because I feel like I just got a damn good break, that for once in my life I was being rewarded for my impish behavior.

Out of the blue comes this huge fucking truck, smashing the front off my car and blowing the hood recklessly down the road, clipping cars and onlookers on the way. I just sit and watch, knowing full well that premiums are inverting this experience for me and that they are probably going to come shooting through my ass.

that's what I will think as the glass shatters my face and the airbag ruptures my spleen. I will think, too bad this mighty rig didn't have crumple zones, cause that write off would have saved me another 10 a month. And when my body lies in pieces in a hospital bed or even a casket, if even it sits in a bucket while kind words are recited, ill always have on my mind that the liability/fault of accident card can be played at anytime, cause that's how I'm ending this battle, with the same damned recognition I started with...

The waste

Pollution is not really like what you seen on the big screen. All rivers are not an ugly mess with green sandy shores and endless tires. You generally cannot catch car parts with a fishing pole, or anything recognizable for that matter. Its not as though the unnatural things are stacked on top of the natural things in a way that makes them separable. This place is not an even mix between clean places and polluted spots, sanitized and empty between the litter.

The mess is more ground in than that. Broken glass could most certainly permeate the river shores, little crystals of beer bottles, pounded by boots, snaking miles into the granites below. Its like the filth is more particles than anything, pieces of dirtiness blown into everything. Pay attention, you never know what you are touching. It could have been parts of a space shuttle, or Thomas Jefferson’s condom. No UPC codes left to split them and ordain their importance, just functionless and depressed if an object could be such...

Shui

Molly was a sweet girl, that I never denied.
But she had a certain knack for being deceived,
A propensity for believing a lie.

And everywhere that Molly went,
a fleecer was sure to go.

So one fine day, in harbor square,
Underneath sodium lights,
she got a taste of eastern flow,
it opened wide her eyes.

And everywhere that Molly went,
that fleecer was sure to go.

Sufi, yogi, profess to me,
Prophet I beg you to sing to me,
Where to move my furniture,
to bring the best of luck to me.

And everywhere that Molly went,
that fleecer was sure to know.

My sofa blue, in the end of the room,
or trade it for the double spare bed,
should Chi flow up or down my Ficus,
can you remember what Confucius said?

And everywhere that Molly went,
her pocketbook was sure to go.

Love on the back side of town

Love called me up; damn bright and early. She usually doesn't open her eyes until noon drags its ass over her. But here she was, sad and lonely on the telephone; as I’ve heard it said.

Get up at 5 in the morning to drag a comb over my head and brush teeth with a cheek full of mouthwash, it’s called a quickie. Some dirty payphone awaits me, some drunk and passed out love, still clutching the receiver, talking to her dead relatives through the beeping end of it. Ill get there as I have countless times, and carry her home to her messy apartment with her strange little bed, with her unflattering blousy clothes shot all up and down the carpets. Not the type of dress you would expect from this metaphor.

Today is different. Love meets me in the park, under a thin and rain glistening tree, under a sky that is just breaking to accept the sun. She doesn’t reek of cheep absinthe or even tobacco; she just meets me fairly and surely under the tiny branches above.

In her sonorous voice, she begins and ends most defiantly with three catastrophic words, made and aimed for my sensitive ear.

"I am sorry"...

From the mouth of love came this dramatic verse, so much so that my own mouth opened as if to finish "sorry" for her. It was said with such conviction, so that my eyes became wet and my head sank almost to meet the top of her tiny head. I knew it was not her that needed to apologize, but that she was saying a collective sorry for what it all together had made the world into.

I could only look at the back of her head as she led me out of the park and into a street crowded with blank looks and empty faces. Her sharp little claws pinched the skin of my palm, but I was so content to be walking with an old friend that I barely noticed. It seemed that hours had passed as mere moments, and our fleet footed pace had carried us to a different part of the world entirely. Here there were quiet lawns with only a few red fall leaves to dust them, and only a shrub or two, green and opulent to crest the sharp edges of a manicured yard.

Her feet pattered quicker and she let go my hand, to jut and hide under the sill of some fine suburban home. It had brass cherubim over the garage, a gilded mailbox and the crackling of children leaking carefully out of half open morning windows. A glance gifted to the back yard showed an older daughter perhaps, swinging with her back to us, and under some vine covered and latticed bench swing.

Love pointed into the window, but I was scared to look, to be caught, and to be judged. She pointed harder and made her lips tight and pursed. I peered over my hands and saw the living room interposed through pink fingertips. Mom and Dad sat on each end of the couch, hands flat on laps and eyes dumb and wide towards a flickering screen. Blue and white image backlashes lighting up their sagging cheekbones and drooped lips. Kids fit neatly into individual rooms; I could see them through the window, them near the edges of the doors to their respective environments, caught up in doing something to distract them from interacting. I looked at love and saw her eye glisten and close.

She asked me if that was what "I" wanted. I saw her point. I told her that I didn’t think so anymore. She smiled a quick smile as she often does when she is happy with you. We both walked away with a little something that day. For me it was the remote control that they left on the coffee table when they zipped off to a soccer game without locking their door. For love it was the satisfaction of being a gloating parable, and of course their gilded fucking mailbox.

Surviving

It’s more than being about the knobs on the television you hit every morning, as your round the daily exercise of waking up into your world.

It is more than the bread you toast, and more even than the new polymer teeth you use to chew it; so much more.

It is more than depression, or grim contemplations on ordinary things, or mear reflection on painful sentiment.

In fact, its probably more than just being alive, as it is being not dead. More than daily hum-drum and the intoxication of busy-ness, and profit and engineering, and screwing and blood pumping, and music, arts, racism, and loving and leaving, and walking and burying.

Its not literature that is keeping your brain pounding, its the relation of it to you life, to love, and the waning of each. Its a prediction of your life, and an organized chart of suspected morals and mortality.

Death is the strongest word in your vocabulary, assumably because you can not use it as a toy like "love", or as a weapon like "love", or like a pillow talk screw word like "love". It has some concrete value. Its an absolution and a truth.

So survival is more than the channels you choose to drag you kicking and screaming through the day. Its not the company you keep or the lover you undress each night until it becomes apparent that nakedness is only politics. Survival is not waiting for that phone call to make your day happy, or counting on that piece of ass to make your work day disappear.

Its not a fat secretary or a warm breast. Its not chocolate almond soufflé or super sized chicken nuggets. Its not optimism or a sad vicious duty to living. Its not kiddie pool full of Raisinett's. Its not god, nor God.

From the cradle to the grave, from seed to soil, from placenta to rigor mortis, from fuck to fucked. Amen.

Sad Places

The airport. It must be close to the saddest place. Sad faces queue up at terminals, kissing wives, daughters, siblings away. Standing with rigid posture, gripping rolling luggage, wheeling themselves onto planes and world apart. A strange half generation of traveling people, born to the skies and birthed onto wings.

Every smile manages to shoot out as though to mean "I'm smiling stronger than normal, in hopes you fly back to us...". And the band played on, strong brass section beating out little metal heartbeats for our somber travelers who have lost their breath to anxiety. Loved ones behind the gates, your fit only to wave, and when you all look like ants then I might see a little ant leader with a hand looking flag, waving it like a surrender...

Fly my giant metal beasts! Grasp onto the nature of flight, winged and sad.

bend bend bend

Like shadows in the afternoon,
bent lazily like the breeze and wilted by a days harsh sun.
Shadows that are more like tired light than the blocking of it.
It is this that insinuates the slouching posture of the distant palms,
those that arch and leak ripe fruit on a sandy patch,
those that bow so gracefully as to lend a coconut only a short "pat" fall into soft moist sand. Dig down for an inch or two and feel the water table leak right back in, the inners tides of moisture rippling out of white sand.

All that ironically fits on a beer bottle label? Am I missing some frightening realization? *sip* ..... *sip*

Waits

I can hear it outside, in the wind or the dripping wet of night. I hear it breathing, scratching padded feet on thick wood doors and bearing its head and squinted eyes towards lighted windows. I can hear it cry! It cries for vengeance, to drive us each to terror, to make me fail my wit and better judgment. A cold hand reaches for the door, but I won’t be mistaken, and the beast will not feed here again. I will be stronger than to submit to its dark whim, I will not feed the beast, nor make the transformation into beast myself. I must remit from even touching the knob, the beast would hear it with its keen ears and surely be upon me by the time a questioned look outside could prove fruitful. It was my fate to be pressed against a door, begging for a sound to prove he has left or stayed.

An hour had passed, and the terror has slowly worked its way out of me. I listened; I watch and waited, as it became clear that this beast meant to chose our home to feed. It passed by in a slow pace, keeping a watchful eye on any exit. Such waiting is an effort in...

*"Alfred, let the fucking dog in the house, he's freezing and hungry".

To what do I owe this nonsensical exchange? I’ve made it very clear that I hate dogs!

Angel Arms - Take two

Your in the arms of your angel,
I doubt he will fly you back to me,
or that he would let you stay in heaven,
or break to bring you home.

So in the arms of your angel,
who's eyes and lips partake,
of your own living beauty,
while I sit and think,

That the wings of your angel,
are made of grass and clay,
beating only to astound you,
and to keep us cold and alone.

When the eyes of your angel,
fall from grace and look away,
will you see your own intentions,
and perhaps go astray.

To wonder aloud of living,
in a world under the clouds,
where angels only live in bibles,
and our minds still resound,

From the thoughts of your angel,
who knows your body and nothing else,
who drinks your soul and essence,
through a willfull open mouth.

And if you fall from heaven,
and feel alone without his face,
without wings of wax and straw,
and try to put me in his place.

Just pretend my eyes aren't alone,
belive I could carry you away,
to take you just like he could,
all great empassioned ways.

In the arms of your angel,
your twisted towering angel,
though he withers now like stone statue,
leaving you alone in an empty world.