the sieve and the sand

i fell for you today
not for your beauty
(though you are cute)
but merely for your
utility
and to say
i have you.

five hours earlier
i new not of my need
to caress your smooth
sides with my hands

and pour life from
your stout spout

they terrify the fickle
with most every breath they take
and while the plebeians avoid their eyes
the very air around them quakes
displaying the distressing of
their uncomfortable
situation

For the fickle have no wherewithal
nor any sense of truth,
the important parts of course being
beauty, sex and truth,
even though the slightest slight
might scare the whole damn bunch away:

So unfortunate that the fickle
are not worth the price we pay

on the sober days i lose my mind
the hippie girl says something like
i am “weak for taking the edge off”
i say: if you think you are a rocket
why don’t you take off!?
i say, i say
WHY I MAY BE A LION IN A ZOO
BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A LION IN A ZOO
PRETENDING
TO BE AN ASTRONAUT,
YOU FUCK!!
but of course, i don’t say any of this
because
i am a lion in a zoo…
…so
who am i to talk?

Thoughtlessly he
handles all his
funds until one day,
he finds a distinct
Lack
of funding.

He sits at a
well-lit all-night
Diner’s table,
(first booth on the
right),
and scratches at his
tiching notepad
-furiously-.

Could this be
THE END
for our hero?

He hopes not.

They call it ‘finishing a chapter’,
but the allegory isn’t quite right.

Finishing the chapter doesn’t
make it unreadable. Doesn’t
keep you from flipping back
through the finished pages.

Fire would destroy the whole
book,
but had it been a viable
option, it would
have been appropriate.

As it stands,
let’s
SLAM
the fucker closed.

sometimes i feel like i am sleeping in a coffin
what’s it all about?
(sometimes i feel very sad)
oh,
the beach boys said it best
(i guess i just wasn’t made
for these times)
sometimes i feel like
i am
sleeping
all day long
like the days turn to dreams
what’s this all about
this existence
shouldn’t i be
chasing
the horizon?
IF i CouLD JuST gEt
sO
mEw
HeRe

These four walls
Incase you like a convict
How did you get here
And when?
You don’t remember a trial,
Only accusations
And waking up to
An icy sweat.
The floor is cool,
Slick with perspiration.
The air is thick,
Weighed with humidity.
There’s a shackle
Attached to your ankle.
It’s fashioned with flesh.
Innards and entrails.
All of them your own.
The walls would crumble
If you opened your eyes.

i am organreorganizing my existence
as a hole as we speak
i am chopping off all of the excess parts
i am feeling really nothing at all
i am not typing because i don’t
have the internet
and i’ve been busy
burying my head in
not being busy
/the sand
quietly calculating prioritizing
shipping recieving planning and
counting my ideas on a white
sheet labeled
1,
2,
3,
my love is drying up like oil
after it drips from my mechanical
mind,
chemicals not meaning much
to me
it’s all about cogs and machines
it’s all about chopping down trees
and building something with the wood
like a human being
so i again,
will try and take up
drinking.

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boobies humongous
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Huge prospects one click a way
all promises cheap or free
stirring up inside out of sheer anticipation
uploading my mind with new greed and strict habits of size/self-remodeling
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and learn how to spend thousands on chasing the bodyfat away)

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the hell with the frog prince, you deserve the shoe, the white horse (buy one, get second half off).
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Leave me the hell alone
quit perousing through my brain cells
I maxed out on all my dissatisfactions
All I require is a diet pill for the out-of-control* self-awareness
( out-of-control <= self-awareness;
vicious circle c Restrictions;
Thus, I am a rambling fool)
Keep your damn free* worlds,
I will settle for a fatter ideal.

While I am walking, tripping on the street
look my way (I am addicted to your promises)
strike me with your lightning bolt
so grace may echo on this unhooking heart.
Budha and the sacred tree,
(were they ever alive …unharmed, unhaunted?)
I come unbound
Even when returns sorrow scratch the moon and the stars of heaven,
I am in love with life.

Jesus Fucking
Christ my forehead
SWEATS when I play
Saxophone

Or maybe I would
sweat less if I
took it upon myself
to
take off of myself my
Nice New Fur Hat

But

Jesus Fucking
Christ do I look
Awesome

summer down time for me
aint so much about vacation
er the cuttoff shorts which embrace
me thighs
rather
beer in hand and busy lunch
two weeks of slow before the
rush
begins again and life wont stop
until we’ve moved and started up
again once more in another town

where rain or shine
life is good
(and even in the rain there’s a little shine)

It’s a damp heat,
a damning sort of
weight upon the body
and, somehow, upon the
Soul

Our air conditioners
rattle off the sweet song of
recalcitrance, ourselves
refusing to venture forth,
save for to the car with
a sweet, sweet song to match.

But to fight too hard is
Useless,
and perhaps it’s best to
lock yourself in a little room
with a drum kit and some
ISOLATION headphones:
the point of the exercise to
-really- let your sweat bleed out

Weight on the Soul,
just like weight on the shoulders,
may hurt at first,
but only makes everything stronger

in the intermittent times
i ponder the death of the
one we haven’t yet had and
awake with a start feeling
around the bed next to me
to see that your belly
is still as big as it ever was
and my little girl is still

hugged safely inside

There’s a hat on the
lamp in the
corner

The lamp is on so
it’s not so dark inside,
but it only really lights
it’s own little corner,
while an old picture in
a new picture frame is
the only thing you
can really see, anyway.

And the hat, sitting
oh-so-nonchalant atop
it’s warm yet gritty
perch, tattered rim and all,
seems to watch the whole room
and compare it to the years
that it’s already seen through
the eyes of a barely-associated
third party.

An old picture in
a new picture frame is
all you can really see, anyway.

The interplay was brilliant,
but surely – and as usual -
someone’s been given
Far Too Much
Credit

Lesson would be learned, were
this not another go-around.
But some of this logic’s not
sound enough to carry any

Weight

…at all.

Strange how
‘In Too Deep’ becomes
‘One Way Out’ almost
‘In-Stant-Ly’

Strange how
so many heartfelt
lines of prose can
boil down to one word:

Peace.

The three ASSholes sitting just
one booth behind
have NOT-A-CLUE how near
their maker’s really standing by
to meet them

Not a permanent arrangement, mind,
but just enough of an
ASSociation
to keep the bastards on their
Toes,

Or at least their best behavior.

One (or three) ought
not, after all,
be so confident in
other folks’ ASSuagement

Three of them
One of me
Even odds,
as far as I can see

“I swear I’m ver-y
flattered that you asked me
to inspire you to
‘poetic heights’
or some similar
stupid state-of-mind”

Is what was said
in not so many words.
and perhaps, the
general meaning was
expounded upon,
just enough to
fancy up the
writer. Or,
that is to say,
he didn’t flatter
anyone, at least
no one today.

But the truth
as he’d imagine
is the inspire-r in question
was in fact
taken aback
and only had one
thought in mind:

“Suck
My
Wheaties”

though the true meaning
of that meaning, one
simply can’t begin to fathom

This isn’t what you wanted
But you drank yourself to sleep
Overdosing on apprehension
And I’d like to say I’m choking
But there’s liquid gently coursing
Through my suffocating lungs
I followed you into the depths
And mark my words
This place
keeps get
ting sm
all
er
.

You may feel that you
certainly deserve the chance
to prod and berate
(and you do)
just for all the little
things and all the terrible
little things

Though, as you poke
and prod away I
feel that I should
certainly remind
(Or perhaps, simply
educate) you:

No matter how hard you
force your point across
Great White Sharks
do not believe in Karma

They say
Wisdom comes with age
But I find that hard to believe
And have yet to see its fruits.
The older I get
The more there is to know
And the less I care to know it.
At four I had life in the bag.
Said bag was a red handkerchief
Fastened around a stick
And slung over my shoulder
Like Tom Sawyer.
Its contents a PBJ
And a pocket knife.
The more enlightened I become
I realize the more stupid I am.
If there’s one thing
I’ve discovered with age
It’s that I’d much rather be a child
Clambering to the top of a hill
In gleeful ignorance
Than digging a hole
In melancholy cognition
Proclaiming that I’m an adult.

I’ve never heard the words
that you’ve been spouting in this
fashion, and although I feel your
passion, I can only point and laugh
not quite at you, but certainly in your
direction