bash skull against tree
to form facsimile of
smiling idiot

i know you’ll never be
in Wichita
and if you were
we would only
get coffee

we could share
maybe a half an hour
in the local flavor
and reminisce
on times we were
in the same
geographical
location
and what happened there

we could make jokes
so it wouldn’t be
awkward

then like addicts
retreat back to
reality
and dispense
with the dry
niceties

take showers
like call-girls at sunrise
wipe away shame with
our saved up social
capital
and smile,
next we
should meet

but seriously

let me know

if you’re ever

in Wichita

we’ll get coffee

and call ourselves

friends.

chaos

July 16, 2015

it’s true that most of us
would hate to have coffee
with the authors on our
coffee tables

i mean
i thought it funny you
had hitchens on yours
when you two have almost
nothing in common

nor i, with nietzsche
or bukowski
i guess

the tuth is not some minutea
it is much bigger
than that

it is that you should
see the world as art
which is to be a neutral observer
stumbling, perhaps
onto your own soul
and then to learn a new thing about it
told to you by someone else

you don’t search the mona lisa
for yourself
smile, smugly when you find it
and walk away content
with what davinci drew
as if it was your idea
all along

grass grows greenly

June 19, 2015

you beat the floor with your
feet to a special internal rhythm
i don’t know what for maybe
just to expel the extra energy
your body produces in case
you were in the savannah,
searching for berries at the
tooth-end of biology
the giant monsters that
forced you in doors

and the ripples from the waves
you throw around into the air
hit all but affect little
and i think you think that is what
you’re moving for but maybe it’s
not and you know no one is really
listening and that what really matters
is that the grass grows green outside

ed the janitor knows
he mowes it
once a week
and a million other
eds know
that the grass just
grows and grows
incessently
greenly outside

no matter what you do

time cannot travel
backwards

and that deserves
repeating

because life is what you
make of it

it is how you
play your hand

second chances
are
forgeries

put your ghosts
to bed!

hold the present
in your hands

seal the gaps
between your fingers

heaven is
a state of mind

always changing
and impermanent

time cannot
travel backwards

and that deserves
repeating

part 4 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

tell me you think i’m beautiful
even if it is a lie
and let us not shy away from
the utility in fucking
the rent is paid now for sure
but i still feel homeless
i know you too well now to even
have a firm idea of
well i mean the relativity of it all
is the only solid thing
i can’t stop looking at my
phone and computer

even heaven seems really boring

i don’t know what i’m waiting for

this sinking feeling that is bottomless

you can’t talk your way out of this one

part 3 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

hold your breath, count to two
dive into the deep end

remember: you must get out
or you will dissolve eventually

close your eyes, count to two
don’t let your teeth fall out

remember: you need air to breath
grab the firm ground and pull

your limp body out
don’t go back until
you’ve learned to swim
dry off in
the light of a dying star
the summer sun
on the floor of a rounded
petri dish
floating like a soap bubble
through the void
it’s just like your mother
never taught you:
find what’s inside
while you still have time
and hold it with your breath
mark the moments
with your counting
open eyes and start anew
open eyes and start anew

davey and judi

May 14, 2015

she had no home but
that’s ok
davey had a fast car
and everybody knew it
and she thought she loved marky
but then when she got pregnant
marky just stayed with doretta
isn’t that messed up?
and when the pills didn’t work
(it was too late)
no one would come over
so she panicked,
and she kept it
and then built a home with ronnie
but she always was with davey,
in his fast car
always skinny
always young

you are scooping bowls of ice cream
it is 1978 and you are scooping 3 bowls
1 for you, your daughter, and your son
in the distance you hear them laughing
at the television as the bright spring
florida sunset beats down on your kitchen
you struggle to pick up the bowls and carry
them to the basement
but you make it just fine
and as you set the bowls down you forget
what or who you were getting them for
because you haven’t spoken to your children
in years
it’s 2016
and your wife is crying.

part 2 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

don’t let them see me like this

i am not who i am

i am so
fucking sorry

forgive me
for
i live with an ugly
stranger

i mean

i am sometimes
an ugly stranger

i don’t know from where
it comes
i don’t even know how i
got here

please help me with me

and just don’t
don’t let them see me
like this

part 1 in a series inspired by Shia LeBeouf’s tweets

your emotions have
locked you in a box

your life is your life
and your life is hate-fucking
a bad ex-lover
whenever they come around

i’ve no sympathy but to unlock
the door
you can’t hear me knocking,
anyhow

my turned back finds a dusty trail

to follow but wherever i go

it’s like the fucking

hate-fuck capital of the world and

it hurts most

when the faces are

familiar

what race are you?
how dark is your skin?

what genitals do you have?
which ones were you born with?
which ones do you wish you had?
who do you want to fuck?

how much does your father make?
and your mother?
and yourself?

what part of town are you from?
what part of town do you look like you’re from?
what color clothes are you wearing?
what style?

what is your dialect or accent?

do you have any children?
how many?

ok,
fill out the form below
and remember
racism, sexism, classism
and all other forms of phobias and isms
are strictly
prohibited.

a poem for today

March 17, 2015

ignorance is meaningless bliss and
the self-aware piece of the larger machine
lives in agony
as it sucks in death and pumps out life
like the ticking of an ageless clock
ceaseless and maddening

the precisely timed moments of
silence have been defined as freedom

in this time the self-aware piece of the
larger machine tends to its surroundings
and reflects and
tries to make a smile and
clasps its hands together and with all the
hope of a hopeless world prays and wishes
for there to be some other place

a place not made out of a machine
a place where self-aware pieces can be a part
of a larger nothing
and can identify as such
and can give freedom a new meaning

where there would be no product or good
no machination and
no life and
no death and

that hope is so fucking strong
it makes the loathing of ticks and the tocks
and the siren that calls you back to work
just palatable enough to stomach

this poem is for you, today
the same as ever yet infinitely unique
just like everything else

On his way to Taco Bell he smoked a bowl that he had hidden his glove compartment that morning. He wanted to say “I’d like some dog food wrapped in a tortilla” at the drive-thru but instead he just ordered a #6. On his way back to work he plotted and schemed at ways to make more money. “That is what growing up is about,” he thought. He liked to get really high and think about great things to do and then not do them.

His car was a mess. He pulled up to the office where he works, which is an elementary school converted into an office building. You could tell that his mid-adult sedentary lifestyle had caught up with him when he got out of his car. After having put on a substantial amount of weight relatively recently, his wardrobe suffered immensely. His wrinkled beige dress-pants barely covered his ankles. He was wearing a winter coat covered in cat hair on a 50 degree day in March whose sleeves would pull back passed his wrists at certain angles.

He waddled into his office and put his Taco Bell down on his desk. A large pepsi, two tacos, and a “mexican pizza.” Although no worthwhile food critic would call this a mexican lunch, that’s what it was marketed to him as. He sat down and opened a text editor and began to write a scathing critique of himself from a 3rd person perspective.

He felt that anyone looking at him could understand the jist of it.

there is no clarity in this cloud
where schizophrenic whispers argue
semtantics and extort logical
fallacies and emotional pleas
until you cannot even remember your name

in the solvent mist of the cloud
that slowly turns you into it

with my head up this high i have learned
many things but also nothing at all

as what i think i know blurs at the edges
and dissolves down until each of it’s
individual particles is separate and alone

the cloud is insanity
and every moment of life is viewed
through the prism of a raindrop
and the only
discernable
edges are the ones of each atom

and these edges are the stiffest to be known

these particles bounce around endlessly
with nothing to hold onto

within the cloud

melting and assimilating all that come near
and reality is an infinite multitude of entirely
different viewpoints on the same
visage

the nothing and everything will
exist there, simultaneous

yet vehemently apposed

harness your dreams

December 18, 2014

the lighting of a candle
starts with the intensity
of a spark born of friction

and when this spark finds
a body for flame, it eats
and eats and eats and eats
because that is what flames do

but the candle’s body, by design
slowly kills the flame

there is no more intensity
only a slow diet of the same shit
every
single
day

when at first the flame was eating
with the passion of the spark
given to it by the friction and destruction
and even a type of devastation on a
molecular level it now,
distant from such an event,
eats only to stay lit

each day it dims with it’s steady diet
and lives in it’s own shit
and one day won’t even be able to breath

about midway through its journey
the flame dreams of the spark

if only it were a human
and not a lit candle
and could harness
it’s own dreams.

i am the third
the unwanted
the abortion surviving fetus turned
useless member of society
raised by a cocaine fueled ignorant
party girl on a steady diet of
denial, abuse, and lies

and yet i press on

cum on my boxers
tears in my dress-pants
business-casualty sitting all day
affront a magical light box connected
to under and above and beside ground
wires piping information for money

my consciousness is like
a genius newborn
or a confused world-weary old man

my illusions of grandeur now reduced
to simplistic forms of survival
like a bourgeoisie upperclass boy
turned homeless and unto the
streets comitting depraved
acts of crime and violence just to
stay alive

i have nothing left but to suck the
hours out of my body in a
self-serving fashion

i sent a letter in a bottle
onto the sea once

it is probably stuck on that
man-made plastic island
floating through the ocean

that letter is some type of metaphor
for self-validation

i don’t fucking know.

a poem for Xu Lizhi

November 5, 2014

all meaning is found
scraping the dirt off the feet
of the blind giants that
stumble around crushing
what is left of natural beauty

however

malnourished is the mind and thin
and childish and tired of we
who truly do live the land
and i could not begruge you
for picking your own last sunrise

who could?

every soul-filled puss-bag groans
at the sound of the rumbling giants
first thing in the morning
and only the calloused want to watch
the last sunrise, the last beautiful thing

die.

wasting potential

October 2, 2014

i will leave you on the shelf
fresh and new in your wrapper
but i will shop here every day
and buy anything but you

every day i will scan the isles
just to catch a glimpse

sure, i could take you home
unwrap you and use you
find all the things that make you great
but also the shortcomings
of your design

i’ve come to hate my own tastes
anyhow
and i’m sure i would treat you
no better than i treat myself

even the illusion of you
deserves more than me

so i will leave you on the shelf
shiny and wrapped up
i will shop here every day
and the distance between us
will feel like miles, to me
just another nameless face
at the store.

the wolf on wall street 2

September 25, 2014

now i will tell you about
the wolf on raymond st

i had been holed up blissfuly
in my home for who knows how long

i heard you howling outside
caged by my spineless greed

and i hiding away from the
relentless cold wanted to check
to make sure you were still living
boxed and forgotten in my back yard

startled at the cold, yet the
only one willing to brave it

a child of maybe 12 wincing at
the truth of your morbid reality

you had always greeted me with warmth
even when in the most bitter cold

your water-bowl had been frozen over
for days, possibly weeks

i would refill it, only to forget
again and let it freeze over surely

and you were always a wolf, to me
wild as the virtue of nature

and in the dead quiet winter night
an unwilling accomplice to torture
i sat with you and tried my best
to beg forgiveness, crying

and one night i saw you
climb clear over the fence
and unflinchingly sprint
into the night

like the truth in world
full of liars.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 474 other followers