you indignant monster
maybe you are green
at the towns-folk for
their primal jeers

conversly

they hear your cries
echo through the valley
and are angered and
who is the chicken?

I SAY BOTH

I SAY

AFTER THE MELEE

WITH THE PITCHFORKS
STREWN ABOUT

WITH THE BLOOD ON YOUR
GREEN SKIN

YOU’RE ALL CHICKENS
AND THERE ARE NO EGGS
AND I HEAR YOUR CRIES
DOWN THE VALLEY STILL

and i will meditate
on your tears.

there is no human in us anymore
our arms are in need of refinement
with them we cut through our surroundings
like drops of oil in water

in the parking lot like
a pile of garbage
there lies the baby bird
who fell from his nest
gruesomly reposed
permanently although
you only see him on
your ways in

out

and you note “oh, poor
thing is still there”

but he’s been there every
aching moment
getting ground by feet
and wheel and
turning slowly into dust
and
getting eaten by bacteria

he won’t move unless
something moves him

it’s
invisible in plain sight
no one wants
his unfortunate
circumstance
on them

and the bacteria add
to the illusion
that every aching moment
doesn’t ache at all
and that things just
disappear.

here i am at a restaurant
i’m in the back
they’re asking me to shake
chicken

i keep thinking about talking

i can’t concentrate
on the spices
i am busy thinking about human
interaction and

being the most complicated animal

and being the only one of measure

and they’re asking me to shake
chicken
and
i can’t remember where the teriyaki
is

if
i can remember how to speak
at all.

some of them smiling
at the boot
as it come down

i will not be one
of them

i will be like the
stag beetle

against the boot
even in pieces

and in the garbage

until nothing can

keep me.

i left the only tracks in the snow
the only heart beating in the world
why wont the moon come back?
and time kept pushing my sails
like a robot.

December 24th, 2007 at 02:45:34 AM

the warrior is shackled
and puts his blade
to use cutting appetizers
to sate the gluttons
and the all-gods of money
be they mystical
or real as the shackles

the cutting
lasts for 8 or more hours
a day

and then his hut for sleep

and then back again

and he might do this forever

but maybe his shackles
are made out of pride.

silence is real
in speech lies confusion
there is nothing we can share

there are no horns
playing for you
no matter what you do

a horn is played by
a person and that
person is just like you

and people don’t follow
other people around
waiting for important moments
to emphasise
with horns

there won’t be any
horns for you
ever

no matter what happens

no matter if you hear them

no matter what you’re doing

they won’t be there.

ALL OF YOUR FAKE POLAROID PICTURES
EXPENSIVE CLIMBING GEAR AND
BEAUTIFUL SCENEREY
DITHERED AND BLURRED BECAUSE TODAY’S
MOMENTS JUST DON’T HAVE STICKING
POWER

AND YOUR LIFE MUST HAVE STICKING
POWER

BUT YOU’VE LOST IT ALREADY

UNDER THE PRETENSE THAT

YOU MUST EMPHASIZE ANY THING
AT ALL.

i pissed myself laughing
and broke my ribs and
turned blue-close to
asphyxiation
and the tremor giggles
were painful for days
and i shit my pants
and oh my legs quivered
at the all-holy
and wept at its feet
and then i went to work
and came home and ate
some food and then i
saw another one and

in my youth i used to
disconnect our family’s
home telephone and
run a line up to my
bedroom and call
girls or prank
call businesses

i was on the
internet
giving out my credentials

chatting
and
sometimes even
recieving phone calls
from california
or ann arbor
or iowa

even after punishment
i would run this wire
in the night
like a spy

i never knew
you were dying for that
and
i’ll be turning
24 this year.

oh child today may be warm
but the night is not so forgiving
and if it makes me sleep well
you can call me foul
but those of you who spend
their whole day smiling
will freeze in the night
for truthful men
know no conceit.

i was found but now i’m lost
on the sidewalk by the corner
and there are super-men in the streets
with their batmobiles and money
and suddenly lost i am sitting
the world now so foreboding
on the sidewalk by the corner thinking
about how much i owe and have yet
to earn or pay and work and starve
for
i’m almost fucking 24
and my mother came to remind me that
standing is for the impoverished.

i wrote and wrote
with eyes i wrote
scientifically

and left the only
footprints in the
cave of the troglophiles

how could you know
how much i love you?
the knee-prints can’t
the hand-prints can’t
the finger-prints can’t
tell

even if they followed
the new lines in their
opaque world
no guess could be had
at me

even if my breath
reached any nape
no energy would pass

(even if it did
i can’t put a
blind lizard in
a prom dress)

i wrote and wrote
but only those with
eyes ever saw it.

there are no words for when
things are a-okay
and you’re a man in the sun
on a raft in a bay
and you couldn’t care what
the moving mouths say
every thing be damned
if just for today
they are impermanent
and pass like a wave
there are no words
when things are okay.

it’s about what you think
and how it drips out of your
forehead in confident drops
and tip-toes down your face
too small for you to feel

and it’s about what they think
and about how they smile when
they think it
and as their smiles grow there
are a million grating shreaks
growing, too and it sounds
like pulling a rusty rake across
a rusty tractor
in an aluminum barn

it’s about caring

it’s about how you’re all wrong

and i’ve stopped offering corrections

stopped giving out tours

to the lake from which to drink
only
if you’ve learned what direction

we took to get there

no one has ever made it
there and back

except
for those of us with coke-
bottle eyes
then

then

everything is far too clear
and there is water everywhere
everywhere
that you are not

the pens in my room
are like dry ice
and my bed the
softest coffin

i lay down among
the velvet and
stare longingly
at my desk
and feel the cold
reach at me

and when the sun
touches the floor
it even is cold at
first,
but you brought me
lunch

your smiling face

i started to feel
the warmth again
and the velvet
went back
to cotton.

the mcdonald’s man talks to you
but he doesn’t want to be
your friend
and neither i, his
because fuck the mcdonald’s man
and every dream he’s ever had
and for that matter
fuck me too
his paycheck lies behind
handing me my plastic
and my satisfaction lies behind
this transaction going flawlessly
so i can put it in gear
and get down the road
and foreget his face
and he mine.

we’re forgettable people,
i and the mcdonald’s man

we are seen yet unseen
or relativly anonymous

we are unimportance personified
with no books or pictures
in our names
and i am uncertain
if that will ever hold any weight
at all.

you’re simple like a tree
in that every story you
tell is really about
yourself.