staring at the wall
paralyzed

some people call it
second-guessing

i feel disinterest
in even moving

there’s a leap of
faith in walking
like you’ve got
somewhere to go to
but that place is
just a different one
to repeat the same
tradition in

until you’re staring
at a wall

infinitely second-
guessing

wondering what you
should do.

i retract what i said previously
about wanting to scream or shout
or cry out upon my demise some notable
phrase that might get etched somewhere
so people could say “oh he was so” this
or whatever because i realized one day
that i hate almost every last other
human being i have ever met and would
prefer not even a tombstone to be
remembered by because you would all just
fuck it up somehow anyway.

it’s kind of funny to watch
everyone misspell his name
and say he was with them while
they were hunting or doing their
laundry or just thinking of him

all because they want him to be
there

all because if it was their way
he would be

all because people are supposed
to understand that death is unfair
and that he should be there still
because humans are used to imposing
their will on unwilling surroundings

but sometimes we fall absolutely
short

and blatantly lie about the truth and
claim our will
imposes on
even if nothing happens.

you are waiting for
a miracle to happen
as you look in the mirror
your body decomposing

the blood will turn purple
then black

energy will ebb and flow

until left standing alone
in a field full of corn
is you with just the crickets
mocking you and you are
waiting for a miracle
to happen

i’m telling you that
statistically speaking
you will turn to dust
waiting for a miracle
to happen

your beautiful face will
be lined across
and the tears of regret
and the pangs of nostalgia
may bring you to your knees
waiting for a miracle
to happen

the building and mirror will
disintegrate

the president’s plane will
circle around

tons will be moved here and there
in metric and standard
humans imposing their will
and you will be just waiting.

i have a warm bed
but my feet hang off the edge
sometimes i hear the distance cry
like some tainted lullaby
and it hurts.

i’m at a train station
playing tug-of-war with impatience
sometimes i hear it coming
but it’s probably just storming
and it hurts.

December 13th, 2007 at 02:23:06 PM

can’t write for shit stop
too busy smoking stop
drinking stop
hand discolored stop
love? stop

if there is no skin
if we’re all just the same
then why don’t i hear
you crying my name
when you sit on the pulpit
your eyes all aflame?

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.