beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
he sits, staring, waiting for you to
move: to have the wrong facial exp
ression, to be sea
ted in the wrong position (weight
on the wrong ass
cheek)
and then he stands up, slowly, noticing
your criminality.
casually, he walks at any speed
he pleases, and begins the triviailty
of conversation which ends always
in the same way:
cement box.
he laughs about the game last night
with his friends while you sit in
the back of his car, which is always on,
losing your wits and your “savings”
and your life.
he shines his flashlights in your eyes,
inquiring into your soul with his long
stone gaze,
slowly paging through your mind and
your posessions, taking interest in
what he pleases,
fining you for what displeases
the fools on capitol hill,
laughing indescriminately at your
last free breaths.

yes,
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
his pupils work tirelessly on the
unsuspecting public,
just trying to get where they’re going
to do what they want
often times hurting no-one but them
selves,
maybe the futures of their future
children,
and he wants to steal your vitality
to fill his quota. as long as he is here,
he figures,
he might as well get you if he can.
he might as well get the ones that no
one wants to see gotten and not get
the ones everyone would like to see
gotten due to lack of evidence/effort.

beneath the skull of a cop is stone,
and in the place where his heart
should be there is a fucking piggy-bank.
oink
oink.

you have no clue at the fire
that exists within these bones
as your eyes systematically
pan over the room, unfocused,
and you see me in the booth
by the window setting silver-
ware down for more ungrateful
customers to fill themselves
with, no.
you don’t have an incling.
i could, and would, run
a triathalon ten times the
speed of your rugged 6 foot
lumbering male counter-
part, the one who attracts
you so with his mind and his
faith;
if only, for a brief while,
i could heat the air
around your skin with
the truth smoldering within
my firey bones.

everywhere i go i hear people talkin’ bout themselves
so very short of content but they got alot to sell
they say “every day’s a torment i am in a living hell”

and the rooms they fill with dust
at the mall the body-paint stores are packed

they got the lacquer for the skin of the stars
they got the happenin’ boats and the cars
got easy ways to talk about yourself when its hard

sometimes i see my friends there
they all make me want to go back to sleep

i sit staring at rearranged
pixels in a grid made by
god watching plays played
by ghosts
i make love to the marionettes
in my dreams and sometimes
in the wires
of the grid

(on simulated sunny days
in graveyards and in minivans)

remember all the times
you sat staring at mannequins
screaming “WHEN WILL YOU
TALK BACK?”???
so does half of
jcpenny
and the
crossroads mall
security
yet
i
digress.

these birds from hateville
they know you
before they see you
but they are beautiful,
enough,
i guess,
and i’m at my wits end
filling this birdfeeder,
now that i think about it!
and why, may i ask,
am i so tongue tied?
you should’ve seen me,
all quiet in the forest
while the bees ate me alive.
ah, you should’ve seen me,
watching those stupid birds
while the bees ate me alive,
and i didn’t even scream.
those birds from
hateville,
the only birds around.

do you have a music permit?
the cable guy was late,
i brought a shotgun
WHEN?
they ask,
WHEN
WILL HIS SWITCH FLIP?
this public menace,
without a music permit
(they’re only mad
cuz the dayquil aint’
workin’).

i’d think you’d have
compassion
‘cuz you stole all of
mine
take off your colored
glasses
for all the hues have
died
the stench will kill your
olfactors
when your livin in a
stie
but i digress, you
progress
to make my happiness
fly
like a paper plane in the
summer
whose nature the ground drew
nigh

i am truly taking the
last hits
of this bag
and am thinking
how i let you down,
and died at the
end of this dream.

i hear them knocking
all day,
these days,
but i wanna spend
my minutes between
you and the sad
winter sun
before i awake
and consciousness comes.

up here they call me dr. hugo
i work at a chinese restaurant
where my boss
(an old chinese lady named mary)
calls me josh-ah
i have a scrape on my
knuckles from punching
the bathroom fan
the earth is monochrome
i am only charging the
sun a one trip-fee
for a round-trip flight

i am hoping that it takes
a hint.

i want none of you and all
of you at once

i mean that both ways

i want to live freely
but exactly
and i want it warm
i want it right in
the middle, where
it belongs

but i’m having the
hardest time getting
all of that,
even down,
i guess.

e n t r o p y
fear
HATRED
[ERROR]
$money$
$money$
$money$
$money$
pots
mearcs
there’s a video camera every where to be seen
why NOT
PUT ON
a happy
face? 🙂
put yourself at the center of your map
program your gps to tell you where your at
g
ive
yourself away for cash
or a laz-e-boy
e n t r o p y
write your book
change your name
never resolve
never end
eyes closed
mouth open.

words stumble and fall
out of my mouth like
spit after anesthesia

old man winter’s gray
song drunkenly serenades
the inside of my cave

these damn apes are
invading and i must resort
to guerrilla warfare

i see their ships marching
through the bay like
ants to watermelon

dog shit on the bottom
of my shoe — surrender
in the pit of my stomach

tomorrow’s daybreak may
reveal thousands more,
armed to the goddamned teeth

practicing standing up before the
alarm goes off
tying, untying shoes
placing coat in correct position
arriving to practice 20 minutes
early to get the proper motiv
ation and the proper preper
ation so when the coach says
“KLINGER, YOUR IN!”
i will not,
not,
not,
not,
not,
fumble the ball like a fresh
man,
or sophomore.

hitting the field with extra
grass in my teeth,
even if i get that touchdown,
i must not waver.
do you think atlas wavers?
do you think a coach would
bench atlas?
or hercules?
or klinger?

the oil gets thick in the motor
when it’s not turnin at 23 degrees
Fahrenheit after you been runnin’
the block on foot thinking “why man
i oughta get outta this place”
with your head all up in the sky
oh man, your so high. oh the lead
in your head that they put in the
drain they say if you don’t drink
it it makes you insane but you
gotta nervous tick like your
life’s down the drain so your
thinking you might stick your
head in the rain when your
thirsty ‘cuz you know that
shits
mind
control
aint it?
when it all comes down you
gotta pick up the dollars
and put them back down
or all the school children might
call you a clown so you pick
up your back and you walk
down the road towards oblivion
thinking “at least i’ll go there
alone” and man,
you are so damn high.