ohio,
dramamine,
this is a long drive
for someone with
nothing
to think about
i might
show the custom concern
and head south
into the tundra/
desert
because she
ionizes
and
atomizes
while i’m
talking shit
about a pretty sunset
and we go down to
her beachside property,
dog paddle,
and it’s all about
making everyone happy/
mechanical birds
so she goes to sleep
while i’m at the lounge
where
space travel is boring…
wait, breakthrough,
exit does not exist.
hudson is the name of a dog i
won at the fair,
put a ball through a basket,
brought it home to you
hudson is a pretend dalmation
with big brown eyes
like mine
only he can’t see you
hudson is immortal
and he can never die
because he is plush
so he cannot leave you
a blue mind walks over
green hills
turning
everything a cold
grey
a blue mind stares the
clock down,
with success,
until its ticks dull
down, infinitesimal
a blue mind rips
the pages of history
coming undone,
himself,
with the pages
it’s hard to see past your own nose
it’s hard to put that in your prose
and when i’m on a slump
and revel in muck
i want to throw myself in the road
this lava
that courses
through my
veins
these spiders
that crawl
through my
brain
they have
always felt
just this
way
and it
does always
burn the
same
this night
that bodes
me to
shake
i remember 16 as loud as
a gunshot, yet as
boring as cornfeilds in the
summer
it was permanent, then
the insanity
that is
that comes along with
knowing just how long
your
arms
are
exactly
and
not being precisely
sure
not being exactly
perfectly
fucking
sure
of how to use them
i remember 16 as dead as
a cemetary yet as frantic
as hanging to the side of
the earth
(with your nails)
it was all so fragmented, then
love
that is
and now looking back i seem
to miss
every
single
breath
i
took
of
every
day
and the rain that dripped outside
my windows on some stolen night
with the fruition of my higschool
fantasies and the bane of my
young-adult
ones
i remember 16 as well as i remember
anything else these days:
most often when i’d like not to.
when you need them they make sure
that you fit into the square
whether your a circle or a triangle
and that you never have stolen
or curse
or lied
and that you love to listen to people
talk about themselves
and you’ve never lost your temper
and you think about others before yourself
they make sure that you are
a perfect
square
with
all
your
sides
the
same
length
so when the customer walks in
your smile is as shiny and warm
and deft and dead as
the red colored vest you wear
all those mirrors
i’ve left them for dead
my eyesight’s improving
despite what they said
and the fireworks were just
flares we shot before we drowned
that july fourth that
i can’t remember much of now
all the smoke i inhaled
we followed the trail
it lead back to home
or somewhere close i suppose
all our idols strum guitars
and we headbang again and again
running from
the places we’ve been
i am starting to believe
that there is a fine toothed machine
that’s eating all the plants and trees
and it will set its sights on me
and it is feeding off my dreams
of big and scary evil things
of which i cannot quarantine
or properly concieve
i watch this charade
i feel the earth’s momentum
with fire in my eyes
vegetized by indifference
this
train i’m on keeps rolling
down the track
no railway leading back
i write most of these lies
with the most truth i have
and the most mind i can muster
and the very most saddest
of laughs
i write all of these lines
for the white space they break
i write ’till the sky goes black
and the earth itself starts
to shake
fu
ck
the
purpose filled
life
there is no
purpose
in
life,
th
us
it cannot
be purpose
filled.
qu
it
building these
walk-
ways
into
the
slaughtering house
so
the
she
ep
will follow
it.
(you will strip them naked and put their wool back on your shelves)
Regards,
David X. Hugo
this pen was made to
tear my throat from it’s
place in my neck and
put it on paper so
people can read it and
i will choke and
this is every day for me
they sat in this room and thought up
the worst things that could happen,
and he followed him everywhere
like some stray cat with no tail
but with lots of tales
and question marks
so many it could block out the sun
some days
and he would distract him so much
it was hard to finish his sentences
there were just so many questions
and so many things that could happen
and of all the things that could happen
one of them would surely not be
his disappearance.
i keep talking
and reorganizing my words
waiting for an echo to sound
just the way i dreamed it would,
waiting for the words to come
back and for the crowd to
applause, to clamor, waiting
for the worms to hit the
streets after my words bounce
off the earth like rain.
he is the next poe, they would say
he is the next bukowski
hemingway
and i would be claimed philosopher king
the only philosopher king to run
through wal-mart like a downhill slalom,
laughing at capitalism,
dodging in and out of clothing racks.
i think my desk is secretly on fire
and it doesn’t want to tell me because
it knows i don’t want to know
whether or not it burns when she slips
into my mind
maybe my desk is secretly on fire because
i secretly am setting it on fire
with the heat of my fists on it’s
fake woodgrain exterior
or it’s on fire because i just
lit it on fire and am blocking out
the memories because i’m losing
my mind, and
it’s keeping that secret from me too
either way, this desk is lying to me.
you grow your legs, and it’s sink or swim
you throw your eggs at the presidents chin
you eat your grass if your one of the cattle
and bicker and babble over who won the battle
but their building a fence, blocking the sun
and the biggest of the bulls wouldn’t dare run
and the box in the room that keeps talking to you
grows bigger and bigger the more of you it consumes
every single day it’s Obama Mccain
every single day it’s Osama Hussein
every single day it continues to rain
every single day threatens to drive me insane
and back in high school when you gave up your brain
and you put on a mask so you could all look the same
now you spend your days grazing with black and white spots
regurgitating what you eat to see your cholesterol drop.
(Disclaimer: In no way am I comparing Osama Bin Laden to Barack Obama.)
The Skins on the corner
with their bubble postures
and the Muscles they walk with
swaying their hips
and the Muscles will flex
all their cologne and fists,
the college Punks,
the Emo’s and their skinny
jeans and cigarettes,
the one’s that fall through
the cracks in the dirt,
and the Alien’s,
watching the sun cross
behind the balet of the
clouds
twidling our thumbs.
the sieve and the sand 