The Darkness had spared no expense on its arrival.
From the depths unseen by any man, animal, or angel, it arose and spread.
The fissure had widened and from this abyss, the Darkness had escaped.
From this, the Darkness had conquered.
From this, the Darkness had suffocated air; stole the breath from lungs and lips.
Stole vapors from clouds and waves and atmosphere.
Dry and desolate and destitute; the empty ocean cracked.
The brittle forests burned.
Towers toppled, structures disintegrated;
churned to a dust that blew by force of a noiseless wind;
the only interloper, like Charon ferrying dead over the River Styx.
Silent volcanoes did not rage forth with unmatched fury and magnificence;
imploding, they tumbled into themselves, and into more blackness.
Lightning did not shred the night skies with power and vehemence.
There was nothing left.
There was no beauty.
Only the Darkness remained.

cartoons folk sneeze when
they shuldn’t (when all shuld be cwaiet)

i lack control of an altogether
different orifice
but volume a pitch
i alone control
behind my enemy’s lines

bombs aren’t meant to be dropped
in mere scouting

i’m not meant to be on
mere scouting

There’s a dog in the back yard
a barncat in the front, and
the only thing to get between is
rusted, broken chain-link fence
that runs along the property
line, circling the little bit we
keep all to ourselves, so that
our dog can stay in back
and all the barncats can run
unmolested just beyond the
rusted fences, hackles high
and baring teeth at all the
other dogs out on the street.

i would smoke cigarettes with you in that field knowing the next day all the glory and gold and shine and sun and beauty would be gone, draining, depleating, disappearing, diluted, dead.
you know?
whatever?
the poetry only comes as the inspiration and lately the inspiration has been coming engulfed by shadows. these shadows contain inspiration’s cryptonite: reality.
and you and your friends,
out in an orchard of apples,
i want to pick them up like the build and crescendo of a distorted guitar solo, angels around us, ascending into some ethereal place where i can pull out my innermost lust and let it free like an atomic bomb.
some gloomy, michigan day.
autumn, the earth’s massive morning-after-summer-hangover. a time when
everyone
wants to
leave
or be someone else
or whatever.

Day by day, I’ll grow new leaves
I’ll change into a
a sturdy existence for someone else to lean on
As I sit on my bed, I am barely dreaming
my blood mounts, but my face has changed
I was unhappy as a child
I was unhappy as a teenager
as an adult, all I have left is potential
for unhappiness, I have grown up
joy hits me with the 3rd bottle of wine

the way i remember it
we sure as hell were not thankful
that first november

ah but the gravy
you got that part right

how many questions must arrive
who upon the earliest to rise
found no falling leaves or scents of such
but the sweet odors of nights dewly dust
the spring has returned with no flower
but beautiful none the less

as we adjust to our new bodies and in
feeling for friends,
grope around in the dark
backs of neglected cupboards

distinctions like these make you a racist
(with a shockingly large vocabulary
for differences in the color spectrum)

naked
altogether
not bored

reading

There are still dirt driveways
in our fair city,
and when it rains these
driveways turn to mud.

Just beyond the parts where
drunk twenty-somethings
climb in to their girlfriend’s cars
to drive past twenty-five shops
that they’ve never seen, only
heard of, there are Dead Tracks.

Foundry coke liters the lines,
the detritus of the pinnacles of
modern achievement
fifty years ago. Meanwhile,
all-but abandoned, mostly-
forgotten two-story buildings
set a frame for unused, overgrown
infrastructure to cut through.

I felt like an Aberration,
ghosting through the unused
parts and counting railroad ties.
Kicking the coke and rubbing
my chilled hands together.
Setting a pace over uneven ground.
Breathing deep the decay of
seemingly ancient modernization.

There are still dirt driveways
in our fair city,
and when it rains these
driveways turn to mud.
I shudder to think
what happens to
the rest of it.

nights like these used to be so romantic
there was always something better
that could be
the food was terrible and the weather
just right
our hope for what was to come
probably in a chair nearby
and we hoped and dreamed
that this was misery we were experiencing

somehow making each moment more
worthwhile
telling ourselves this was suffering
and perhaps it was compared to the ecstasy
that was to follow

i cant help but wonder
whats it called when everyday is
exactly as wonderful as it should be?

when my job is to think about
furthering your kingdom
and here from another part of the world
living in another part of the world
doing another altogether similar thing
one more rejoicing over similar confusion
at just how lucky we are

will it end?

A restaraunt
on Michigan.
people eat there
now and then.
Heard it’s good,
but never been.
Driven by but
not stopped in

Handsome shop
from what’s been seen.
Giant windows,
quite serene.
Menu prices,
though, obscene,
and not enough
to split between.

Fast food joint
on Portage road.
Pizza’s cheap,
the wings, so-so.
Not the best,
though not most low,
So grab a slice.
We gotta go.

The sun rose again
I called on the Bodhisattva to carry my weight
the fanfare sickened my heart
with its volatile emotions
and I forgot my name.

Bathroom’s scribbles
Jena has got siphillis
Alice h.e.a.r.t.s Jack
L is a fat lying b#&*
politik suks.
Incontinent unhygienic bastards
with their pink blue black ink
let their minds defecate over bathroom walls and doors
The stench of the 21rst century emotional discharge
permeated my skin
and I lost my mind

Puppies scrambling for existence
their blood growing thinner and toxic
screaming at each other
fucking looser
retard
fag

The sun hid again
the Matryoshka doll sounded out my soul,
and called me shallow
real flowers lie low, she said,
true worms rage down below the trash can
and I broke the mold.