jump!

poetry

first i must brave the electric
field filling the space between
us in your living room,
then i must make very sure i am
absolutely correct
when i stare at your thighs and
envision how the rest of the night
should go
then i must speak,
and my words must tip-toe around your face,
tickle,
…convince…
am i ugly?
am i a casanova?
if i
if i moved myself
closer to you
would the buildings fall down in
just
the
right
order?
but we must always know
we must surely know
i will go home
because chances are for the living.

it’s been five years,

poetry

since we last talked
(if yelling is talking),
and i got mad,
and you got mad;
we all got mad,
and in the end
i gave you up
and the ensuing silence said
“you aren’t my father,
and you never were,
and you never will be,
and i never want to see you again.”

and there’s nothing like death
to draw me back,
to bring me back to say
“you gave me some of the best times
of my life, and I don’t know
who I would be without you,
and i love you, despite your fuck-ups;”
the very things that i can’t say,
that i never will say,
as you lie dead
in a morgue
in pueblo,
colorado.

Stethoscopes – Or, an Obscure Reference to Pink Floyd

poetry

I’ve stepped in to a strange
contorted world of your own
machinations
(unless it’s just the glass(es)
that I’m looking through
changing the view)

and all the while we dream
of doing something with our
own creations
(but we both know the lies
we tell our selves won’t
turn out true)

should we step outside?
breathe deep the fresh air?
consider possibilities
that all the things we’re aiming for
are not what we’ll turn out to be?

or do we SHUT THE FUCK UP
like we said we would before?
let’s just do the thing already
let’s not dwaddle anymore

let’s turn off your machinations
and pick up our old creations
let’s, in other words,
take our stethoscopes and
walk

on rabbits and hats

poetry

i always
viewed myself
as
a
borderline ascetic
needing nothing
but books
scoffing at those
with
two houses
two cars
two pairs of pants
smug in my
anti-materialistic
superiority.

but then i started packing in preparation
for a move and shit appeared out of thin air filling boxes and bags
crowding the corners of every room like surly cubic dwarfs taunting and daunting
us with their immutability increasing in number until i feared a coup de box so finally i called
and upgraded to a larger moving truck all the time wondering how it was i’ve acquired so much shit
and how the hell can i get rid of all of it?

Honey.

poetry

Honey, give me just a piece
to write
tonight.

Honey, it doesn’t have to
rhyme,
(but if it does,
that’s fine).

and oh! Honey,
define for me
the term
‘petulance’ using
nothing but a sweet,
loving smile

I’m certain that
the irony,
subliminal though
it may be,
would kill me.

lust after objects which really aren’t expensive but are still much more costly than they should be given that they were stamped out of a factory in a matter of seconds and the guy who came up with the design probably hasn’t recieved a penny in years because you’ve so overdone it. but lust like this should not be hidden, rather it should be embraced slowly, caressed, and then indulged through the removal of small paper money from your wallet to be placed in the hand of the man who owns the place and you box it up, take it home, and use it in the most dirty way possible (which admittedly is hardly dirty at all given that you’ll likely keep it perfectly clean and never put any more than one kind of tea in it for it’s entire life)

poetry

i fell for you today
not for your beauty
(though you are cute)
but merely for your
utility
and to say
i have you.

five hours earlier
i new not of my need
to caress your smooth
sides with my hands

and pour life from
your stout spout

The fact that it rhymes with ‘pickle’ only goes to further prove the point

poetry

they terrify the fickle
with most every breath they take
and while the plebeians avoid their eyes
the very air around them quakes
displaying the distressing of
their uncomfortable
situation

For the fickle have no wherewithal
nor any sense of truth,
the important parts of course being
beauty, sex and truth,
even though the slightest slight
might scare the whole damn bunch away:

So unfortunate that the fickle
are not worth the price we pay

lion in a zoo

poetry

on the sober days i lose my mind
the hippie girl says something like
i am “weak for taking the edge off”
i say: if you think you are a rocket
why don’t you take off!?
i say, i say
WHY I MAY BE A LION IN A ZOO
BUT AT LEAST I’M NOT A LION IN A ZOO
PRETENDING
TO BE AN ASTRONAUT,
YOU FUCK!!
but of course, i don’t say any of this
because
i am a lion in a zoo…
…so
who am i to talk?

Tune in Next Time

poetry

Thoughtlessly he
handles all his
funds until one day,
he finds a distinct
Lack
of funding.

He sits at a
well-lit all-night
Diner’s table,
(first booth on the
right),
and scratches at his
tiching notepad
-furiously-.

Could this be
THE END
for our hero?

He hopes not.

ngtvlvsng

poetry

sometimes i feel like i am sleeping in a coffin
what’s it all about?
(sometimes i feel very sad)
oh,
the beach boys said it best
(i guess i just wasn’t made
for these times)
sometimes i feel like
i am
sleeping
all day long
like the days turn to dreams
what’s this all about
this existence
shouldn’t i be
chasing
the horizon?
IF i CouLD JuST gEt
sO
mEw
HeRe

Walled

poetry

These four walls
Incase you like a convict
How did you get here
And when?
You don’t remember a trial,
Only accusations
And waking up to
An icy sweat.
The floor is cool,
Slick with perspiration.
The air is thick,
Weighed with humidity.
There’s a shackle
Attached to your ankle.
It’s fashioned with flesh.
Innards and entrails.
All of them your own.
The walls would crumble
If you opened your eyes.

the enddne eht

poetry

i am organreorganizing my existence
as a hole as we speak
i am chopping off all of the excess parts
i am feeling really nothing at all
i am not typing because i don’t
have the internet
and i’ve been busy
burying my head in
not being busy
/the sand
quietly calculating prioritizing
shipping recieving planning and
counting my ideas on a white
sheet labeled
1,
2,
3,
my love is drying up like oil
after it drips from my mechanical
mind,
chemicals not meaning much
to me
it’s all about cogs and machines
it’s all about chopping down trees
and building something with the wood
like a human being
so i again,
will try and take up
drinking.

So what is with all the secret recipes ? (click for details)

poetry

Get it today,
save, learn more,
sign up now
guaranteed
whiter teeth
boobies humongous
jumping out of your new monitor
saying I’ll get all the pores on your skin laid, your soul laid, even your fridge laid.

Huge prospects one click a way
all promises cheap or free
stirring up inside out of sheer anticipation
uploading my mind with new greed and strict habits of size/self-remodeling
(earn zillions from home, finance a hungry child with less than a quarter of a cent,
and learn how to spend thousands on chasing the bodyfat away)

why wait ?!
empower the cinderella within
the hell with the frog prince, you deserve the shoe, the white horse (buy one, get second half off).
The knight with steel abs is on a different page looking for
sweepstakes and fish tanks on sale ? (click here and try him free ***offer available to those who qualify)

Youth
Happiness
Expect More
Faster
Shop Now
What is your discontent credit score?
Get it for FREE in less than one nano second

Leave me the hell alone
quit perousing through my brain cells
I maxed out on all my dissatisfactions
All I require is a diet pill for the out-of-control* self-awareness
( out-of-control <= self-awareness;
vicious circle c Restrictions;
Thus, I am a rambling fool)
Keep your damn free* worlds,
I will settle for a fatter ideal.

Incandescence

poetry

While I am walking, tripping on the street
look my way (I am addicted to your promises)
strike me with your lightning bolt
so grace may echo on this unhooking heart.
Budha and the sacred tree,
(were they ever alive …unharmed, unhaunted?)
I come unbound
Even when returns sorrow scratch the moon and the stars of heaven,
I am in love with life.