You told me there are rules
about how babies are born,
about how clothes are worn,
about gluttony and adultery

You spent every Sunday chatting
with your Brothers and Sisters
about how the rules apply
to everyone

There are no exceptions

Then your Husband wrote a letter
about getting out early.
He quoted Seneca, who said
that the wise man will live
as long as he ought

There are no exceptions

So do not talk about heaven

There are rules, after all,
and certain rules apply
when the wise man

weeping at the visage of our glorious leader


be wary those that are born
into this prison
and straighten your spine
and look forward
for all eyes belong
to the great gods of hell
who filled walls
with your dead brethren
and covered them in
the faces of their family

eat love and pray
under their holiness, I say
it may pick at your soul
to do so
the sun will shine on
but men can
block your view.

what should i say?


i understand the river
of thought and learn
to breath among the
creatures of the riverbed

i speak but the words
get carried away
back down the curvature
of the giant sphere

i add my own water
to the stream but it
seems a pointless

it becomes foreign
just like my reflection,
the morning after

one thing remains true:
that i cannot breath
in this land
of fish and mossy rocks

i feel freer with
my feet hovering just
inches above the ground
and drier, too.

technology, entertainment, design


i posit that all of this gas
and carbon nonsense is
the molecules within a falling
raindrop, electrons and
other scientific things popping
and fizzing as supernovas in
a black abyss. that chances are
we will be crushed on an umbrella,
that man will have spent all
of his time sitting in front of computer
screens, watching geniuses blabber,
positing about carbon and raindrops,
and plop,
right on some 9 year old’s hannah
montana umbrella. she’ll be livin’ like
us, ears closed, just like one big
epic irony. for feelings,
i guess.

no real finality can ever be understood


ah, to be the rock
off some unforgiving shore
with the knowledge of it all
or without knowledge at all
not to be moved by chemicals
or by any ill-thought plan
to be eternal and ephemeral
no clever plot devices
nor clumsy accidents
nor seething animosity
or the acceptance that follows
to all that are wise
just what it is to be a rock

ah, to be the rock
for being human is so incomplete
happiness defined by it’s absence
the mind an ever growing
grey matter only shut-off
by will or unwilled haps
and the lies that turn it
on it’s self and twist
all of it’s senses into
some black hole that no
god could ever have
purpose for

ah, to be the rock
that i one day hope to be
that when my heart
throws it’s last fit
i will be taken by the
germs and decay into
then put pressure upon
and am next to some
glacier that forms
some new ocean when
all of humanity has
either died or
left or survived
to something inconcievable
to me at this moment
and i will be on a shore
as a rock
at peace