Snakebit Sunday nights
Full of cobra fang pints,
Like off-rhymed lines
Or undercooked rice,
take awhile to pile up
but taste like nosebleeds or pennies
halfway through Monday
And it's not always a bad thing...
So bring the bees in your bonnet
When you come to play dice
But, if the spirit is with you
Just loosen its tie
And hold your misgivings down tight.
The ride won't be rough,
But it might get surreal.
Sealed lips won't sink you, though.
Up the ante, charm the snakes
And sup on sterile rumors
'til the talk starts to abate
Friday, December 31, 2010
Calm Rationale
She's got no need for nostalgia:
tossing bricks through bodega windows
is only a diversion--
An assessment, anyway--the bright side:
It's easier to get in now--accessible
And old men's ghost stories go
wailing out the window
and drift right up to her doorstep
on nighs she doesn't even want to leave
And, hey--it could be a catchy gimmick
(if admittedly kitsch)
"The Hole-in-the-Window Hole in the Wall"
Call it local color...
Too highbrow and hot in there, anyhow
(before the brick)
And what's a window anyway,
but a hole with some glass over it?
tossing bricks through bodega windows
is only a diversion--
An assessment, anyway--the bright side:
It's easier to get in now--accessible
And old men's ghost stories go
wailing out the window
and drift right up to her doorstep
on nighs she doesn't even want to leave
And, hey--it could be a catchy gimmick
(if admittedly kitsch)
"The Hole-in-the-Window Hole in the Wall"
Call it local color...
Too highbrow and hot in there, anyhow
(before the brick)
And what's a window anyway,
but a hole with some glass over it?
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Anchors Away
Somewhere by the airport
Someone like an old friend
Exhales into the night time
A foggy line to trace the outline
of the crackling winter skyline
Which will likely meet with my line
that I exhaled by the old high school
while gazing out Northeast
And snowdrops work their way down
Through the pocked, decaying night sky
But the roots below the roadlines
That were laid down by our forebears
begin to shake a dusting on
Our slowly hazing heads
And the maps divorce their meanings
While the rats leap in the drink
And those roots release their moorings
for to favor freezing night
So while the city soundly sleeps
so too it does disintegrate
And shreiks a silent death knell
Back behind its dimming lights
So I think that I must tell you
--though my mouth fills up with foamy words
all dying in my throat--
if your heart is still all tissue
and stubbornly still beats...
...Congratulations.
Someone like an old friend
Exhales into the night time
A foggy line to trace the outline
of the crackling winter skyline
Which will likely meet with my line
that I exhaled by the old high school
while gazing out Northeast
And snowdrops work their way down
Through the pocked, decaying night sky
But the roots below the roadlines
That were laid down by our forebears
begin to shake a dusting on
Our slowly hazing heads
And the maps divorce their meanings
While the rats leap in the drink
And those roots release their moorings
for to favor freezing night
So while the city soundly sleeps
so too it does disintegrate
And shreiks a silent death knell
Back behind its dimming lights
So I think that I must tell you
--though my mouth fills up with foamy words
all dying in my throat--
if your heart is still all tissue
and stubbornly still beats...
...Congratulations.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Kid's Mad, See?
Hey, kid! What's new!?
How long has it been since you got disillusioned
And checked
Your grin
At the door where you still paid to get in?
In another sub-par year,
Will you still be here?
Wondering what became of what you used to love
We all come back
Each time, each night, with flush faced wishes
And you come back
To sit alone and drink while bitchin'
Every night still goes down smooth here
But "it got awful..."
So why not just leave?
Hey, kid! What say?
How long ago'd you throw the towel in
And check
Your grin
At the door where you still payed to get in?
In another sub-par year
Will you still be here
Hating everything that we still really love?
How long has it been since you got disillusioned
And checked
Your grin
At the door where you still paid to get in?
In another sub-par year,
Will you still be here?
Wondering what became of what you used to love
We all come back
Each time, each night, with flush faced wishes
And you come back
To sit alone and drink while bitchin'
Every night still goes down smooth here
But "it got awful..."
So why not just leave?
Hey, kid! What say?
How long ago'd you throw the towel in
And check
Your grin
At the door where you still payed to get in?
In another sub-par year
Will you still be here
Hating everything that we still really love?
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Practice, Polished
Gonna sink in
Gonna fall down
And settle into cracks I wore--
eroded in the year--
fuckin' deeper than before
I gave it time, I gave it time
and I won't probably even mind
When you resurface or repave
atop this layer of bad habits.
Shot of Pledge or Pine Sol
and a long and pressing wipe
And here I am still in the surface
in the finish
rubbed down right into the grain.
Years of practice, polished practice
practiced polish
Put a sweetly burning shine
atop a layer of bad habits
The more and more I pave atop,
The more and more I polish
It's just more ingrained
interred
entrenched
and more assured--
A thicker, deeper layer
atop a layer of bad habits
Eh, not my best stuff, no. But, after an impromptu hiatus, I felt I just needed to get writing again.
(11 November, 2010)
Gonna fall down
And settle into cracks I wore--
eroded in the year--
fuckin' deeper than before
I gave it time, I gave it time
and I won't probably even mind
When you resurface or repave
atop this layer of bad habits.
Shot of Pledge or Pine Sol
and a long and pressing wipe
And here I am still in the surface
in the finish
rubbed down right into the grain.
Years of practice, polished practice
practiced polish
Put a sweetly burning shine
atop a layer of bad habits
The more and more I pave atop,
The more and more I polish
It's just more ingrained
interred
entrenched
and more assured--
A thicker, deeper layer
atop a layer of bad habits
Eh, not my best stuff, no. But, after an impromptu hiatus, I felt I just needed to get writing again.
(11 November, 2010)
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Generation Atlas
Is this really how we're fated?
Is this truly what we're meant for?
Broken hearted generation--
Was this what we wanted--
Is this what we hoped for?
Broken backs and weakened spirits
Voices failing, fading
In the Monolithic grip
Of vampiric, clutching claws?
The zeitgheist grows old, now
Wears thin
...but he sticks around somehow...
well beyond his welcome.
And we--too busy?--
Making his supper?
Bringing his slippers
Cleaning the messes he makes?--
To toss him out by the throat?
Might we get to the bottom
If we weren't getting to bottoms of bottles?
Pressed into murky, miring belief,
we've breathed mud for how long?
Mud
From the bottoms of boots
under legs, tiring
under arms, aching
from supporting the Magic Fabric--
spellbinding and rendered "sacred"
by a forcing of definitions to melt.
We've breathed the mud we're pressed into
--for HOW long!?--
From bottoms of General Issue
working boots our loving fathers wore
boots beneath their brows
above their shoulders
beside their arms which are ours
Arms aching
from supporting
the weight
of the way the world evolved
Atlas shrugs?
Not likely.
Atlas does as commanded
And Atlas follows commands to stay content
Shoulders the weight of his own world
by the order of whim
While a white, unwelcomed zeitgheist
Rests atop and eats his fattening fill
Smiling, he intones, "Feel nothing--feel content."
Sobbing silently, Atlas mouths,
"Amen."
(October 25, 2010)
Is this truly what we're meant for?
Broken hearted generation--
Was this what we wanted--
Is this what we hoped for?
Broken backs and weakened spirits
Voices failing, fading
In the Monolithic grip
Of vampiric, clutching claws?
The zeitgheist grows old, now
Wears thin
...but he sticks around somehow...
well beyond his welcome.
And we--too busy?--
Making his supper?
Bringing his slippers
Cleaning the messes he makes?--
To toss him out by the throat?
Might we get to the bottom
If we weren't getting to bottoms of bottles?
Pressed into murky, miring belief,
we've breathed mud for how long?
Mud
From the bottoms of boots
under legs, tiring
under arms, aching
from supporting the Magic Fabric--
spellbinding and rendered "sacred"
by a forcing of definitions to melt.
We've breathed the mud we're pressed into
--for HOW long!?--
From bottoms of General Issue
working boots our loving fathers wore
boots beneath their brows
above their shoulders
beside their arms which are ours
Arms aching
from supporting
the weight
of the way the world evolved
Atlas shrugs?
Not likely.
Atlas does as commanded
And Atlas follows commands to stay content
Shoulders the weight of his own world
by the order of whim
While a white, unwelcomed zeitgheist
Rests atop and eats his fattening fill
Smiling, he intones, "Feel nothing--feel content."
Sobbing silently, Atlas mouths,
"Amen."
(October 25, 2010)
Winter on the River
There's a man by the river
And he weaves his nets from fibers
With the gnarled up fingers
On his curled, weathered hands
And he never had a license
Or a permit to subsist
Just exists inside a time & space
that he's content to call his own
Winter howls, the old man shivers
In his shack, he stokes a fire
That he makes from pine and driftwood
As he dreams of fiberous nets and fish
And of summers weaving fibers
Into nets, not unlike spiders
Not unlike the cold night looms outside
And weaves him frothing dreams
Upstream on the river,
Lived a brother and two sisters
And they also bought permission
From the riverfish and crawdads
To live through every year.
Their parents moved away
Somewhere off of these pages
Beyond the thrust of pen.
To forget they way they did
But did forget
Something sometime happened, maybe,
Away
on
up
the
river
Not more than 3 years later,
Now the fish
they just don't
come
Not in the same thronging, spawning
numbers they once did--a teeming
shinging, massive mass of simultaneous
breath provision, a silver tooth in
the river's loving smile.
Not now
Not in those numbers.
Now the brother and his sisters too
Must move off of the page
What of the balding, capped old man
With gnarled, curled fingers
and the weather in his eyes?
(October 22, 2010)
And he weaves his nets from fibers
With the gnarled up fingers
On his curled, weathered hands
And he never had a license
Or a permit to subsist
Just exists inside a time & space
that he's content to call his own
Winter howls, the old man shivers
In his shack, he stokes a fire
That he makes from pine and driftwood
As he dreams of fiberous nets and fish
And of summers weaving fibers
Into nets, not unlike spiders
Not unlike the cold night looms outside
And weaves him frothing dreams
Upstream on the river,
Lived a brother and two sisters
And they also bought permission
From the riverfish and crawdads
To live through every year.
Their parents moved away
Somewhere off of these pages
Beyond the thrust of pen.
To forget they way they did
But did forget
Something sometime happened, maybe,
Away
on
up
the
river
Not more than 3 years later,
Now the fish
they just don't
come
Not in the same thronging, spawning
numbers they once did--a teeming
shinging, massive mass of simultaneous
breath provision, a silver tooth in
the river's loving smile.
Not now
Not in those numbers.
Now the brother and his sisters too
Must move off of the page
What of the balding, capped old man
With gnarled, curled fingers
and the weather in his eyes?
(October 22, 2010)
The Collector
Man, I love Hallowe'en time.
In the basement on the shelves
A jaw-dropping collection
Of an artist of a sort
With strong local connections.
Soccer coach and school teacher
The brother of a cop he--
Still is able in spare time
To do his cas'al hobby.
Redheads, blonds, brunettes and all
With chins of various size
Are displayed there artfully
Kept concealed from public eyes.
Jars with lids, formaldahyde
Two tools of his media
And the third--at least today--
Went by the name of Celia
Her bright eyes and glowing skin
Preserved here in his basement
Along with her light brown hair
Inside this glass encasement
Afternoons this way he spends
But only on the weekends
Back to school and soccer field
Each time his Sunday sleep ends
So be wary, moms and dads
If after school he offers
"Extra help with math homework"
To stupid sons and daughters.
(October 16, 2010)
In the basement on the shelves
A jaw-dropping collection
Of an artist of a sort
With strong local connections.
Soccer coach and school teacher
The brother of a cop he--
Still is able in spare time
To do his cas'al hobby.
Redheads, blonds, brunettes and all
With chins of various size
Are displayed there artfully
Kept concealed from public eyes.
Jars with lids, formaldahyde
Two tools of his media
And the third--at least today--
Went by the name of Celia
Her bright eyes and glowing skin
Preserved here in his basement
Along with her light brown hair
Inside this glass encasement
Afternoons this way he spends
But only on the weekends
Back to school and soccer field
Each time his Sunday sleep ends
So be wary, moms and dads
If after school he offers
"Extra help with math homework"
To stupid sons and daughters.
(October 16, 2010)
Center Sluggish
I fell asleep in the middle of some day
in the middle of some week that
time forgot.
And I guess the lukewarm coffee I bought
wasn't hot or brave enough
to chase away the waxing doldrums
in my hazed and waning eyes
I pulled the shade like every day;
only red blood cells to see in cell shaded cities
The batteries aren't dead, just slightly disconnected
and lightly firing.
So falling asleep in the middle of the week
ain't the same as sinking
Okay?
It's a flotation device--a rotating
A positive-negative-negative-positive
hedging of bets, I guess.
Paying debts is no fun and I wouldn't want
to sleep away the weekend.
And if I dream of bits of fur fluttering
in overcast autumn breezes, caught on
barbed wire, then that's just the sort
of week it's in the middle of being.
But, y'know, it's funny: on the couch I
only ever dream of doodles I saw strangers
do on the inside back covers of notebooks
whose lines bleed into mine and I have
to wonder when and where they fall
asleep in the middle of the middle of
the week.
But do they bother sniffling?
I've stopped.
It's not a letting go of the rungs,
but a sudden lack of ladder, of
which one won't bother protesting
What's wrong with falling through slow,
souply, familiar thoughts that way?
Anyway, it's only Wednesday, am I
right?
(October 9, 2010)
in the middle of some week that
time forgot.
And I guess the lukewarm coffee I bought
wasn't hot or brave enough
to chase away the waxing doldrums
in my hazed and waning eyes
I pulled the shade like every day;
only red blood cells to see in cell shaded cities
The batteries aren't dead, just slightly disconnected
and lightly firing.
So falling asleep in the middle of the week
ain't the same as sinking
Okay?
It's a flotation device--a rotating
A positive-negative-negative-positive
hedging of bets, I guess.
Paying debts is no fun and I wouldn't want
to sleep away the weekend.
And if I dream of bits of fur fluttering
in overcast autumn breezes, caught on
barbed wire, then that's just the sort
of week it's in the middle of being.
But, y'know, it's funny: on the couch I
only ever dream of doodles I saw strangers
do on the inside back covers of notebooks
whose lines bleed into mine and I have
to wonder when and where they fall
asleep in the middle of the middle of
the week.
But do they bother sniffling?
I've stopped.
It's not a letting go of the rungs,
but a sudden lack of ladder, of
which one won't bother protesting
What's wrong with falling through slow,
souply, familiar thoughts that way?
Anyway, it's only Wednesday, am I
right?
(October 9, 2010)
Unfollowed
I always loved this time somehow,
Fall; the way it settles slow
Into the cracks summer wore into the year
It rains slow and breathes slow;
the last, half-formed thought
Before sleep, nebulous
dreamt between intention
broadcast on low frequency, unspoken
I love it lazily,
Love it heavily, resignedly
Like the final, unfollowed comma at the
bottom of the page
(October 9, 2010)
Fall; the way it settles slow
Into the cracks summer wore into the year
It rains slow and breathes slow;
the last, half-formed thought
Before sleep, nebulous
dreamt between intention
broadcast on low frequency, unspoken
I love it lazily,
Love it heavily, resignedly
Like the final, unfollowed comma at the
bottom of the page
(October 9, 2010)
Dehabilitator
Is this what you wanted
Or not quite the thing you banked on?
--Emptied, wasted, took for granted
Yoru devotion's just like drug addiction:
A slice of Hell you've come to count on,
But it's object is what's killing you.
Four and twenty blackbirds on the lawn
The taste of pastries on your tongue
Drink in midmorning summer sun
Try to lower the contrast
Somehow, in spite, you always know
Midmorning always comes and goes
Gives way to weeping evenings
--Spent solitary 'til they return--
Another awful day?
It's only what you make of it;
No worse than you let it be,
Your train won't run off the tracks
if you never let it start
Your devotion's just like drug addiction:
A slice of Hell you've come to count on
It's high time you got clean.
(September 29, 2010)
Or not quite the thing you banked on?
--Emptied, wasted, took for granted
Yoru devotion's just like drug addiction:
A slice of Hell you've come to count on,
But it's object is what's killing you.
Four and twenty blackbirds on the lawn
The taste of pastries on your tongue
Drink in midmorning summer sun
Try to lower the contrast
Somehow, in spite, you always know
Midmorning always comes and goes
Gives way to weeping evenings
--Spent solitary 'til they return--
Another awful day?
It's only what you make of it;
No worse than you let it be,
Your train won't run off the tracks
if you never let it start
Your devotion's just like drug addiction:
A slice of Hell you've come to count on
It's high time you got clean.
(September 29, 2010)
Not Sinking
So here's the plan, my friends:
Pinning hearts to sleeves again
And they won't come off easy
--Not this time
No not so easily this time
Some words scribbled down
On a yellowed piece of paper
"Meet up with memories later"
I think I must've been 14 in 1999
I'll drive through the snow
and the ice
and the rainy, filled up coursing wind
I think I've remembered how we'd win
back in 1999
So today we'll stay up late,
Pile some hours up
and enunciate
We came from X and it relates
to where we're headed now--to Y
So the years poured on
'Til they filled the fiery holes
we used to have inside
our hungry, paplitating cores
But with emptied tear ducts stinging
While the bells of Spring are ringing
Why the Hell do we wait to sing
the songs we should be singing?
Now, it's true, I torched my atlases
Whilst busy burning effigies
and symbols of the bridges I'd already burnt before
But with a regained grin, all resplendant
I've recovered our old ship's sextant
From the icy ocean I've been pouring out for years
And with luck and winds behind us,
I believe that we can find us
A way back to new destinations
maybe seen before.
Now, we've weathered windy seasons
Still we only need ideas
And a willing, wailing fire we'll stoke
deep down inside our guts
So here's the plan, my friends:
Pinning hearts to sleeves again
And they won't come off so easy--
One more time; my plan, my friends
Is pinning hopes and dreams to skin
And let it come, what wind that will,
We'll not be sunk again.
(September 29, 2010)
Pinning hearts to sleeves again
And they won't come off easy
--Not this time
No not so easily this time
Some words scribbled down
On a yellowed piece of paper
"Meet up with memories later"
I think I must've been 14 in 1999
I'll drive through the snow
and the ice
and the rainy, filled up coursing wind
I think I've remembered how we'd win
back in 1999
So today we'll stay up late,
Pile some hours up
and enunciate
We came from X and it relates
to where we're headed now--to Y
So the years poured on
'Til they filled the fiery holes
we used to have inside
our hungry, paplitating cores
But with emptied tear ducts stinging
While the bells of Spring are ringing
Why the Hell do we wait to sing
the songs we should be singing?
Now, it's true, I torched my atlases
Whilst busy burning effigies
and symbols of the bridges I'd already burnt before
But with a regained grin, all resplendant
I've recovered our old ship's sextant
From the icy ocean I've been pouring out for years
And with luck and winds behind us,
I believe that we can find us
A way back to new destinations
maybe seen before.
Now, we've weathered windy seasons
Still we only need ideas
And a willing, wailing fire we'll stoke
deep down inside our guts
So here's the plan, my friends:
Pinning hearts to sleeves again
And they won't come off so easy--
One more time; my plan, my friends
Is pinning hopes and dreams to skin
And let it come, what wind that will,
We'll not be sunk again.
(September 29, 2010)
Modus Operandi
Standing on corners Of cracked and crumbling lanes
You remember names
And the blood inside your veins
Concentration breaks
You forgot the mark you made
And the ones they make...
wash away with stains and paint
And for a moment under street lights' hum
You take a breath
tentative
Shakes
Set
In
Shivers
Come
And in the morning if you happen to make it home
Try to stop the storming
that shudders inside your cranium
Eat some breakfast
Drink some coffee
Then go back to bed
It's 10:00, it's 1:00, now Sunday's gone
Your memory's made of lead
It's now the time,
you're out of time
And hands aching hard
breaking pacts
staking claims
writing checks that your heart can't cash
And reaching farther, much the same
In Minnesota, Florida, Maine
The bedroom walls
inside your brain
will take the blame again
Will take the blame again
It'll be the same again
It always seems
Another naked Monday afternoon
drunk on bad dreams
(October 4, 2010)
You remember names
And the blood inside your veins
Concentration breaks
You forgot the mark you made
And the ones they make...
wash away with stains and paint
And for a moment under street lights' hum
You take a breath
tentative
Shakes
Set
In
Shivers
Come
And in the morning if you happen to make it home
Try to stop the storming
that shudders inside your cranium
Eat some breakfast
Drink some coffee
Then go back to bed
It's 10:00, it's 1:00, now Sunday's gone
Your memory's made of lead
It's now the time,
you're out of time
And hands aching hard
breaking pacts
staking claims
writing checks that your heart can't cash
And reaching farther, much the same
In Minnesota, Florida, Maine
The bedroom walls
inside your brain
will take the blame again
Will take the blame again
It'll be the same again
It always seems
Another naked Monday afternoon
drunk on bad dreams
(October 4, 2010)
September Stories
I've got a way with speech and a hundred thousand reasons not to.
I'm bored and tired of feeling tired and bored
And much more,
I'm running out of breath and wasting
What little
I've got
On brick wall stares and blank page faces
The bones of this town
tell September stories
out loud
on top of chill and silence
I sense that Fall is coming early
In the rain on the wind on squint-creased faces
like mine
I've got a ways to walk and many reasons why I want to.
I'm poor and sick of feeling sick and poor.
And six more
Months spent in this place just might kill me
If not,
I guess
Brown drinks and your cold, ashen face will
Bleached bones of your smile
clamp September stories
Down tight
inside so they can't be heard
You've blurred my face out for the last time
From the frame, from the place with blasée faces
And times
You've got a gift for talking, I'll
give you one good reason not to...
(September 30, 2010)
I'm bored and tired of feeling tired and bored
And much more,
I'm running out of breath and wasting
What little
I've got
On brick wall stares and blank page faces
The bones of this town
tell September stories
out loud
on top of chill and silence
I sense that Fall is coming early
In the rain on the wind on squint-creased faces
like mine
I've got a ways to walk and many reasons why I want to.
I'm poor and sick of feeling sick and poor.
And six more
Months spent in this place just might kill me
If not,
I guess
Brown drinks and your cold, ashen face will
Bleached bones of your smile
clamp September stories
Down tight
inside so they can't be heard
You've blurred my face out for the last time
From the frame, from the place with blasée faces
And times
You've got a gift for talking, I'll
give you one good reason not to...
(September 30, 2010)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Down
Down is one of the directions
And it's always...full.
Down may be the most pregnant
direction
They come Down when thay are born
Down when they immerse themselves
in life--with others.
It "comes down"
And then drains Down
before they can come up.
Even so, before they came up,
They went down.
Birth is all directions
Life is all directions
But pregnance--the start--
is Down
Space--the wide universe--is all directions
But it is not The Start.
It is merely "is."
Oceans are Down.
Wetlands are Down.
And both are The Start.
And both are pregnance.
The Start
is
Down
(June 1, 2010)
And it's always...full.
Down may be the most pregnant
direction
They come Down when thay are born
Down when they immerse themselves
in life--with others.
It "comes down"
And then drains Down
before they can come up.
Even so, before they came up,
They went down.
Birth is all directions
Life is all directions
But pregnance--the start--
is Down
Space--the wide universe--is all directions
But it is not The Start.
It is merely "is."
Oceans are Down.
Wetlands are Down.
And both are The Start.
And both are pregnance.
The Start
is
Down
(June 1, 2010)
Anticipating the End Credits
Let's subtract these aches and pains
And add a long walk through the rain--
--the rain drenched streets and sing
the alphabet...
An A-to-Z list of the shit
We'd just as soon try to forget
And come home late
Drenched to the skin
Let's turn back the clocks to when
We weren't hated by all our friends
--our friends who never used
to let us down
And just go back if only we can
to the days when we were men
Who could always
Be counted on
But the hour now is getting late
And I can't seem to shake these aches
That late nights always start inside my chest
So now with swelling throat and greying hairs
My aging regrets bid farewell
to these
dark avenues
And add a long walk through the rain--
--the rain drenched streets and sing
the alphabet...
An A-to-Z list of the shit
We'd just as soon try to forget
And come home late
Drenched to the skin
Let's turn back the clocks to when
We weren't hated by all our friends
--our friends who never used
to let us down
And just go back if only we can
to the days when we were men
Who could always
Be counted on
But the hour now is getting late
And I can't seem to shake these aches
That late nights always start inside my chest
So now with swelling throat and greying hairs
My aging regrets bid farewell
to these
dark avenues
(May 16, 2010)
20,000,000,000 Miles to Earth
Sensors failing on "The Oberon"
Supplies are running low
Choke down waning oxygen
Unconscious comes and goes
Alone you're stumbling through the halls
And searching for your crew
From back on Earth, the printouts read
"Light years too far to save you."
It's a lonley fuckin' feeling out among the stars
It's cold and the difficulty breathing hurts
Sent out an S.O.S. but no luck so far
It's 20 billion miles to Earth
Yeah 20 billion miles to Earth
Try to plot a course to get back home
Controls are fried and dead.
"The Oberon" is shutting down
Failed systems; it's Code Red
Your last visions are of plant and cloud
And grass and rock and rain
As the primal cold of space
Starts shutting down your brain
But you knew she couldn't follow you
This far out into space
Now it might be 20 billion years
Before the living see your face
It's a lonely fucking feeling out among the stars
It's cold and the difficulty breathing hurts
None recieved your S.O.S. out past the stars
It's 20 billion miles to Earth
(May 3, 2010)
Supplies are running low
Choke down waning oxygen
Unconscious comes and goes
Alone you're stumbling through the halls
And searching for your crew
From back on Earth, the printouts read
"Light years too far to save you."
It's a lonley fuckin' feeling out among the stars
It's cold and the difficulty breathing hurts
Sent out an S.O.S. but no luck so far
It's 20 billion miles to Earth
Yeah 20 billion miles to Earth
Try to plot a course to get back home
Controls are fried and dead.
"The Oberon" is shutting down
Failed systems; it's Code Red
Your last visions are of plant and cloud
And grass and rock and rain
As the primal cold of space
Starts shutting down your brain
But you knew she couldn't follow you
This far out into space
Now it might be 20 billion years
Before the living see your face
It's a lonely fucking feeling out among the stars
It's cold and the difficulty breathing hurts
None recieved your S.O.S. out past the stars
It's 20 billion miles to Earth
(May 3, 2010)
Styrofoam
When I caught sight of you at first
From a distance, you were alone.
Alone and hard-edged
Solid, cool
Didn't know if you were snow
Or styrofoam.
The revered day's aspects--
functions of time's exercise--
Fell about you
Broke and swirled off on wind
And when I set my foot upon you--
friendly foot--to connect to friend;
to apprivise--
You split apart in numerous fragments
Shunning notions undiscussed
"What's another missed connection
But a workaday raindrop in the
sighing sea?", I thought...
I like the snow.
But, nah--you're styrofoam.
From a distance, you were alone.
Alone and hard-edged
Solid, cool
Didn't know if you were snow
Or styrofoam.
The revered day's aspects--
functions of time's exercise--
Fell about you
Broke and swirled off on wind
And when I set my foot upon you--
friendly foot--to connect to friend;
to apprivise--
You split apart in numerous fragments
Shunning notions undiscussed
"What's another missed connection
But a workaday raindrop in the
sighing sea?", I thought...
I like the snow.
But, nah--you're styrofoam.
(May 1, 2010)
Drunken Ghosts
Last night,
Around eleven,
As I walked through gravelled streets
I came to pause
Outside appartments
And saw the ghosts
Of you and me.
And, while awake,
Dreamt I was sleeping
While the two, they said to me,
"Well, kid, you're such a fuck-up!
A fucked up abberation!"
But they're wrong--
I'm just a part of the
Clay Pigeon Generation:
Soaring through the air
I'm drunk--
And waiting to get blown to pieces.
And, in time, we won't remember,
Any of each other's faces.
In time, when I'm asleep,
You're gonna dream that I'm awake
And that I asked you to come walk with me
Beside the shallow lake--
Where we could drown all our regrets
And mingle with those drunken ghosts.
But then you'll find that I have woken up
And you're no better off.
Ten years will pass in seconds
While we dwell on a couple months
Where the real estate's expensive
And my bank account is one...
buck short to pay the heat bill
And the shooting range is cold
And we've grown tired of taking potshots;
Our generation's growing old...
And shot and sold--
--And bought, I'm told
When the hell...
did we get so old?
I asked our ghosts but they don't know.
I asked our ghosts but they don't know.
Around eleven,
As I walked through gravelled streets
I came to pause
Outside appartments
And saw the ghosts
Of you and me.
And, while awake,
Dreamt I was sleeping
While the two, they said to me,
"Well, kid, you're such a fuck-up!
A fucked up abberation!"
But they're wrong--
I'm just a part of the
Clay Pigeon Generation:
Soaring through the air
I'm drunk--
And waiting to get blown to pieces.
And, in time, we won't remember,
Any of each other's faces.
In time, when I'm asleep,
You're gonna dream that I'm awake
And that I asked you to come walk with me
Beside the shallow lake--
Where we could drown all our regrets
And mingle with those drunken ghosts.
But then you'll find that I have woken up
And you're no better off.
Ten years will pass in seconds
While we dwell on a couple months
Where the real estate's expensive
And my bank account is one...
buck short to pay the heat bill
And the shooting range is cold
And we've grown tired of taking potshots;
Our generation's growing old...
And shot and sold--
--And bought, I'm told
When the hell...
did we get so old?
I asked our ghosts but they don't know.
I asked our ghosts but they don't know.
(February 16, 2010)
Jesus on the Prairie
"Evil...is ignorance and misuse of good" --James Allen
Hanging out with Jesus in the Midwest
Burial shrouds and cowboy hats
And Star-Spangled Sermons.
He's not sure He likes it here
Even half as much as you...
Jesus on the Prairie--
When in Rome, do like the Caesars
Jesus on the Plains--
Is loosening his belt--
While his wallet loses weight.
He's not sure He likes it here
Half as much as you like having Him
Star-Spangled Sentiments seem overdone
Just a bit.
And cowboy hats and burial shrouds
Contain books--
To burn--
Along with all those bridges--
Over rivers on the plains on our maps
And in our minds
Mind you don't start a prairie fire;
Sagebrush burns hot and fast
About like rags and hair.
Such salacious sermons
Show Him Star-Spangled Sentiments
Delivering such caustic vitriol
Carried on words issued from too sharp a tongue
He's not sure He likes it here
Nearly as much as you like having Him here
I don't think He wants to hang with you
And "Party on the Prairie."
Observing Jesus
Hanging out in the Midwest
He looks a bit uncomfortable
In that star-spangled shirt
The Gideons are okay in His Book
But their Bible is the size
--of a pack of Marlboros
And He keeps forgetting which is in His front shirt pocket
Just underneath that white star
--just over His heart.
Hanging out with The Messiah
In the Midwest...
Not gonna lie...
He looks a tad uncomfortable
In that expensive Stetson
Makes His brow itch
Reminds Him of the last headwear He wore
A slight clenching of His face
Betrays a weary anxiety
--Whenever you invect in His name
--Whenever He can tell that you want to
--Talk politics
For such a famous guy, He's very polite
But the face betrays--
Looks like he'd like to leave
He'd rather not party on the prairie
(January 13, 2010)
Burial shrouds and cowboy hats
And Star-Spangled Sermons.
He's not sure He likes it here
Even half as much as you...
Jesus on the Prairie--
When in Rome, do like the Caesars
Jesus on the Plains--
Is loosening his belt--
While his wallet loses weight.
He's not sure He likes it here
Half as much as you like having Him
Star-Spangled Sentiments seem overdone
Just a bit.
And cowboy hats and burial shrouds
Contain books--
To burn--
Along with all those bridges--
Over rivers on the plains on our maps
And in our minds
Mind you don't start a prairie fire;
Sagebrush burns hot and fast
About like rags and hair.
Such salacious sermons
Show Him Star-Spangled Sentiments
Delivering such caustic vitriol
Carried on words issued from too sharp a tongue
He's not sure He likes it here
Nearly as much as you like having Him here
I don't think He wants to hang with you
And "Party on the Prairie."
Observing Jesus
Hanging out in the Midwest
He looks a bit uncomfortable
In that star-spangled shirt
The Gideons are okay in His Book
But their Bible is the size
--of a pack of Marlboros
And He keeps forgetting which is in His front shirt pocket
Just underneath that white star
--just over His heart.
Hanging out with The Messiah
In the Midwest...
Not gonna lie...
He looks a tad uncomfortable
In that expensive Stetson
Makes His brow itch
Reminds Him of the last headwear He wore
A slight clenching of His face
Betrays a weary anxiety
--Whenever you invect in His name
--Whenever He can tell that you want to
--Talk politics
For such a famous guy, He's very polite
But the face betrays--
Looks like he'd like to leave
He'd rather not party on the prairie
(January 13, 2010)
Big Apple? Big Deal.
Look, I'm sorry...I just get really fed up with the whole obsession with New York City, sometimes...
New York City, how big are you tonight?
Yeah I know, I know, I know
You're a big, big deal
You can spend
And you can fight
Kickboxer in a Lexus
With a big, big mouth.
Milk and honey in your silver spoon
Mixed with all that piss and vinegar
Give a sulpher smell, a sour taste
But you got the look and texture
Of a banker in the ring
You'd fuck Hollywood if you could stand her
For just 15 seconds...
But, hey, you're busy
Busy, busy, bustle--
Busy, busy being better
Such a big, big deal.
With your Yankee Stadium larynx
And your Times Square stare
With your Long Island navel
And your Wall Street heart
Pushing grey-black blood
'Round your Queens-slum lungs
Up to the urban reclamation
In your Harlem gums
Big and strong
Tall and proud
Shit and roses--sky to ground
Giant apple, golden bones
Blue blood
Crimson fists
Fat gut
Fat head
Fat motherfucking mouth
Big city
BIG MAN!
Big wallet
Big belly
Big deal.
Busy, busy being better
Big God damn deal.
Yeah I know, I know, I know
You're a big, big deal
You can spend
And you can fight
Kickboxer in a Lexus
With a big, big mouth.
Milk and honey in your silver spoon
Mixed with all that piss and vinegar
Give a sulpher smell, a sour taste
But you got the look and texture
Of a banker in the ring
You'd fuck Hollywood if you could stand her
For just 15 seconds...
But, hey, you're busy
Busy, busy, bustle--
Busy, busy being better
Such a big, big deal.
With your Yankee Stadium larynx
And your Times Square stare
With your Long Island navel
And your Wall Street heart
Pushing grey-black blood
'Round your Queens-slum lungs
Up to the urban reclamation
In your Harlem gums
Big and strong
Tall and proud
Shit and roses--sky to ground
Giant apple, golden bones
Blue blood
Crimson fists
Fat gut
Fat head
Fat motherfucking mouth
Big city
BIG MAN!
Big wallet
Big belly
Big deal.
Busy, busy being better
Big God damn deal.
Frozen, Bound, and Feeling Down...
As the humming streetlights yawn
Rust orange
And corroding snowpiles mock it
Back
We feel our way through conversations
And dirty, frozen streets.
As the city's frostbit boulevards
Braid tight about our feet.
You said, "This town's a joke."
I think this town's a tomb.
13, 14, 15 blocks
To freeze our fingers
Solidify simplified thoughts.
And choke down more half-assed denial
Even through verbal admission
That we're living in the capital
Of the Great State of Defeat
Congealed lumps inside our throats
Show through
Just a little more than we
Intend
Frozen voices lay silent now
Inside our frosting larynxes
As the culture's coldest binding cords
Close fast around our wrists
...Here...in the 43rd most walked on
...of the lower 48
Meander through cracked streets
Kick through last year's crumbling bones
4, or 5, or 6 more blocks
To blow on fingers
Inter exhumed thoughts
And reach down into coat pockets for half-assed warmth
Even though there's none to be had.
We curse our luck and sorry state
In the Great State of Defeat
As impervious streetlights pour
Rust orange
And soak cold eyeballs with the
Same
We find our way to locked back doors
From these freezing, dirty streets.
As the country's frostbit borders
Close in tight around our necks.
De Facto Threshold (The Daily)
De Facto Threshold
Was supposed to have been
A poem
About falling just short
You know,
In life.
But wouldn't you know it...
"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"
Just came on the speakers
Built
Into the walls
Of The Daily--
A coffee shop--
In Bozeman
Montana
United States
Of America
North America
Northwestern Quadrisphere
And now, and now it's a bubblegum locale
And I can't hold onto failure
As a subject
Well...
Today must be the day--
The "someday"--
In The Daily
Because it seems love has found us
Us and our recycled cups
Wrapped around lattés
And jasmine teas.
Well aren't we the fortunate ones?
De Facto Threshold
Was going to be about frustration
But Journey didn't want it that way.
Not in The Daily.
Not today.
Why should I write about that
If anxious Mr. Hagar
Can't drive
55?
Mr. Bungle just sat down.
He wants to know
Where all that extra money went.
"So do I.
Same with everyone."
I reply.
"Dumb kid."
He says.
I don't get mad, though.
I thought today would be a dirge.
Turns out it's a sugar-coated
Power ballad.
If The Daily had wheels
Don't you just bet it could go
Anywhere?
At midnight?
Sure it could.
And if I, and the quiet old couple
And the neo-hippy barista girl
And the Dutch businessmen
Speaking British English
In America
At The Daily
On College
In Bozeman
Don't stop believing...
We'll find ourselves (when we leave)
In Cairo
Egypt
Africa
Northeastern Quadrisphere
At a supermarket
And we'll play Air Supply
Over the loudspeakers
And Allen Ginsberg
And Walt Whitman
Will wonder,
"What the fuck?"
But that's not what the poem
"De Facto Threshold"
Was supposed to have been about.
Was supposed to have been
A poem
About falling just short
You know,
In life.
But wouldn't you know it...
"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"
Just came on the speakers
Built
Into the walls
Of The Daily--
A coffee shop--
In Bozeman
Montana
United States
Of America
North America
Northwestern Quadrisphere
And now, and now it's a bubblegum locale
And I can't hold onto failure
As a subject
Well...
Today must be the day--
The "someday"--
In The Daily
Because it seems love has found us
Us and our recycled cups
Wrapped around lattés
And jasmine teas.
Well aren't we the fortunate ones?
De Facto Threshold
Was going to be about frustration
But Journey didn't want it that way.
Not in The Daily.
Not today.
Why should I write about that
If anxious Mr. Hagar
Can't drive
55?
Mr. Bungle just sat down.
He wants to know
Where all that extra money went.
"So do I.
Same with everyone."
I reply.
"Dumb kid."
He says.
I don't get mad, though.
I thought today would be a dirge.
Turns out it's a sugar-coated
Power ballad.
If The Daily had wheels
Don't you just bet it could go
Anywhere?
At midnight?
Sure it could.
And if I, and the quiet old couple
And the neo-hippy barista girl
And the Dutch businessmen
Speaking British English
In America
At The Daily
On College
In Bozeman
Don't stop believing...
We'll find ourselves (when we leave)
In Cairo
Egypt
Africa
Northeastern Quadrisphere
At a supermarket
And we'll play Air Supply
Over the loudspeakers
And Allen Ginsberg
And Walt Whitman
Will wonder,
"What the fuck?"
But that's not what the poem
"De Facto Threshold"
Was supposed to have been about.
(November 15, 2009)
A Generic (But Necessary) Reassurance
Here is one for all us others
And all other "usses" too
Each night the vacant moon makes way
For the rising rays to prove
That a clear thread runs between us
Making music as we move
Meaning it'll be okay
And we'll survive today--this time...
This time we will survive
This one's for all the stubborn--
All resistors trudging on--
Through the wailing winds of winter
And the fiercest summer storms
For all self-doubting fathers
Staring at the newly born.
Silently they pray
That the world'll be ok--it MIGHT
But they will be alright
And here's to the forgotten
We were cut from the same cloth
For all the mixed-up young ones crying
While their lovers sleep it off
Keep your heads above the water
And your hearts float to the top
You're not dying today
Though it might feel that way
Still...
Know that you'll be okay.
And all other "usses" too
Each night the vacant moon makes way
For the rising rays to prove
That a clear thread runs between us
Making music as we move
Meaning it'll be okay
And we'll survive today--this time...
This time we will survive
This one's for all the stubborn--
All resistors trudging on--
Through the wailing winds of winter
And the fiercest summer storms
For all self-doubting fathers
Staring at the newly born.
Silently they pray
That the world'll be ok--it MIGHT
But they will be alright
And here's to the forgotten
We were cut from the same cloth
For all the mixed-up young ones crying
While their lovers sleep it off
Keep your heads above the water
And your hearts float to the top
You're not dying today
Though it might feel that way
Still...
Know that you'll be okay.
(November 13, 2009)
The Fools & Prophets of a Dying Town
Fools and prophets are often confused
And oftener still are one and the same
An analyst like you or me is no good,
No.
Unless, of course, we're fools.
Or prophets.
On the margins
Between blank space
And profit margins.
Fooling ourselves and some others
And tendering tent pegs for peg legs--
--'cuz, hey, life's too short.
We know that words go down like whiskey
They maybe make the stomach ache.
So we splash 'em around
This dying town.
Unless we sip for warmth.
But wind goes down like water
And so do fond embraces
Of prophets with painted faces
When the bowls tip out the rains.
And the insane complain that it's all too inane.
But let's be plain about what is and isn't vain.
I think we're doing okay.
Unless it's too late to learn to dance or prophecy
You're fooling me and I can see
that it's time for you to leave
this dying town.
On tires spinning 'round
Which drink your petrol down
And, sitting in your car, I wonder if we can really win the war.
You're fooling me, aren't you?
That's fine.
I'm not your prophet anyway.
Though I will keep trying.
It's time for you to leave this dying town
As the aging year lays its weary head down
And down dies the wind
Meaning to sink a little deeper next time.
And we can choke the season down
And splash it around
Like whiskey, wind, or water
Or the embraces of fools with yawning faces
When we leave this dying town.
And oftener still are one and the same
An analyst like you or me is no good,
No.
Unless, of course, we're fools.
Or prophets.
On the margins
Between blank space
And profit margins.
Fooling ourselves and some others
And tendering tent pegs for peg legs--
--'cuz, hey, life's too short.
We know that words go down like whiskey
They maybe make the stomach ache.
So we splash 'em around
This dying town.
Unless we sip for warmth.
But wind goes down like water
And so do fond embraces
Of prophets with painted faces
When the bowls tip out the rains.
And the insane complain that it's all too inane.
But let's be plain about what is and isn't vain.
I think we're doing okay.
Unless it's too late to learn to dance or prophecy
You're fooling me and I can see
that it's time for you to leave
this dying town.
On tires spinning 'round
Which drink your petrol down
And, sitting in your car, I wonder if we can really win the war.
You're fooling me, aren't you?
That's fine.
I'm not your prophet anyway.
Though I will keep trying.
It's time for you to leave this dying town
As the aging year lays its weary head down
And down dies the wind
Meaning to sink a little deeper next time.
And we can choke the season down
And splash it around
Like whiskey, wind, or water
Or the embraces of fools with yawning faces
When we leave this dying town.
(October 24, 2009)
Finding the Bottom
I'm gonna find the bottom of this one.
I'm out looking for a friend again.
Twelves and sixteens.
Quarts and pints.
That's how I'll measure hope tonight.
This is a quest--a numbing mission.
Until I find it, I won't stop.
I'm gonna reach the bottom
...from the top.
If better days rest in a swarthy friend's small, circle mouth
Then I guess I'll kiss her 'til my lips bleed
And, in long, deep draughts
I'll suck her dry.
But she won't mind 'cause she's so chill--She's gonna fill me up.
And, friend, you're all I've got.
You're the only one I trust.
To numb me up and take me swimming
And set my weary soul a-singing
I'm gonna find the bottom of this one.
I'm out looking for an end again.
I'll be looking for a friend this time
One that I won't put down
One that won't let me down
Until the time should come
When she'll have been
...downed straight fucking dry again
And even then
We'll fill our night again
And through that golden-amber haze
Bleary eyes will see the bottom
And the end
Of my means to an end.
And my means to an end is that I'm
...looking for the bottom
Again and again.
Looking for the bottom
For to fuck with my own head.
I'm looking for the bottom
In between's my only friend
Looking for the bottom
It's a means to an end
And I'm getting to the bottom
Again.
I got to the bottom of this one.
And I'm gonna find the bottom of this one.
It's elbows up and spirits down.
Numb me up for one more round.
I got to the bottom.
And you know I'll find the bottom of this one.
Again.
I'm out looking for a friend again.
Twelves and sixteens.
Quarts and pints.
That's how I'll measure hope tonight.
This is a quest--a numbing mission.
Until I find it, I won't stop.
I'm gonna reach the bottom
...from the top.
If better days rest in a swarthy friend's small, circle mouth
Then I guess I'll kiss her 'til my lips bleed
And, in long, deep draughts
I'll suck her dry.
But she won't mind 'cause she's so chill--She's gonna fill me up.
And, friend, you're all I've got.
You're the only one I trust.
To numb me up and take me swimming
And set my weary soul a-singing
I'm gonna find the bottom of this one.
I'm out looking for an end again.
I'll be looking for a friend this time
One that I won't put down
One that won't let me down
Until the time should come
When she'll have been
...downed straight fucking dry again
And even then
We'll fill our night again
And through that golden-amber haze
Bleary eyes will see the bottom
And the end
Of my means to an end.
And my means to an end is that I'm
...looking for the bottom
Again and again.
Looking for the bottom
For to fuck with my own head.
I'm looking for the bottom
In between's my only friend
Looking for the bottom
It's a means to an end
And I'm getting to the bottom
Again.
I got to the bottom of this one.
And I'm gonna find the bottom of this one.
It's elbows up and spirits down.
Numb me up for one more round.
I got to the bottom.
And you know I'll find the bottom of this one.
Again.
(October 3, 2009)
Colorado's Note
Dear Colorado
Think I'm okay today
I remember mountains
but they'd rather forget.
And I think I'm all right.
I remember nights to sunrise; time spent on your highways
And fingertips remember the map--
--LIKED tracing down the map
like faces remember winter wind
Colorado, I'm doing fine.
Surviving in the elsewhere
And making up some elsewhen
And some elseone
Don't forget I've been to you before
Don't forget I've been to you before when you harden up your borders.
I'm so much sorrier than you know...
And you know you should be too.
Dear Colorado
Are you okay tonight?
I know how it gets out there
By Kansas and Nebraska
Not much for conversation.
And you are thought of much.
Are we okay, Colorado?
Don't forget I've been to you before
When you harden up your borders.
Think I'm okay today
I remember mountains
but they'd rather forget.
And I think I'm all right.
I remember nights to sunrise; time spent on your highways
And fingertips remember the map--
--LIKED tracing down the map
like faces remember winter wind
Colorado, I'm doing fine.
Surviving in the elsewhere
And making up some elsewhen
And some elseone
Don't forget I've been to you before
Don't forget I've been to you before when you harden up your borders.
I'm so much sorrier than you know...
And you know you should be too.
Dear Colorado
Are you okay tonight?
I know how it gets out there
By Kansas and Nebraska
Not much for conversation.
And you are thought of much.
Are we okay, Colorado?
Don't forget I've been to you before
When you harden up your borders.
(October 15, 2009)
Bleed Black
U.S. out of Iraq. U.S. out of Afghanistan.
If I rampage through your home
Tread heavy on your land
Will you wail and recoil
And show to me your neck?
Or would you grant to me
A fight?--sate my aggression
On your angry weakness?
By my tantrum tossed
By tempest tempered
Spirits strong, resources weak
Let's pit against your flagging valiance
time and terror
thirst and hunger
muscle breaking atrophy
inevitable entropy
or other forces inexorable
Let's pit your paucity
Against my much to make my much
So little mere much more.
If I come for your space and blood,
Fangs clamping on your throat
Would you bleed like blazing fields in brilliant, vibrant, flowing reds?
Or would you bleed like I like--
--like the sand--bleed black?
If you boil your blood
To spare your spine,
It will still taste as sweet
And that spine I can still break.
...So will you be murdered and generous?
...Or let me kill and take?
Over and over
time-and-time
-again again
Come now, little prey,
Give savory sport
My brain is dull and claws so sharp
Don't let me get so bored.
When I come for your spirit,
To appropriate your people,
When I come to claim your culture
And set down in black ink
That death is Godly
and they believe me
will you, ceasing, cough it up?
And submit to me--
--to being subsumed
Consumed
Digested
Shat
Disposed of
Provoked and pulverized
Persued, proclaimed caught,
Produced, prepackaged
Enslaved, sold, forgotten...
Then undervalued and--finally--
Erased
Shock and awe.
Shock and awe.
Feed me, poor fucker.
Sate my sucking shock and awe.
Sate my sucking, sapping
Big man complex.
When I come howling, teeth bared, claws exposed,
Eyes shrieking death--when I come calling--
With my intercontinental ballistic manhood
Calling for your little, brown, sandy
maidenhead,
Then belly up
Desert legs up
Scream and cry
Bleed and cry
Bleed black and cry
To sate my sucking, sapping
Big man complex
Sate my hunger for your oblivion
Suck my shock and awe
And let me drink you 'til you die.
Bleed black.
Bleed black.
Tread heavy on your land
Will you wail and recoil
And show to me your neck?
Or would you grant to me
A fight?--sate my aggression
On your angry weakness?
By my tantrum tossed
By tempest tempered
Spirits strong, resources weak
Let's pit against your flagging valiance
time and terror
thirst and hunger
muscle breaking atrophy
inevitable entropy
or other forces inexorable
Let's pit your paucity
Against my much to make my much
So little mere much more.
If I come for your space and blood,
Fangs clamping on your throat
Would you bleed like blazing fields in brilliant, vibrant, flowing reds?
Or would you bleed like I like--
--like the sand--bleed black?
If you boil your blood
To spare your spine,
It will still taste as sweet
And that spine I can still break.
...So will you be murdered and generous?
...Or let me kill and take?
Over and over
time-and-time
-again again
Come now, little prey,
Give savory sport
My brain is dull and claws so sharp
Don't let me get so bored.
When I come for your spirit,
To appropriate your people,
When I come to claim your culture
And set down in black ink
That death is Godly
and they believe me
will you, ceasing, cough it up?
And submit to me--
--to being subsumed
Consumed
Digested
Shat
Disposed of
Provoked and pulverized
Persued, proclaimed caught,
Produced, prepackaged
Enslaved, sold, forgotten...
Then undervalued and--finally--
Erased
Shock and awe.
Shock and awe.
Feed me, poor fucker.
Sate my sucking shock and awe.
Sate my sucking, sapping
Big man complex.
When I come howling, teeth bared, claws exposed,
Eyes shrieking death--when I come calling--
With my intercontinental ballistic manhood
Calling for your little, brown, sandy
maidenhead,
Then belly up
Desert legs up
Scream and cry
Bleed and cry
Bleed black and cry
To sate my sucking, sapping
Big man complex
Sate my hunger for your oblivion
Suck my shock and awe
And let me drink you 'til you die.
Bleed black.
Bleed black.
(August 28, 2009)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Great Divided Pair
Give us sleepy, tingling brains
Novacained by the inane
As data input overloads our heads.
Our verve is waxing weak
And we can barely speak.
Over the double-barreled roar
...of hawks and doves.
In fifteen minutes I'll almost find you
A thousand miles from here.
But I'll miss you--barely--
Drifting onward past.
It's mind-death building walls and distance.
And the heart's gag is distraction.
Minutes pass like decades,
While years sprint by like breaths
And space expansion is only speeding up.
Cross a continent in hours,
But you can't reach out to me
When the silent, screaming distance
Exceeds the blaring scope of
...narrow sight.
And I wish I could cross continents for you.
But minds cannot cross inches
When millimeters aren't domains of
...Flesh or Meaning.
Novacained by the inane
As data input overloads our heads.
Our verve is waxing weak
And we can barely speak.
Over the double-barreled roar
...of hawks and doves.
In fifteen minutes I'll almost find you
A thousand miles from here.
But I'll miss you--barely--
Drifting onward past.
It's mind-death building walls and distance.
And the heart's gag is distraction.
Minutes pass like decades,
While years sprint by like breaths
And space expansion is only speeding up.
Cross a continent in hours,
But you can't reach out to me
When the silent, screaming distance
Exceeds the blaring scope of
...narrow sight.
And I wish I could cross continents for you.
But minds cannot cross inches
When millimeters aren't domains of
...Flesh or Meaning.
(August 28, 2009)
A Bed Beneath the Ground
Ten!
Ten!
Ten men down!
Dig them a bonny bed
Six feet beneath the ground!
They are tired.
They are weary.
And they shouldn't be disturbed!
Make them a bed
Six feet under the dirt.
(August 28, 2009)
Ten!
Ten men down!
Dig them a bonny bed
Six feet beneath the ground!
They are tired.
They are weary.
And they shouldn't be disturbed!
Make them a bed
Six feet under the dirt.
(August 28, 2009)
The Tale of Tom Calhoun
Well, honey I met you long ago
At the good ol' Carter County Fair.
Five foot three in skin tight jeans
With pigtails in yer hair.
I knew right then we'd do real good
And make a lovely pair.
So with a smile and winnin' strut,
I walked right over there.
With yer mason jar o' lemonade
Ya sat there lookin' mighty cool.
Grinnin', battin' eyelashes
Upon a wooden stool.
I strolled right up, removed my hat
Said, "Darlin' I'm Calhoun!
So come with me--fulfill my dreams--
I swear I ain't no fool!"
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
I'm the man they call ol' Tommy C!
My home is on the Smoky Mountains,
I think I wanna take ya home with me.
Now days went by and turned to weeks
As a hot, wet summer turned to fall.
We were fallin' deep in love
(And) havin' ourselves a ball.
Ya took and showed me to yer Pa.
He said I seemed right good.
"So go 'head with the courtin' now
Like lovin' young folk should."
Well then things was peaches fer some time
We squeezed and smooched; Autumn days grew short.
But things went sour, I should've known
You were just makin' sport.
You lied--deceived--said you loved me!
And told me you'd be true,
But yer a lyin' jezebel
BY CHRIST I SHOULDA KNEW!
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
I'm the man you lied to and deceived.
My home is on the Smoky Mountains
I never shoulda took ya home with me.
Well I thought that things were still real good,
I didn't know you'd been two-timin' me.
(But) I'd find out one cool fall night
Just how cruel you could be.
A secret weddin', we'd get hitched
Beneath our old oak tree.
But you was waitin' for me there
With bastard Paul MacPhee.
There you stood in pale moonlight
Knife in hand with Paul right by yer side.
(An) Evil grin upon yer face;
Yer plan was homicide.
And I knew then you'd been with him,
(Yer) treachery bon afide.
You slid yer knife into my throat.
Blood gurgled and I died.
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
You murdered and broke the heart of me.
My home is a shallow, hidden grave, dear.
You and yer lover done got rid o' me.
Then a year went by and once again,
Balmy days of summer passed to fall.
You ran around; had yer fun
With yer new lover, Paul.
I lay in my grave, though not alone;
No, not alone at all.
Bugs, worms and rotting ate my flesh,
But evil sparked my soul!
Well I started movin' eyelids then,
Clawin' at dirt with dry, rotten hands.
I'm back, lookin' to fulfill
Undead wants and demands!
For sweet revenge and human brains,
I've got my first meal planned;
You'll soon be feelin' in yer hair
My clawed and rotting hands!
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Dirty crimes come with a costly fee.
My home is a damned ol' dirty grave, dear.
I think I'm gonna take ya home with me.
I shuffled and shambled down the road
That led to yer Pa's old homestead.
I saw Paul first (right) by the door
And ate part of his head.
Wanting you next, I ambled in
And grasped you tight and said,
"Soon, my dear, you'll be one of
THE LOVIN' LIVIN' DEAD!"
You howled and hollered and cried real loud.
But yer protestin', it was all in vain.
Look into my jellied eyes;
Yer cheatin' caused me pain.
But murder was much worse, my dear.
I'm gonna make you pay.
So scream and cry. But come what will,
I'M GONNA EAT YER BRAIN!
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
Calhoun! (CALHOUN!)
I'm the corpse they call ol' Tommy C!
My home is a damp and dirty grave, dear.
I think I'm gonna take ya home to eat.
Outtro
So once again, my love, yer mine,
Restin' with me in my shallow grave.
But yer shamblin' with me now
Though I ate half your brain.
From time to time we'll terrorize
When we rise from this grave.
Against you, babe, I got revenge
BUT MY HUNGER IT AIN'T SLAKED!...
...AND I AIN'T GOIN' AWAY!...
....NOT TO THIS VERY DAY--TOM C!
(September 19, 2009)
Onward! Forward!
The sky is snowing knives tonight.
And ravens don their mail.
Brazen throated trumpets sound.
And Fenrir strains his chains.
And searing wound on godarm burns.
Tyr remembers well old hurts.
A night of wounds and shattered shields.
And strong halls thrown down in ruin.
Of splintered spear and sword unhanded.
Warrior's arm grows weary.
Warrior's spirit is at the brink.
Horn has sounded.
Norn has sung.
No avoiding the blows to land.
The Wolf's Chain breaks.
And sun is slain.
Sundered is the hero's brand.
Gods and men alike destroyed.
No effort born is born alive.
Victory is wyrd-undone.
Long bespoke and wrought against,
Loki's gambit feel we now.
But hoist your axe full high and shout.
Charge you now into the fray. Wolf's fang. Flame's stroke. Frost's grip.
Fear is the only enemy we might best today.
"Onward! Forward!" crying we, "Battle! Fire! Grant us death!"
And ravens don their mail.
Brazen throated trumpets sound.
And Fenrir strains his chains.
And searing wound on godarm burns.
Tyr remembers well old hurts.
A night of wounds and shattered shields.
And strong halls thrown down in ruin.
Of splintered spear and sword unhanded.
Warrior's arm grows weary.
Warrior's spirit is at the brink.
Horn has sounded.
Norn has sung.
No avoiding the blows to land.
The Wolf's Chain breaks.
And sun is slain.
Sundered is the hero's brand.
Gods and men alike destroyed.
No effort born is born alive.
Victory is wyrd-undone.
Long bespoke and wrought against,
Loki's gambit feel we now.
But hoist your axe full high and shout.
Charge you now into the fray. Wolf's fang. Flame's stroke. Frost's grip.
Fear is the only enemy we might best today.
"Onward! Forward!" crying we, "Battle! Fire! Grant us death!"
(Oct 1, 2007).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)