Who Is the Most Ignorant of Them All?
It happens frequently.
Understanding arrives quite tardily,
only in the last few days.
I know the beaten dog
who stares back,
but he looks younger
than I know I am.
Through the shattered pieces of broken egos,
through the desolate features
of a man who is a no-good human being,
through the frizzled, frazzled, frayed
and burnt wires of the most broken spirit,
I see the young boy, cute with slight vigor,
minor, snapped twigs, grappling with joy,
but I am ignoring the truth,
playing with the barren wind chimes,
hiding underneath the chaotic, steely fences.
There is no child.
There is an ignoramus,
too stupid to know
how broken he really is.
.
Like this:
Embroiling Myself in The Joy Formidable
I finally found
my way toward contentment
for a flash in time.
You charmed me back
from a deadly hopelessness.
Why does it last for only a slice, an instant,
perhaps as long as a track -
one time, for the duration of your album?
Are you veritably
so implausibly happy,
or do you fake it
like I do?
I love
how you fake it.
And the Ah, Ah,
Ah-ah-ah
is so cliché,
but you make it function in my animus.
You are pop
but you’re faking pop.
You are an artist,
and dare I say
you have changed my life?
Each time I give Whirring a go,
all turns
inside-out,
and the purest happiness,
or is it really joy?
Is it joy?
I love
how you fake it.
You are a woman
so full, so deep,
and so sad,
you make my bones chime
in sympathetic thrill.
Oh, and your sing-song,
your nursery rhymes,
sing-song with anthem rhymes
make me devour your eyes.
I love
how you fake it.
I want you in my backyard
every night this summer,
moving in perfection
in a dance with the Universe,
doing concerts on Saturdays
with your steady, persistent drummer,
with your reliable back-up,
and then you’ll tell me every notion
about what makes art,
and I’ll be charmed
into a silence
with flames in my shoulders,
crawling down my body,
telling me
this moment is immaculate.
From where do these treacherous
harmonic arrangements come,
the ones that make me a weak puppy,
unable to walk, unable to bark,
sitting there, blabbering
in the wired, silky sound,
wagging my tail,
flooding the room
with love
from my syrupy fur?
I love
how you fake it.
And when I realize what a fool
I am for you,
descend back into my closet
of dark madness,
the painful lifelessness,
I’ll ask god why something
can’t be done to have you
sit next to me,
to remind me
things might be okay,
to tell me you can overlook
my defects, that you will enjoy
a few moments with me.
But I stop here, frigid
in the heat, empty, foolish,
knowing I could never hope
to meet you,
feeling foolish,
waving my arms
bigger than a conductor,
happily stomping feet,
and dreaming as though
I’m smartly moving my body
as I begin your album again,
the one with the shattered sounds,
knowing it will never leave me.
I love how you fake it
until it’s real.
The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade.
Show me. Show me how. make me shiver.
A calm day will come.
I believe you.
I trust you.
I love
how you fake it.
.
P.S. – Go on and go see some musical genius:
Like this:
The Stranger Damaged George’s Soul Violently
George Torndawg walked into the heavy, melting bands of crosswalk. He was bedeviled by a sun that was hanging on to his nose with claws and punching him in the eyes and the forehead, regardless of which direction he slung his abdication. George Torndawg is rooting for a car, any car, to slam into him and malign him deeply down into the muckiest soup, the soup like his mother when she was sauced and watching fuzzies on television, but the traffic is far too slow. Furthermore, there’s no traffic today.
The reflective glass of the first floor curves with the plagued monster of a human creation in concert with the circle drive where the most hopeless patients might be dumped, and all of this first floor glass is shadowed by the overhang of the ethically-superior floors.
The glass is a hall of mirrors, blades and blades of sharp planes meant to shatter the ego, and then there is the man in the wheelchair with a ratty blue dog blanky with all sorts of holes, the blanky with holes. He, the man with the ratty blue dog blanky and slinky, oily, thin hair, is wearing slippers that should be retired, and when George Torndawg made a short glance at the man, the ropes of George Torndawg’s intestines plummet deeply, and he is suddenly longing for a gun that he could hold with two hands and point properly with the fullest of competence and the intensity of god. He is presently tasting the blue metal as it rests in his mouth.
.
Like this:
Broken Spirits with Smooth and Soft Cookies
I am a mad man with big disease,
and it’s nice to be able to accept that
in a globe that spins continuously,
dumping me in and out of brightly-gray cement
that always seems as though it is ready
to cure and freeze me.
But I never freeze, continue tumbling,
keep breathing through the gray,
hoping someone will accept me
in return, for who I might be or might
have been.
I accept my disease
while chewing on my chocolate,
evenly, with Buddhist aplomb, but
I do not, can not
accept my self.
And so those tubby entities
continue to smother me,
and I wonder why worry
about such an inconsequential life,
for it is over so soon.
Like this:
One Edgy Day at Lunch
Sitting in the perturbed wooden chair,
seeing the people paste the people,
the soft red shoes, blinded eyes,
frozen hair shifting, nice from a distance,
but abrasive like a worn track,
and not welcoming, and full of lines,
where eyeballs swivel sharply to sting,
to catch the part of life that matters,
while the napkins sing for company,
the napkins being stretched and lonely,
where the hippie paper crawls in the crack
to avoid being dedicated to the deepest,
most smelly brown bin of evil,
the one I count on for swallowing
all of my sickness while I ride
the spaceship designed by a man
who swims in the brown soil.
Like this:
The Hurtful Empty at Dessert Today
Delicious brownie thing with chocolate mousse
and the richest damn frosting, sticking gallantly,
and smoothly lunging in, I feel that joyous murmur
welling up, not gurgling, saying, “mmm, soooo good.”
I’m in Hell.
Sitting in a room full of people,
alone and by myself,
hoping I did not praise the dessert aloud,
and I think I wish that people would think of me
like a chocolate dessert, like I think of this dessert
because that is how I think of many people,
especially when my depression isn’t choking
all of my spirit, but I am alone because not one
of hundreds would choose to be around me,
making me even more tortuous than I normally would be.
God, please make me a sweet dessert, and let people
see through all of the detritus of a ruined soul
with a broken spirit who sits alone thinking
he surely doesn’t deserve another desert.
And I go somewhere where the others don’t go
so that it won’t look like I am an intolerable
human being, but my self-hate is rich.
If one could get through, there is marvelous joy,
but I sit here and cry at my horrible odds.
Like this:
Not in my City
Man in suit,
walking cautiously,
looking back,
hearing a lady
on the same rooftop
parking garage,
as she meanders,
lost, and I stare
down from my room
on this 9th floor.
Everything so accidental,
and later, I’m on ground,
and there are people
who appear ready
to kill me easily,
and there are others
who don’t look
threatening, but I,
I am the only one
in fear, paralyzing
fear and a shrunken
ego that reaches
to be hung in a place
undiscoverable.
Prescient, Hollow Feeling Before a Visitor
The ice cream man
scooped out my soul
at 10:40 p.m.
At 10:10 p.m.,
I knew he was on the floor,
but I didn’t do anything.
I sat and read a beautiful book,
and my soul was gone
before the ice cream man arrived.
Like this:
I Can’t Do Meetings
Yes, I know,
pound the shoe
on the table,
but I sit quietly, peacefully,
trying to hear, not do,
small talk.
I want to shout at all of you!
Together on an unfathomable mission,
but we anxiously beeble at each other,
seeing who will falter,
but not even joy with falters
because first it is my Superior
and She served it to me
and I faltered, bumbled, scrambled,
and crashed. Bad.
Looked around. I was just
joking, people.
Ouch.
Like this:
NaNoTeamIndy
