Archive for November, 2011

The Resistance Built from Faulty Electrical Connections

I was visited by demons last night.

I know. When I woke up, I did not want the day to begin.
I know. You do not know.
You say I’m insane, but I know.

My mind toured through French countryside
with furry memories of my body
being punctured by these collections of tiger claws
sitting on bookshelves, attached to a man, Professor Ersticken,
who sat behind the curtain and told me I’m empty.

All of my soul resists the day.
It’s my sickness, I say.
You are a terrible slob, I say.
Fuck your foul mood and let’s do the deal, I say.

All of this resistance tells me I’m not empty.
I’m filled with bad electrical connections. I’m broken.

All day long, I watch from the ragged ceiling tiles,
wanting to laugh but knowing it’s not funny.
I see this dead Russian doll with fuzzy hair at a wood desk
with yellow globs coming out his ears and spastic hands
directing the chaos and not doing a damned thing.

motors run the machines inside my mind
telling me in repetitive stanzas,
you suck, you’re worthless.
It’s my inside mantra.

My outside mantra is glorious;
are a loving human being,
are lovable,
and god loves you.

The outside mantra rides giant Clydesdales,
enjoys Pyrrhic celebratory dances
with no stories to narrate or embellish
while the inside mantra wins the wars
like the demons kill the humans
in earthquakes and genocides,
the same demons who visited
so wickedly last night.

, , , , ,


Sweetening, Sickening Curves of Friday Night

There are sweetening curves
to Friday night, this one,
when you’re old enough
to be abandoned, empty.
There are no pain killers,
no luxuries of bottled relief,
for you’ve passed those days,
and you wasted those days.
This is why the curves
are a skating bowl with pooled
goose shit liquids in the bottom,
and you can’t stay up on the bowl.

, , , , , , ,


Sealed in Bright Office, Watching War on Main Street

A smelly-looking geezer,
blaring a game of survival,
with Blue Tooth,
yelling, screaming,
Hyundai hazard lights,
doing a discotheque flame-out,
his hands chopping,
carving into invisible heads,
with mouth, opening and shutting,
making gigantic geometric shapes.
Down goes window,
out goes cigarette,
flicking ashes
switching ears,
pounding dash,
what a big man he is!


Wednesday on Highway 7

The raccoon is at the bottom of the red ocean,
lying flat, lying dead on Highway Seven.
Today he lay down for me.
Cranky, fishy, strip bars swing by violently.
The raccoon sat up on two legs
in the back right seat,
and I winked at him,
but all the other drivers flattened him.
I looked anxiously for a stop light,
a resting spot.

, , , , , , , ,


That Which Damaged Fragile Stability at Lunch Today

I just want a sub sandwich,
but it happens on each visit.
I get intimidated.

The shop has a bunch of hipsters,
really, more like pure hippies,
but they act as if they are hip to everything,
and you or I, we are pond scum.

They have full beards, and they look down at you from 5’2” or from 6’4”.
The fear doesn’t paralyze me, but I feel so lowly.
You piece of shit,
why do you deserve one of our sandwiches
is what I feel they ask me,
but that’s not what they say.

The sandwiches are fabulous;
otherwise, I would never, ever go back, never.

The first time I went there,
I went to the wrong register, and the hippy stared at me,
“What do you want?”
“A sandwich,” I said.
“You’re at the pre-order register.”
“You are rude as fuck,” I wanted to say but
of course, I didn’t say that.
I apologized for being there.

I get so intimidated by these hippies,
I hate myself and I hate myself for hours
for being so hateful toward myself
because some hippy judges me worthless.

I try to be kind and human, but that’s no good.
The sandwiches are so good,
I am sure they hide the good people in the kitchen.
I try to be hip but I’m pond scum.

, , , , , , , , ,


Light Poles for Death

Buses feel faster than their true velocity.

I stare at the driver’s black boots, boots with multiple soft and white scruffs but no crinkles or wrinkles, boots that will last forever. I love the fat gas pedals on buses. I imagine the encounter with the platform-like pedal as a fuzzy, electric boost to the ego.

Presently, the man’s foot is down almost all of the way, so we must be doing as best as we can.

The short light poles with antique lanterns, in charcoal gray move by quickly and steadily, and it strikes me dead-frozen that the only people who really get to enjoy these poles are all of the suicides who jump into the dirty Missouri River.


, , , , , ,


Voluminous Loving to Do

I look at my Golden for infinite moments.
Her eyebrows move in that way
that makes me love her with fiery guts,
that makes me feel more love than imaginable,
and I turn away, voice bouncing off walls,
“You must live longer than I.
I don’t have much business left here,
but you have voluminous loving to do.”

, , , , ,


Running on the Tiny Inundations of Waves

Double-zero-three is a smooth ride. I like the suspension, making it feel like a boat over tiny inundations of waves.

The lady in maroon calms as I show her my face of compassion which is after all composed from the very center of the core of a beautiful diamond in truth, but it is also true that now, I am far more worried about the stolen baby and how I might continue to save the baby from the fate of living in a house where the meth lab blew up five years ago and melted the baby’s mother’s face, even after which she continues to this day to cook and consume with glorious ferocity, watching her face that looks more like a squid out of water made of plastic, from the fate of being beaten and smashed by a father who is always so drunk, whose last date with his wife ended as they sat inside their car beside the shore of a lake that was strewn with rocks, he promising to leave her blood on every piece of rock on that “beach,” she so high on heroin that she walked home which took over four days and nearly caused death by starvation.

My mind continues with these disgusting memories, they continue to rattle my senses seemingly, glaringly, to support my actions, stealing their baby and then, in furious stupidity, stealing the bus. My life is over, but I’ve done at least one good thing.

, , , , , ,


Thursday’s Escape from Sour Cakes

I stole the bus. The number on top was giant, but I could not get comfortable with why it had that incredibly simple number, double-zero-three.

I would get lost in a police helicopter.

That boy in the horrid, knit, rainbow hat couldn’t carry himself in a simple walking process. He stumbled all the way down a long city block. I thought about heroin.

Nobody missed the stolen bus. I wanted to drive it into the big river, but I drove North instead at which point, the riders started to look questioningly at me. The lady in the smooth, maroon dress with black stockings and incredibly classy shoes seemed to be ready to have an emotional breakdown.

I stole a baby, and I needed to focus on the next right step. I was not entirely comfortable with the impulsive idea of stealing the bus.

, , , ,

Leave a comment

Let Me Breathe the Paint That Fixes Me

Co-worker’s text book smacked me.
“Insanity.” My heart went boom.
Can you fix me with your new knowledge?

Smell of fresh paint threw my body
up along the ceiling tiles.
That’s it; paint me over.

A thin coat would cover me.
Healing psychosis, let me learn.
Spiritual work is much bigger
than any of the dog shit I do.

I wanted to be that sick man,
that sick man who heals others.
How feebleminded is that?
I also wanted to be Mozart.

Let me breathe the emulsions,
read the psych text books,
and let me live in the park.
Let me die like Mozart.

, , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

%d bloggers like this: