Archive for May, 2012

Why Are We Gathered Here Today?

I’m forgetful and the air floats by empty.
Some dressed for opera, most dressed
for a day in the garage. It is a challenge
being comfortable and to be attractive
when the game has torn our heart muscles.

Heat appears as our guest,
but not as loudly as she might have been.
If we didn’t have all of our orange barrels
and lane closures, would we show up
to work?

Snot is running
down his ramp. Bike rider hit
by car dies. Man is presently
stuck under garbage truck
on 137th, and I can’t do anything.

.

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Anticipation of Fear of Melting Life Lines

There is walking around with fear –
Logical fear where odds tell you
there are things to be done
to your psyche, to your flow.

You aren’t conscious, mostly,
but you rely on a smooth,
comfortable sense of self.
It is the one strand holding
up the netting of your goodness.

The ones you love most
will melt with greatest
velocity that last strand
with flame-
throwers.

And you will wish you didn’t
take them seriously, wish
you didn’t consider
them real,
but you have no shield,
no sense of well-being.

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During One Moment on a Break from the Work

I say it happens often
just to show you how sick I am,
but this doesn’t happen often:

I was having a decent day,
but suddenly lost
in the middle of a field
called an ocean,

And all of the pipes started bursting,
I mean blowing up, and spewing sewage
broken pipes and stuff, liquid fog balloons going
all around my insides in chaotic frenzy.

If this happened at my place,
I would walk down the ice-covered
streets, homeless again, lacking a soul
with carpet that has the stale flooded smell.

But it happened at work, and I say pull
yourself together, son.
you work for a living, so don’t
worry about the floods of agony.

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Swing Hide, Swing Seek

I see bubbling noodles showing me a sick narcissism.
The noodles are the good in me disintegrating.
I wander through bipolar land and know
sometimes I hide, and sometimes I need adoration.

When I hide, I want to fall asleep and not come back.
When I seek, I hate the asshole that I am, and I see
I am so far away from being a good thing in this world.

 

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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.

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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:

 

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6 Comments

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.

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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.

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10 Comments

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