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So, i've taken a small break from the poetry; debate's been eating my time like a fat kid at Cici's... on the way home from atlanta, I managed to write ... something. I'm not sure whether it's poetry, prose, a reflective essay or a story, but shit i've never been big on labels.

without furthe ado:

I have grown terribly dissatisfied with my life, I am not who I used to be – anymore. No, something has happened to me – I feel lost, trapped and ever so fucking alone and I just want everything and everyone to be still still still. I know, I know, I have so much to live for, such a rich fulfilling life ahead of me – the only problem is – I see the future, I see my destiny – as I peer into the crystal ball of modernity, I am disheartened by the direction my boat is drifting.

Highschool, College, a Masters degree then work, work, work – until I’m a useless old fart and can’t tell the difference between living and existing. That’s what this world wants for us all, an anesthetized life – free from pain and strife: we all dream of that same place – whether you call it Oklahoma or your lover’s arms, we’re all looking for a place where everything is predictable and nothing hurts. We sail and cruise and drive through existence looking for a who, a why, a god and a how, but never do we find the answers to our petty questions, we sail and drive and cruise to someone else’s rhythm, in a direction I’m ashamed to call “progress.”

False are the idols of modernity, false are the amenities of a comfortable middle-class existence. We bust our balls to maintain the petty comforts of our lives without realizing that it is ourselves that we are slowly murdering. The house, the cars, the money, the girls – shit I’d trade it all for a taste of the real – a taste of every beautiful flavor life has to offer. But there is some repentance in it all, for I’m afraid although I see beyond the shimmering idols of modernity, I am a weak man. As much as I want escape, as much as I want to live, my weakness leaves me trapped like a butterfly caught in the tarantulas den, or an autumn leaf lost in winter winds – out of place, out of control, and increasingly – out of my fucking mind.

I don’t know what it is about me, or what’s been going on lately – everyone and everything in my life is confusing the fuck out of me, I am coming to what feels like a stand-still in my quest for meaning and I’m afraid I’m falling falling falling into darkness, into nothingness. I’m lonely, confused, and thirsty for the first drop of love, of life, of whatever is to come, but if there’s one thing I do know it is this: I have grown too full for this small cup of existence, I can no longer call this place home and for quite some time I have not been able to recognize these familiar faces - I need change that doesn’t jingle in my pockets.

I am looking for a friend, but surely in all the wrong places – I cannot find it here. This place is cold and all of the color is gone - the land is black and the clouds overhead are gray with the tears of god. But I cope, I live, I fight the good fight; Hoping that somewhere, there is someone in the world as lost confused and meaningless as myself.

Nowhere & Nothingness

as i stop at that
worn old stoplight
at the corner
of nowhere and nothingness
and take a long drag
of that burning red death-stick
ironically called life,
I turn to my left
and then to my right.
then realize this:

I have something in common
with these broken
who stop aside me
on the left, or the right
it didn’t really matter
there was no gradient here
at this broken
stop light

that here,
at eleven thirty
on a Sunday evening
we were all in similar places
in this endless journey
we call life
we were all
sleepy, restless
and miserable
fucking souls
racing our metal extensions
into night
into destruction
into destiny
none of us really expected
to see


Some racing
to a broken fucking
place that
someone decided to call “home”
hell, it was them -
at some point or the other
but now,
now these people knew
hell, even their deceased mothers knew
that this was just another place
like any other
to rest their broken little
heads, on broken fucking
the ironic part was,
that every night was
we knew nothing of
the happiness of a goodnights sleep

Some were racing to
their end
following an endless road
looking for their checkered flags,
or crystal meth, or some black
tar – anything, really that keep their
hearts going bump through the night
it was really all one in the same;
and they knew it too,
that sooner or later,
they’d be too tired of racing through
these broken streets
wishing, hoping
of the night they would hear their
little metal extentions screech
to a final stop
because they knew their hearts would soon follow
and death would dance
to the sound of twisted metal
and broken fucking

Others were racing
to their night job
wishing, hoping
that the supervisor wouldn’t
notice he was late
fearing that day
that he would have to turn
to his wife
his children
his parents
and tell them that this was the end
that this was the day
their comfortable lives
came to a screeching fucking halt
and they would be poor,
empty, and oh so fucking
like last Tuesdays garbage
or the newborn waiting in the dumpster
for a mother
someone else’s problem, now
left to face that cold world, alone
and isolated
without a soul in the world
to care, just care
fate wrote death on their
gritty warn palms,
and destiny,
was a bastard.

frankly, I felt
This corner simply wasn’t enough
I was racing into nowhere
into nothingness
we all were, in a sense.
but me,
I had no destination
I was racing
to the sound of my own heartbeat
until my little metal extention morphed
into the little engine that couldn’t
wishing, hoping
that this rock was flat
and I would fall
off the edge of the earth
into nothingness,
Into nowhere,
before that needle hit the red.

But everything
remained the same
we were all running
from something we all knew
at heart,
we could never escape
not even on Nietzsche’s birthday

but surely,
That didn’t stop us
cuz’ that broken old stoplight turned
and we put the pedal to the metal
and the sound of
tires burning and
engines roaring
permuted the air
and death
also lingered

we were cold,
and tired,
and broken.
fucking broken
and we were all racing away
from our own

Fatal Science

Never before have I seen
a race
so arrogant and
as to hold the power
to destroy themselves,
their unborn children
their pets
hell, even rip mother earth
a new one!
and be as bold
as to look god strait in the eye
and promise that this,
this nightmare
was really for
world peace

this was, of course
the biggest joke of the twenty first century:
was the solution to
all of mans problems"
we built and built
and built
-- Machines, Factories,
Prisons, Schools,
Trains, Airplanes, Cars
and of course, motors
to run those trains, airplanes and cars.

"Stronger, Faster, More Efficient!"
this was modernity's mantra
growth was no longer an option,
it was a condition of life.
"by whatever means necessary"
we thought,
as we raced to our death beds
sure, the trains were on time
but overnight
we had death camps,
biological warfare
and an arms race.
everyone was finally ready
to fall asleep for the very last time.

we can't blame them
how were they supposed to know?
that those motors
would propel trains
with people, or less than people aboard
to their final demise
but nevertheless,
on time.

with the same science
that created that wretched bomb'
we aimed those missles into the sky
and fired
fired fired!
blowing our own savior
right out of that fucking sky
God was dead,
and we had killed him.

what waters could we turn to
to clense our hands
of the sin to end all sins,
the murderers of all murderers.

"what festivals of attonement
would we invent now?"
they called to the heavens,
but no one answered,
so they built offerings to the gods
iPods and Attombombs
Trains and Deathcamps
Cars and Resource Wars
Sex and Sexually Transmitted Diseases
this was our festival
but their holy water remained wine
or crown n' coke for that matter,
for science was their new god
their new idol
and there, that night
in the shadow of their befallen god
everyboddy just wanted to get a little fucked up
because there was no
fucking reason
to live
any other way.

we had already built our own coffins,
and now there was only time for one last puff
of our final death stick
as we drowned ourselves
in the blood
of our new

A Softer World

This world needs more people like us:
and Artisans
maybe then, 
we could paint beautiful wars;
with epic beginnings and tragic endings
instead of waging wars
with greedy beginnings
and no endings
at all.

a knock but no answer

Black, Dark

is all that he knows
no sunshine in these eyes
only darkness
and pain
oh so fucking grusome
of a life not
worth living

the children pointed
at that courpse,
that empty sick fucker
"the passive nihilist"
they called him
others called him weakness
or dispair
or "that empty, sick fucker"
whatever the lable,
he was scoffed at
by that race
of beautiful men
and brawny women

no meaning
no direction
there was onthing in
that lifeless mind
only a passive existence
day in and day out
chasing away death
only to wollow in his filth
for one more mediocre day
and for what?
this man,
was existing
(if you could even call it that)
for the sake of breathing
but, the irony of it all
was that every breath
was as meaningless as the last
dark, dreary and
oh so fucking cold
were all this man knew.

Although meaning still bled
from the people who scoffed at this man
this meaning was not their own
they bled false blood
of christ
and were able to exist
with that false blood
and little

There's irony in this whole mess
that only a man of the highest virtue could understand
and this was that these people too
would suffer the same fate
of that sick, poor
fuck they scoffed at
sooner than later
nihilism would be at their door
black skies
and total despair
was the inevitable consequence
of the human condition.
"we must pay for having been christians
for two thousand years!"
the fletchers would cry
as they whipped their sinful spines

And I
I only laughed
at those poor sick
who knew not how to create for themselves
as I charred up the first cigarette of the night
I laughed
becuase I knew
there was not a thing
you, me,
god or the moon
could do
about it

Nihilism was at our door.

Your Awakening

This is for you,
my dear friend with
two crutches
or four, or a million
for that matter

"at least, at least"
they say,
"this is all that happened!
you could be in a coma
or a vegetable
or dead
or a million pieces!"
(right now)

you hear their comfortable lies
but there's a hint of truth to it
this is all that happened
they do not see, simply can't see
all that you've lost
your independence
your freedom
your sweet ride
that you drove senselessly
into the night
searching for a who, a why,
a god,
and a friend
who was just as lost in lifes torrent
as you were
(or are,
I really don't know the answer.)

that never stopped you though
you didn't want that answer in the first place!
the mistry and misery of life was enough
to satisfy your thirst
for life,
for existential experience.

through the highs and lows,
you wanted it all
"to smoke weed on the goldengate bridge"
"to drive on the wrong side of the road"
your plan, to live life on the edge
"so it goes" you'd say,
laughing in the face of destruction
as you watched the city burn,
you lit a cigarette,
or two.
Captivated by your disasterous charm,
infamous smile, and your
rough palms and plush lips
tainted with smoke
and a love lost.
"you wanted it all,"
I thought
"through the highs, and the

we can't always get what we want
Fate has a poor sense of humor,
but that's how it chose to play it's hand
there's no deed that we may seperate from the doer
no subject from its predicate,
no predicate from it's clause,
no subject from infinite possibilities.
The irony of the matter is,
that you weren't the person
driving on the wrong side of the road
you were just another old joe,
or jane,
or natalie,
for that matter
not knowing what destiny had written
on those gritty warn palms
of yours.

But in your moment of truth
there was not a whisper
much less, laughter
as the truck smashed into your
sweet ride
there was onlyt eh sound of crushing bones
and twisted metal
as the stench of carnage permuted the air
the stench of death, also lingered
thank god, thank heavens
(or the spaghetti monster,
for that matter)
that that wasn't your stench,
your last night,
your final cruise through existence.
your fire burnt strong,
as they lifted your worn body into the ambulance
and ripped off your clothes
on that dark,
December night.

Sadly that is,
that is,
how fate played it's hand
you wanted it all
and your prayers were answered
there's nothing you could have odne differently
nothing that could stop
destiny from taking it's course,
no deed that could be seperated from the doer
no subject from it's predicate.
it was done
now there's simply not time
for "what ifs" and "if onlys"
only you, and your crutches
and a will to fight
that I hope you haven't lost
that spark, that twinkle
in your amber brown eyes
that kept me up to all hours of the night.

I do not understand
I don't
what it means to be you
your crutches, I will never hold
but I do know what it is to have crutches
hopes, dreams and thoughts,
that we rely on,
and hold closer
than life itself
because it's that

Sure, it's not fair
"why you, why me
why any of us for that matter?"
because that is how this moment was structured.
there is no subject that can be seperated from it's predicate
no deed from it's doer
no predicate from it's clause.
only you, me,
and millions of other nobodies
clinging to their crutches
fighting for just
one more

I don't make very many promises
but I'm a man of my word
If you never know again
how to jump, bike and play
that there will be room
on my picnic blanket
in some park
at the corner of nowhere and nothingness
that we can watch children do
what children do best
and leave the rest to fate.

Honest Men are Cheats

On winter days,
even at the heart of the gulf of Texas;
Sugar Land, Texas
to be exact
my mother always told me to
stay inside
where it was warm and safe
where the bitter cold,
or the murderers or the rapists
or life
couldn't hurt me.

but I knew better
than to listen to her words,
of caution, of reproach
she had taught me better.

I am an honest man,
or at least I'd like to think so
I am not ashamed of giving credit
where it is due.

But who wouldn't?
(like to think they were honest men, that is)
the murderers? the rapists?
surely they had mothers too
who had nurtured them
taught them the virtues of an honest man
surely, they were honest men too
at least
some of
the time

this was this,
and that was that
until one day
I met a man with a burley black mustache
the most honest of men, perhaps
who showed me what a lie I was living!
he knew nothing of this "honesty"
i spoke of
but seemingly knew all there was to know about men;
and women I suppose -
this man, and his black burley mustache
showed me this was that
and this, was
nothing at all.

there are some that take pleasure in being
what they think, is an "honest man"
spending their entire lives
next to their mothers,
where the cold or the rapists
or the murderers
or life
can't hurt them.
and they are honest men, too.
for what do they know?
(that with every day, every step
every breath of their comfortable
petty lives, they are lying)

To themselves.

And this profound conclusion
was made possible by that man
with the burley black mustache
whom I met on the philosophy shelf
at a bookstore no one has ever heard of
at the corner of nowhere
and nothingness.
It took a man of real honesty
to show me
that my only mother was fate
and it was my destiny to remain
forever by her side -
no matter where I went,
what I did
and what women I slept with.

Now I see
my mother taught me
how to be an honest man

Sure, I steal sometimes
and lie even more often
and swear wilder than the
rowdiest of cowboys-turned sailors
I am an honest man,
(to myself, at least)

Some men, who claim to be honest.
Also claim we need more compassion
more love, more humanity
more Jesus
and less aboritions
but in my honest opinion,
all this world really needs
is a few more honest men

18th & West Alabama

Her fingers are nimble
and her eyes, deep and soulful
like the california sunset -- Amber Brown
Her beautiful figure could fool a guy
or two, or three or five
but underneath her shimmering
cover-girl lips and charcoaled framed amber eyes
lies the scar tissue

she wears her heart on her sleeve,
"You're only young once..." she thinks
but under it all, she knows this man, or any other
can't fill the lack of friendship; of love
of seeing beyond that
figure-eight body;
or amber eyes, or covergirl lips
but the spirit of gravity
cannot choke this flower...
from dreaming:
of a quaint home
where she can raise her new born baby girl
or a man to sweep her off her feet
care for her, just like daddy used to...
before the accident.

"One more night" she thinks...
for the thousanth
And oneth time,
as she gets in the car
where a horny businessman thinks:
"tonight's going to be a night to remember"

Fuck you, Cupid

You are the god of love,

but the assasin of friendship

I hate your guts, you fucker

but I like your style

I was only thirteen
when I met that

brown-eyed mess

that beautiful goddess

or infamous tramp

depending on who you ask

or rather, when you ask it

It scares me though, it does

that she could be both a creator,

my brown eyed goddess;

and a destroyer,

that, infamous bitch;

in the eyes of the same lover

although, a lover

no more

fuck you cupid,
for letting your dogs loose

on the best friend I could ever ask for;

but if I could do it all over again

I wouldn't have it any other way

because that is how

this moment was shaped.

Please don’t tell me now

It has been 7 suns
Since I last felt your warm embrace
And eight
Eight, oh so fucking
Your gentle hands
Exposed a world, I thought
I would never see
But now it’s
And I am once again lost
In the torrent of life
Like an autumn leaf tossing in winter winds
Out of place
And out of control.
I would not have it any other way;
Cupid stabbed my heart,
And now,
I must have my revenge
My creator
My destroyer
If you love me;
at all,
Please don’t tell me now.

The American Way

This one’s for you –
Home of the brave
And land of the free
--market capitalism, that is.

Surely, our forefathers
-and mothers,
Started with the best of intentions
“A democracy
Of the people, by the people
For the people”
They said, of course a “person” was
A rich land owning white male over the age of twenty one

Truth be told,
It was really built by a coalition
Of two-thirds of people,
For the land-owning white people
On the backs of savage people
Who had brown skin
And lived with the land
Instead of against
Or off of, it
These people simply did not understand
“The American way”

“God Bless America”
Some vengeful god that must havre been
With the power of “manifest destiny”
He promised those
Greedy white men
An entire continent
Which they traded “money,”
A magical combination of green paper and metal coins
To other rich white males
Who also knew how to live against the land
In exchange for the land they then called

Of course, God’s have a sense of humor too
Although it’s a poor one, at best
Because they made contradictory promises like that all the time
This one time
He, or she, or it – for that matter
Promised the same land to two different people’s
One which claimed to be “chosen” and apparently killed his first son
And another who refused to drink his blood, and prayed five times, daily.
Then told each of them, to claim it in his honor
This land, they called

That same god also told these
Rich white men, who called themselves Americans
And more generally, his children
To claim this land between two bodies of water in his name
So, as any child would
They obeyed the command of their father
And played a violent game of “capture the flag”
With the other people who had lived there for eons
Who had brown skin
And did not know “the American way”
Of course “flag”
Really meant life
And the white skinned people,
Did more killing than they did capturing
They did it with the best of intentions
And after all,
that’s what really mattered.

Of course America was also the land of
Religions freedom
One was free to worship whatever god he or she wanted
In so far as they also worshipped
Those green pieces of paper and metal coins
Which they gladly did
So the greediest and most “American”
Of all Rich, white, land-owning, men
Who promised god to represent the will of the people
(that is, the rich land-owning white male people)
Promised some of those green pieces of paper and metal coins
To the poorer, more rugged of the white male genus
In exchange for the heads of those brown people,
Who used the land wrong
Or did not use it at all

Of course everyone knew that children,
Of all colors were easy to kill
So they gave more money for the full-grown heads
Of those brown, heathen people
And even more for those which appeared to have penises

But the Americans have always been
A gentle people
Eventually, they felt bad for those
Heathen brown people
Who had not yet learned how to keep themselves warm.
So that winter, they gave them blankets
Of course, those blankets were infested with small invisible creatures
That made people who were not naturally immune
--Or otherwise, rich and white,
Very, Very ill.
“it was better to die warm
Than freeze to death”
They thought.

But America was no savage land
It was a land of honor, a land of justice
Eventually – those white people without penises
Managed to menstruate simultaneously
And demanded that those with penises treat them equally.
Menstruation was a technique of bleeding
For seven dsays at a time while lashing out at people
Without having to bear the consequences of doing so.
Basically, a get out of jail free card
So, to appease those people
The rich white land owning male people promised that
Those white people with vaginas instead of penises
Could help choose the rich white people
To represent their political wishes,
In a city they called “Washington”

The two-third people with charcoal skin
Were also awarded similar rights
On the condition that they don’t bother the people with white skin
“separate but equal”
The rich white men thought

So they built separate schools
And separate bathrooms
And separate restaurants
And separate water fountains
For the charcoal people
Of course the rich white men knew,
That some pigs were more equal than others.

The people with brown skin also
Got their “separate but equal”
In exchange for leaving the white people alone
And not complaining about the blankets
And the killings from back when they were less-than-people
So they gave them some of the land back,
But the brown people still missed
Their less-than-people who were brutally slaughtered
So they cried all the way to their new homes.

This land was eventually called “native country”
By the rich white people
Who sometimes walked down the trail of tears
To try and multiply their green paper
At placed called “Indian Casino’s”
But most of the rich white people lost money
So the rich white people who governed some of the states
(Which were smaller, more concentrated units of Americas)
Who could not stand to see the brown people win,
Banned those Casinos
On the land they supposedly gave back.

Americans claim they have changed their ways
Since the charcoal people and the brown people
With penises and vaginas
Are practically equal—
Or equally disadvantaged, at least
But some other people with brown skin
From some other continent
Who pray five times a day, to some other god
Don’t believe them
and occasionally fly planes into a few American buildings,
(which are tall structures that tickle the clouds
That were built by poor people
Of all colors
For rich white male people to work, pee
And cheat on their wives in.

But America,
Oh America
Has always been a just land
So we just labeled those people “terrorists”
And “enemy combatants” so we wouldn’t
Feel so guilty about slaughtering them, either
Maybe one of these days..
They too,
Will get their blankets.

To Blossom

They say spring is the most Beautiful season
I thought so too, That is,
until you showed me
Summer was the season
our love would blossom.
I had seen you around before,
Exchanged an embarrassing
Facebook message, Or two
But it was not until the summer
Of my senior year, That I felt you.
The person
The most beautiful Event,
that ever collided
With this lost, confused soul.
But that is how the world goes round,
That’s how destiny chose
To play it’s hand
On that august night
As we sat against the wall
In what we thought then, was
The most miserable of establishments
Staring at an apartment complex
Across the road where other people danced,
And partied the night away…

We danced too,
That night in the silent dorm roomTo our
own love songOne more beautiful than
I had Ever heard or felt.
This, I experienced.
The only sound
I heard was the sound
of our Heavy breathing
As you bit my lip And I
slipped my hands around
your Beautiful plush waste.
I was lost in your big brown
Eyes, for what Felt like a century.
Time passes slowly when you are
Learning to savor every second.
We fought the good fight -- You and I
Against fate, Against distance
Through even the coldest nights,
we kept our fire burning strong
whispering secrets to each other
late into the nightwe found warmth
in each others voices
while the lovers slept
and the poets prayed.

“two days and ten hours”
That’s how far we were from each other
But for that beautiful month,
You were here with me
By my side.
In my big broken bed,
I always left you a spot next to me,
And a match
Half-hoping that you would really
Be here, when I awoke
And we could
Burn that broken bed
Under the heat of our bodies;
Spark a love,
That we both knew
We had left, in our summer skin.

Cheers, here is to you—
My brown eye’d beauty,
We will always have Paris
Or whatever you want
to call that miserable
Austin dormroom
Where I learned
What Love


I call you a lot of things
Some good
And some bad
You are my provider – yes
You brought me into this world
And that’s a fact that sadly,
I cannot ignore
Whether on purpose, or by accident
Is a subject up for debate
But something you could never be,
Or will be,
Is my father.
No matter who’s name is on my birthcertificate
Or whatever last name I bear.
Sure, you are not only to blame,
It takes two to bear a grudge
But as long as you expect me
To live in your shadow;
To be your reflection –
I’m sorry
There’s simply no room for you here
I have simply grown too full for your cup
Of rum and coke
Or black label and sprite
From which you drank yourself blind
--To my accomplishments;
My growth.

But I know this is your home,
Your castle,
And like you always said
“we do things (your) way around here”
So please,
Do not be offended
As I take my leave,
My leap
My chance – at life
To see for myself whether or not
The grass is really greener on the other side
Don’t get me wrong
You will always be a part of me
The part that I’m always running from
Your shadow
Your reflection
Your smell and your touch
I hope, I pray
To a god I don’t believe in
I can be a better father
Than you


no one starts out life
knowing it is going to be meaningless
it all starts with big plans,
larger than life.

curing diseases, being firemen
falling in love, living freely
you know -- dreams,
ambition, aspirations maybe;

The thing is, dreams stay exactly what they are;
and what they always will be :

And one dreary night we look in the mirror;
42, alone and oh so fucking
broken and realize
that we can't stand the reflection
staring back at us.
one by one,
sometimes two by two,
we leave this cruel world
just as we entered it
and crying our fucking lungs out.

A Dance with Destiny

We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em

she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least

Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet

But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word

As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.

The Wall

For a poet,
there is no hell like
writers block

the impossibility of
expressing the thoughts
that linger within
that hold each moment hostage
that torture - is like no other

Perhaps this is the quiet
before the storm
the last breath before destruction
or perhaps I just need to breath
...or fart


what is a knight without armor
or a souljer without a gun
or a doctor without a stethascope
or a businessman without a business
or a poet without a thought
about what to say
or how to say it
I wish I forgot my pen,
... at least then I'd have an excuse

Today, I am useless.

The Simple Life

"Life's a bitch; you work
and work, and work
and for what?
-- to realize that what you have just ain't good
at least, not good enough."


"shut up and listen, woman
there's no time for consolation
no time for your petty lies
shit, there's barely even time for me..."


"look at me,
42, overweight, balding and
a night-shift assistant manager
at a grocery store no one has ever heard of...
I can't keep looking myself in the mirror and asking
Is this really how it was meant to be? "

"No Harry: this is not how it was supposed to be
we all have big plans
about what we wanted to do in life
about what we want to see.
about where we want to go, and
even who we wanted to be.

Fuck, you think this is where I want to be Harry?
38, a stay at home wife -
the personal assistant
of a night-shift assistant manager
of a grocery store that no one has ever heard of
who doesn't love me enough to marry me..."

"How did we end up like this, vanessa
where did all the good go?
how the fuck did we not see this one coming..."

"we were blinded harry,
by ourselves,
by our parents,
by our teachers,
and most of all,
our plans...

after all, no one plans on being miserable
not us,
not the junkies next door
not the old couple across the hall
and certainly not the millionaires in hollywood

it all starts with big plans and ambitions
but ends exactly the same.
for all of us..."

"What are you trying to say...
that a man shouldn't have dreams?
that a man should expect
to die in this world - just as he came into it
and crying his fucking lungs out?"

"maybe Harry, maybe...
maybe this wouldn't be so bad if we didn't expect
nothin out of it. Hell, maybe we'd be proud..
of managing not to kill ourselves each day"

"Fuck you, Vanessa...
maybe I don't want to live in a world
without hope
maybe that's just not good enough for me

what do you cunts know about dreams anyway?
you cook, you clean
and sometimes...
you even look good enough to fuck

You've accomplished everything
that the world expects from a woman,
i'm the failure..."

"Go to hell Harry,
I have dreams just like you do.
You ever wonder what the hell it's like for me?
at least you got a chance
to do what you want,
to be what you want to be
you fucked that up, and that's your burden to carry

I've just been stuck here with you
day in and day out
cooking, cleaning
and doing my fucking best
to be the best woman I know how to be
but that doesn't mean I don't have dreams

there's not a day I don't think about
how things coulda been different
if I went to ballet school...

but we all can't do what we dramed of doing
that's not how the world was meant to go round

what are those big 'ol dreams gettin you now, huh?
you ain't happy
you've never been happy...

All i'm sayin is maybe,
things wouldn't be so bad
if we just forgot about what we wanted
and learned to deal with what we've got"

Harries tension burst
into tears
of anger,
of sorrow,
of confusion,
and slowly rolled down his cheeks
vanessa's charcoal rimmed eyes began to leak, too

"what the fuck ever happened to the simple life?"

This one's for you, Dear Stranger

We are far apart, you and I
but we are united by these words
which bleed from me on this here paper
and you, so beautifully read
and interpret
and wonder...
"what was this guy smoking?"
the truth is, if there ever was such a thing
that we poets focus too much on ourselves
and not enough on our subjects
there's a hint of narcessism in this whole mess
but who better to clean it up?
this one's for you,
whether your young and wrestless
or saturated by life's beauty
for pronouncing these written words
and giving meaning
to otherwise lifeless vessles
you are every poets greatest wish,
or perhaps -- our worst nightmare.


Creativity is a virtue like no other
the mother of love
and the father of meaningful existence
but it is a virtue for which too few have
the heart
For some, it is easier to follow-
to sit in the back-seat of life's carriage
making passive comentary on a life-
-they were too weak to live.
I hunger for life's underbelly
I drive on an empty gas-tank
and fly kites only in thunder storms
with every action, I write my own destiny
following any road without a who
or a why
or a fucking care in the world
Some people drive to their destinations,
I drive to loose myself,
without any direction.
becuase there's beauty in the struggle.

Never look Back

There's something very comfortable about childhood
Innocense, perhaps
or maybe the magic of running through an open feild without
a fucking care in the world
or being the first to wake up, and watching the sun rise,
or skipping rocks in a quaint pond
ankle-deep in clear blue existence.

However, a time does come when we loose our shoes
in life's current and it's jagged rocks cut our feet
the desire for an anesthesized life overcomes curiosity
and we walk away from the familiar pond
never looking back on the open fields we ran through

we walk on an endless winding road,
with twists and turns
it is rough, and too cuts our feet
until one day we stop,
and look upon that long and winding road
and realize it has all been meaningless,
with nothing familiar in sight.

then we dream, of our childhood oasis
and thirst for the cool water to sooth our blistered feet
as we slip the noose around our necks,
we wonder why
we ever

Modern Marvals

Fasle are the ideals of modernity
we grow weaker and call it "progress"
we subdue strength and call it "virtue"
we sacrefice ourselves for suburban homes
and german cars
and trophey wives and husbands
and this, this blasphemy, we call "life"
I have grown to clever for your shiny objects and petty distractions
If nothingness is our final destination,
consider this my resignation.

The Game

It all began with a single
who's reverberations reached every corner of the universe
being grew too strong to contain itself
and becoming now flourished everywhere.

On a single rock,
three doors over from
the magnanimous swirling ball of fire,
forces competed with one another
the lamb and the wolf
the land and the sea
fire and water
strength and weakness
in an endless cycle of ascendancy and descendency
of going over and going under
being had become a great game.

Until one clever beast, subdued the forces
gaged strength within a fictional binary
of good and evil, right and wrong, god and Lucifer
Weakness triumphed for a wrinkle in time
but the flame of greatness still burnt strong
in other words,
everything strong was evil, but evil didn't die

However tempting this false order,
this clever beast was a product of being
and like being, was unable to keep it's pact with itself
the strength that was encaged turned inwards,
into ressentiment, self suppression and self-hatred,
and ate the insides of the clever beast.

And despite this moral order,
The wolf still teared at the heart of the lamb
the fire still burned entire civilizations to the ground
the sea still sculpted the coastline with powerful blows
and the prostitutes still lined the city streets.
"Evil!" cried the beast, with utter dismay
but being only continued it's game,
disaster continued its crash-course with destiny
and the clock still ticked

The clever beast looked up to the heavens
and cried, "the lord will save his children"
but there was no reply, no miracle
-- no one to turn this water into wine.
Only Laughter as being continued its endless dance,
and the clever beast disappeared without a trace.

Curious Art

An artist I am, of words and ideas
my colors are boundless experiences,
unconscious desires,
potential for meaning and lack of direction.
No, I am nothing like the others.
With a stroke of honesty,
I paint with my thoughts, conversations
and actions, of course.
What do I care about paintings of mountains or canions?
or people who have long since deceased
or triangles and squares and circles
and such
I am an artisan of the twenty first century,
with nonsense, I fight the good fight
my canvas is life, and I'm painting my own mosaic


Parks and Philosophy are an art
for which too few have the stomach
or the mind, for that matter
and even less the time

For too long have I seen men work
live, dream and strive
towards an imaginary ideal
of love, of safety
of wealth, of power
Only, if only, they saw
the meaning in their own selves

Look away from the glittering ideals of modernity, child
there's beauty in the struggle


The sound of water splashes in one ear and out the other
and the wind's briskly touch caresses my torso, and
the suns warm rays cradle my anxiety
like the warm touch of a new mother
Friends come, and friends go
Lost in an endless swirl of existence
Time goes on, but the fool with the banjo still plays
a familiar tune that never ends
and the water still splashes
the wind still straddles
and the sun still cradles
my every loathsome fear
this fucked up top still spins,
meaningless and all.

New Years Poetry


been a while since I decided to exclusively post poetry. I don't really get around to writing it very often, although lately I have been inspired by my nigga bukowski so things have been different. Now, as with anything I write -- I feel a disclaimer is in order:

** I understand that this note is entitled "new years poetry" what is hereby published has very little to do with new year itself, it was simply written on new years eve. Let's just say there's something inspirational about parks and children.

** Poetry doesn't have to rhyme to not suck. (for more, see Charles Bukowski)

Now, for the goods:



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