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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