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A Softer World



This world needs more people like us:
Poets,
Writers,
Idealists,
Dreamers, 
Artists,
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

frigid
endless
nights
is all that he knows
no sunshine in these eyes
only darkness
and pain
oh so fucking grusome
pain
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
yes,
dark, dreary and
oh so fucking cold
nights
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
more

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
hopelessness
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
fucks
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.)

Fuck,
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
lows."

Unfortunately,
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,
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,
substances.
that we rely on,
and hold closer
than life itself
because it's that
damn
precious.

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
breadth.

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
rather,
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
inside
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
with
burley
black
mustaches

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