Crossposted

On the topic of people, I am just beyond sick. You're homeless and hopeless for two months and you see what they are for certain, just mechanisms of backwards convenience and awful drug stories and misunderstandings. They lay into you when you see them alone, always cheerful or glib or caring for somebody elses errands, never using logic to try to impart senses of beauty and or justice into the world, never reaching for that higher prospect as a fulfilment of their destiny because the abject failure in the beginning would nag at them, maybe plaintively at best.

All I see is a world of failure. That and we are dying. Someone send help, even dyed hankerchieves waved from horseback

45 Grave suddenly got so fucking good in my life.  The other one to check out is "Concerned Citizen."

drug induced haze

Well they seemed chuffed.  Riding through a forest fire, and reconvening with friends at a fast food restaurant, it was totally and blatently apparent that they were all diseased and on drugs.  I charged them for it, in the back of my mind (the part that holds scriptures of memory) wondering if it was some sort of melody that I couldn't see that beheld them to their ADD drugs (five dollars gets you in, they seem to say, woefully numb).

I could see the end of combat.

There, in their filthy stares and K-Smart hotness, wearing bright colors that wouldn't match, talking a swath about feigning new animal designations for the kids who were bright and learned their same lessons, the matches of boy-girl, the ideas of sand running out of their mouths.

Could have told them that they were dirty.  Instead I watched the cops drive down the road, staring at license plates with mountain crud drying on them (this being after all, the land of living 4 Runner commercials, not to mention the dazed ski tropes with kids crying from the back of a bursting Suburu).

I wondered if it was the end of the self-medicating.  All too desperate to talk without being that desperate for anything but the self-sealed and circumspect mentality that drugs were a salve for some mis-begotten foreign piece of emptiness (that was probably caused by drugs).

Here I whine.  People don't eat pieces of plastic, at least knowingly.  They would maybe if plastic was called drugs, like here, snort some paint, its lyingly called cocaine.  The highs, you know, would be invoked from a death of brain cells being that the brain has no recourse for feeling pain but through highs and lows and the extremities where nerves are connected.  Have a high.  It's also called "the massive death of brain spans."

I used to, a decade ago.  Then the last for me was probably some ex girlfriend throwing up heroin and me being such a dumbass at the time that all I could probably do was rub her rotting backside.

These people can make you sick.  Not just literally.

My least favorite is hearing somebody complaining about a bad smell.  Well, it is you or one of your friends.  I don't do drugs, have diseases, and I am clean from lack of auto-immune deficiency caused by too many drugs.  I don't smell.  It's probably something up your nose that you keep snorting like a mannequin.

If I hated these people I could be cruel.  Oh, is it that hour?  I would look at my wrist only my watch wouldn't be there.  How much, for instance, painkillers does it take to conceal a wound at work?  What kind, what variety, how many every two hours, what do you mean I'm a rat?  I don't call the cops on your drug usage, I just think that you'd rather live longer not doing them.  You might end up being happy.

The recourse is complete derangement.  You pop pills, they fuck your mind, you put something in a needle until I can see your fucking blood vessels standing out on your forearms like cords and then you have the audacity to try to be funny or rude or loving or brain dead.  Stop it.  Play fucking Scrabble until your face is red and I bet it would have a similar effect.  Bet your vocab would improve some.

No Future

I'm turning this into a dream journal.  It beats bitching about the rich, or some mongoloid who came over and defecated on my floor before I discovered that the only way to get him to leave was to tell him that I was the fucking Terminator (all that happened, sadly.)

So last night, I was in a swamp amid the reeds and there was a locked tower not unlike a storm drain with these voices calling from behind the bars.  They sounded if not sweet then consoling?  I made up my mind to go into town and found out that the voices from behind the bars were these shape shifters from Canada of all places, and for the purposes of the dream, they were apparently interested in a rich bohemian scene full of wine and art.  Their shape shifting was beautiful in some sense, you could always tell where they were not from the stink of the sewer.  

They wore luminous blue and purples and reds.  The males were absolute assholes but the women seemed full of gaiety if not downright debauchery.  In the dream I was escorted out of one of their establishments by one of the grosser gruffer males but re-invited by some luminous being to share a beer, where I found out that they could represent others at will.  

It was pleasant until there were undercurrents of lust, where I promptly awoke.

Dream

I had this "dream" the other night that involved waking up from a virtual reality program.  The path of this existence was proven to be some kind of subterfuge, and there were these "people" tending to the machinery of false existence in a janitorial sense.

In the dream, my wife said from some other part of that world "Steve, you'd better get your ass out of there before they find you."

I wasn't human in this dream, I had wings and magical powers and was being consoled by factory/mechanical employees.  My wife called again "Steven, get your ass out of there."

As soon as I left it became apparent that they were being nice (the workers, not my wife) just so they could subdue and kill me.  I fought a battle using a pole while semi flying, it was more like skating on those sterile stupid corridors packed with bullshit.

What terrified me was the "people" got me under again using some trick of currency, saying that I had woke up from a video game that charged five dollars a minute.  I woke up in this world, shaking and smoking, with my wife's lingering babble still in my mind.

I don't know what this is or how to cope.  It's not all Matrix-ified, even though it sounds like the same idea.  I know that the concept for a long time was a philosophical thought experiment.

I went back to sleep and was trying to get out again.  In the second dream, my wife called again and said "Whatever you're going to do, you'd better do it fast" so I stole some car keys and got apprehended by police.  The third dream was about drinking beer in a fancy club before being forced to go back to school.

I don't know what this means.  I am terrified because in the "dreams" I really loved the woman who was (is?) my wife out there, and I felt measurably sickened by waking up this morning.  The duration of the dreams was long in there happening but only about six hours here.

I don't know

Outcast

Being an outcast,
well is outrageous
nobody seems used to being smart
who you meet
or ever have had to really come to terms
with their own value judgments
and how they affect their life
and the people they interact with.

It means I get to dress in black
with a tattered scarf as my belt
because I don't want to look
like a psychiatrist's son
if I end up dead
or taken away by police again
to the two institutions
that probably have housed me too many times
but then again
I have voluntarily gone a few times over
once spending my birthday
in the psych ward
and being asked by a Jewish woman
who was all talk named Azriela
to marry her.

I think I pissed her off
by being myself,
but there you go
an outcast
has no better friends
than the weird motions of people
professing caring, allegiance, feality and whatever
only to have those rescinded
at the first sign of trouble

I know a few things
but I wouldn't dare tell you

My guess was I was just too awkward
at parties that were about drugs and politics
and let me tell you
that I got scared when I got kicked out of a writing program
for talking about the Iraq war
when we were having wine.
I'm glad I told the son of a bank merchant later
to go fuck himself
as he held down some clerical job for the university
that he got by brown nosing and not at all from being adept at writing.

Beautiful meals is a byline of mine,
whether its some stupid hot dog at eight am
or a fifty cent donut
or six pints of hard cider,
they come with the realization
that this living
is a dangerous thing
so its preservation
is beautiful.

psych hospital

i was in the psych hospital
and some Jewish girl named Gabriella
was dancing in the hall
so they injected her with anti psychotics.

i got so angry
that i hit the nurse in the face
and kicked the injector in the cunt.

the med nurse was so horrified
that she tried to say i hit her in the legs
but she couldn't even say
that it was her dipshit cunt.

fuck those people,
even some of the patients
always touching you
and saying bullshit
when it dawns on you
that theyre not insane
but just truly horrible people
who have been abandoned by the other bastards.
maybe there is something prophetic in that,
people
and their hatreds.

well i'm glad i got that med nurse
and the other one,
i also burned the man
who dug up Marilyn Monroe's grave
with a cigarette in the neck
but I mentioned that before.

don't you dare call me a wild animal
for these instances,
its what they clearly deserved (as if I am some arbiter,
but believe me, people deserve things sometimes).

admonition

i have never felt like this before.

there is nothing missing
on the day I die.

books and such

Reading sometimes
is voluntary slavery,
so shove your tailored manuscripts
of new revelations
on the Peloponesian War
up your ass,
you old coot.

The only reason
I would buy something
like "The Power of Now"
would be to hit you with the spine of it
as you came whistling out of the restroom
at your stupid pompus bullshit book tour
masked as a motivational speech
that motivated me only to consider suicide
as I listed to that babble
come out of your stuffed bullshit of a mouth
you stupid motherfucker
go take a Black and Decker saw
and cut off your fingers
so you will stop writing.

I hate to side with the forests,
but we don't need any more books
and you are probably all like,
we should include you
well last time I checked
I was just writing my thoughts
as opposed to pretending to the grandeur
of some literary objectivity
so go fuck yourself
in your AIDS ridden ass
because you must have slept with the wrong people
on your last disease ridden book tour
you pretensious pompous faggot assholes.

Portland, OR

I remember
sitting with an ex girlfriend in Portland
at some pub that showed movies
and not being able to quit
making fun of the Wolverine
which was the stupidest thing I had seen
and then
not being asked to leave
after basically being a jerk off
for an hour and a half,
gee
in retrospect
that was a feeling
more satisfying of thinking of that girl
who would take pictures of her fat slovenly self
while high
and invite her friends over
to laugh about absolutely nothing
but their own stupidity
when for instance
they couldn't find a fucking fork
and them yelling "fuck a fork"
or something
like I care even to remember
but I do recall
that that was the best time I had in Portland,
the City of People Born From Snobs.

in my solitude, i write this

Trust me

I would rather imagine

the son of Hera

climbing out of a red tunnel

withering in black

and with daggers in his eyes

than be reminded

consistantly and as science

about the redundant stupidity of the human race.

I used to figure that hermitage

had its perks,

like long sullen cigarettes

and dour cups of coffee

as I sat in a musty apartment

surrounded only in the scent of used books

instead of the lingering traces

of some other filthy animal

who was only nice and kind

when it suited their belief system

instead of mine,

or how parity of currency

works out best alone,

(admittedly, last time I was broke and alone

it was so pleasing that I just bummed around

and laid in parks).

I don't understand

why the fecundity of idiocy

is a prevelent notion in the human genome

as related to the mind

but if you look at history

it is a history of war

and nothing less.

If not, well there would be non fiction books

on bravery in the face of adversity

instead of psych pop babble with titles

like "Springing Out of Grief"

when no one has even documented

Grief's History

unless it was inadvertently

or called something fey and ringing

like the Great Depression.

I swear I would rather fight with Hera's first born

than try again to leave tips for Seven Eleven workers

and be refused because of the asinine reason

that it might be illegal somehow

like I could commission them

while constantly standing up behind hot dog counters

and really make the other customers subject to my philandering wrath.

The reason I am tired

is because I gave up that Robin Hood gambit

and began fighting only for the existence

and possibility of Beauty.  

The snobs think it is in the eye of the beholder

but I have come to find that people who hold that opinion

are just incredibly ugly and skewed.

I love someone

and I should say

that its not any of you sometimes

but that being that

I shouldn't talk about it

because it gets misunderstood

(like it is some crime)

and for legal and moral reasons

I should say that they are not a child, family member, or man

but I gather that you would hate it

so I would rather be alone

in these wonderful cloistered woodlands

that got saturated with Japanese radiation

where I saw the bark turn from brown to grey and black

and nobody seems to care, because ho hum..

I am insolvent about human coolness,

I really figure that it is an awkward title

for trying to get laid

and I don't need to get laid

maybe if the prospect came up again

I would rather fight the son of Hera

crawling out of Hell

with me falling through the flaming depths

while he placed a dagger in my sternum

because really

the memories are the same experience.  

I had five hundred more readers

and I'm sure that you people are like "he's poor and full of ego"

which I don't even care to talk about

and neither do I care to mention

how a bunch of Chinese page views

came from something I wrote trying to piss off the Chinese neighbors

because if you want to talk about racism

all I'd probably do at this stage in my wandering life

is call you a faggot, with the subtle acknowledgment 

that it was too bad that such a great term

was wasted on debasing gay people.

So I gripe

and imagine being tortured

by Hera for being stabbed by her son

but the truth that I found is

that the world could be any place

without or within

so let me find a pen

and hope that it lands in some dragon's nostril

who will leave it there in smoke and ash and fire

until people learn to behave.

stories from the street

i was homeless for two months recently
involving relatives calling the psych hospital
because i was talking about the FBI and electrocution experiments
so there is that,

but there is nothing like getting out of a medical hospital
for having a WWI soldier;s disease from too much walking
when some man on the bus tells you that you stink
and he persists
even after you explain that you had just gotten discharged
from a medical hospital
and that you were sorry
but still he persists.
i got so mad that i called him something usually unmentionable
and then threw my fucking hospital bag at him,
leaving me to walk from the side of the road
all the way to the worst city in the world
to be homeless in, San Pedro
where the gangs and drug addicts
attack, pester, or confuse you
into wondering what the hell
a house actually is besides some kind of odd armor.

there are too many stories from two months
to be responsible for,
like strolling with a baby carriage full of my things
trying to make it through another LA ghetto
while riot squad cars were hauling the dying off the streets
and then things like not caring about not eating for a week,
sitting down in a restaurant and stealing a meal
while the fucking faggot waiter steals my jacket
for payment when i offered to wash dishes or cook.

i do believe that some of the things were eerie
but really, I wonder
why humanity gets so fucked up on legal and illegal drugs
that they cant cooperate with a man who got on a bus
out of the medical hospital
or donate a cheap meal
to somebody who hasnt eaten in a week
or why they have to charge even a quarter for some ugly fast food tap water.

it is disgusting, not homelessness, which is freedom sometimes
but the way they look at you
after you have just showered in a marina
before kicking your ass off the premises.

witchcraft confession

i was twenty four
and had a book on the Qabballah
which said
that the key to success with magic
was the establishment of a magician's alphabet.

i made one up myself
in a certain way so that the characters
had emotional and liminal resonances
with myself
rather than being symbols for the conveyance
of just a language of things.

i wrote it in the back of a book
without a key
so i would remember
and then set to casting spells all over the bloody place
like a four year old etching the white walls of a hallway
with a red permenant marker.

i think i was heavily affected
at the evidence
that something was awry
or even beautiful
after this point.

sometimes i was cautious to beat out time signatures
so if i did something awful, it was guaranteed to dissolve.

admittedly, i was either going completely nuts from this
but some of them seemed to come out automatically, usually
written down until i began seeing them in the world,
like the symbol for heartbreak etched in the concrete design of pine needles
laying on a deck.

i threw all my spellbooks into the ocean off the pier,
but admittedly I had been trying half the time
to save the fucking world
with a bunch of chicken scratch black magic
so i don't know what it means for the balance of my supposed soul
or if I am a male anymore,
certain things like this
based on the character and complication of the innane writings I was doing
with a nonstandardized supposedly magical alphabet.

that and someone wisely told me
"maybe it was something you picked up somehow while bored"
and I agree
somehow
reality seemed different
not caught in the segments of sane order
but affected,
so there is the inherent argument
for the existence of magic
especially through the disgusting example
of my girlfriend contracting an STD
and myself being clean until this day,
or other things like strange wounds beneath the skin
that ached like motherfuckers
though I gather that the rational explanations now
seem too boring
and more :la de dah:
than the idea black magic exists.

my Illuminati friend Erika knew something
about something else, but I don't want to be personal
she was the second person who spoke of cloud calling
but she, being from NY, professed that it was Southern black magic
so there is that realization
I guess, as uncomfortable as it is
being that I'm not all like "Fuck yeah, black magic"
though I probably dress like it these days
long after my alphabets disappeared into the Pacific ocean.

Jacob Olsen

There was this rich creep
I was forced to live with at school
who would throw salmon
behind the curtains,
go out and get high
and laugh at something called The Game.

Well he was in a writing class of mine
and after taking too many mushrooms
he decided that he would write a short story
about murdering me
and then read it to the class.
The story involved somebody leaving
the dishwasher open
and though it wasn't clear
it was probably him,
nonetheless I was murdered in fiction
and Jacob forgot about it completely,
both in the story
and in real life.

The last time I saw him
he was stuffing his face
with warm Alaskan beer
from a broken beer bottle,
and all I could tell you now
is that I didn't care
about reminding him that the bottle was broken
or even learning later
about all the glass that ended up
in his waste of a stomach

because he wouldn't give me a fucking dollar for food
when i was working three jobs while my girlfriend was abroad
and fucking foreign men
all the while him, throwing salmon behind the curtains.
what a waste of fucking humanity.

new blog

http://themetaphysicsofchaos.blogspot.com/

money

Money is totally unnecessary.

TOTALLY AND IN COMPLETION UNNECESSARY at this phase of human development.

Imagine just walking into the store and leaving with an apple.

The rich haven't figured it out, they have been ruining the world for some measure of centuries.

Ancient Sumeria used to function on food surplus ALONE.

it is not only ruining lives for the time being, but production values in terms of quality and choice.

it would also save people a huge amount of time and heartbreak if we got rid of money

"imagine all the people, a brotherhood of man...

imagine all the people, sharing all the world

you may say I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one"--John Lennon

like what you see, maybe

I have this theory
that people end up looking how they deserve.

Sometimes this goes with their name
like, geez David, you really looked like a David
when you were smelling your terrible index finger
and your nature
is something I can't apologize to you for now
(as if I were any way responsible,
but I did feel responsible
for not immediately hitting that asshole in the face).

Mr Boggis, were you too weird to love?
Or in what I see in your face
did you decide one day
to make yourself too weird for life in that way
the affectionately departed
once called sowing wild oats?

Plain Jane,
you fucking dipshit hop head,
sticking screwdrivers up your plain ass
for a laugh in bathroom parties,
your face looks loose but pinched
like your nerves have stopped feeling
and your muscles in your bone structure
gave up trying to express who
you never were to the world.

August, you were too kind
and it looked like you had plastic surgery
to be some sort of sychophant ass grabber
maybe at the time you roll your eyes
you should know that glad handing
and sleeping politically
lead to that awful fungal infaction.

James, always something about that "hey, its a living language"
with you
so its no wonder that you look like a fucking dead hamburger.

Why do I even call this writing?  It is more like ticket writing for
the litany of small and large crimes
the human race
er, slobs
have perpetrated
on this hellish journey we have all shared like a fucking artillery shelling.

For M

You said to me once
that you were the best friend I ever had
and it turned something inside of me
against all that I hate
but the difficulty was
that after you said that
I figured I had nailed something essential
and became a snob for friendship
instead of just stopping
and accepting you into my life.

Why start at the bottom?
It's like writing a poem
from the bottom up
and I get quesey from the realization
that after you said that
that I could have no other friend
without realizing the rational functionalism
of having friends
instead of just caring for you
and laughing.

I don't think I can spread your love
through other people any longer,
it takes too much time and anger
and their joy is not your joy
so I said it

And not to be awful
but I really want to know you
for the rest of my life
and not in the admonitions
of people who say that as an endearing remark
meant to garner some sort of friendship political advantage
because I once had people attacking me
because of the movements of their social circles.

I detested parties when you were around
because I pretended to be interested in other events,
sometimes
just to get your attention
so you would be proud of me
if you heard me speak in passing
until I felt that the best person I could be
is still based in the flows and loving
of all that you cared and care about,
I just really
want us to make it out of this
and I don't mean our relationship
but just the dumb teasing notion
that we are stuck in someone else's life
that isn't shared,
romantically or whatever it is they say
(I even love that you know what Romantic means
in the sense of the original usage of the word
not to mention how you know about it as an art movement
and I remember when you tried to apply it
as a philosophy for life
but got befuddled by those demons called people).

You never lied to me, you
and for that I can proudly say
that us knowing each other is deeper than a lie
of which I care about immensely.

christmas eve

i wonder
it being Christmas eve
what happened to the fabled time
when people knew how to set aside
vast differences,
like in 1916
when the British
and Germans
on the front lines
forgot all their brother's tragedies
and played football
in enemy territory
after the Germans
had given the gift
of a Christmas tree
to some fledging sergeant
who later died from gas wounds.

it could be
that peace and joy
is not considered feminine or masculine
so it hovers out there in the ether
waiting to bless and terrify
during those rare moments in humanity
when people start being human beings again
and buy new coats for the insane
and toys for impoverished crippled children.

i will never forget
those endless days
when these friends i had
were obsessed with experimenting only with drugs
and well sorry to say
its not a victimless crime
when someone you cared about throws their life away
and abandons human decency
when they begun selling themselves
for a line of coke
or when they forget their last car accident
with a bag of nauseating grass
or when they breed (this is the worst i have heard)
kids to have drug mules
and then float them over the border
packed with heroin.

not to be a jerk
but i really hate drugs
and its the only thing i can point towards
when finding problems with humanity
because otherwise i would have to not be so kind
and just say that people are inherently awful

but for these moments
when the counter-woman at some conveinience store
laughs like a bobble head in good cheer
over something her boyfriend texted her

or how people spending their birthdays in county hospitals
get candy from a nurse

or small gestures that locate an essential lack in you or I
that settle some minor existential question
whether it is about kindness or being alive

spelling error

sorry for the spelling error
in that message that i wrote

i must have been feeling happy
to speak to you
until you pointed out
that i had used "they're"
instead of "their"
or maybe it was "there"
gee
can you remind me again
why drnking is fucking better
than talking to you?

fey

i think
that official US policy
is
"Hey, we've been out doing things
while being a bunch of ugly dumbasses."

Obama
reign in your technorati
settle the truth
that a leader
who doesn't know his country
uses domestic spies.

no one else more medicated

i was nine
somehow in a red number
those kids i was never friends with
were murdering small animals
with their idiot laughs

i never figured it out
until now
when i gather that their parents
must have been natal drug users

and now when i walk into a car dealership
and get refused a loan with perfect credit
it is no longer such a perfect mystery

i was eighteen
and dancing on candles made of sticks
i worked in some awful carpentry job
and the kids there had drug parties
they'd drop pieces of wood
and cut their fingers
but you could figure by looking at them
just that they were sick

i was twenty two
and robbed blind
by a psychiatrist who said i was paranoid
of what but birds
when i had dodged
the red edges of murder
with a kid's figurine

i figure now
the hidden gears
of money fate and conspiring fears
are just in rat shit
from drug shipments
not that i'd care
but this country is sick

where were the motions of humility and grief
when we lost a thousand souls
it was just anger and more murder
but now we have a saying around here
that's not "one more number six feet under"
but that you can't expect much from an animal
when its drugs are boiled in battery acid

so lock the doors
and lock your mouth
the best of it
has headed South
through filthy motel room curtains
and ash filled cars
driving in reverse to funeral director's wealth
that is inscribed in bone
but matchless when they cut that final check
that final check
that final tear
rested in someone's fear
of being still
when they have been dead
most of their lives

bang bang bang bang

doyle

they say that the world is built for two
when somebody is loving you

we had that apartment
which the faggot poetry professor
called a crime
as he went high
to the readings
and kept refusing our beer

like it made him important
instead of villanous

we tracked down his email
and sent him a thousand and seven hundred messages
about smut

Master of Sucking Dicks (Television Show Ideas)

Big Bird has a calm and heartfelt conversation with a 1944 German SS Officer.  "But Franz, we really need to reach out and respect people for their differences, what is our R word?"  "Reich."


Master of Theology gets accosted by a bank teller, asked to do something outrageous for an earnings statement, they send pictures to his family as blackmail, buys his first beer in thirty years, gets attacked in the street in full vestment and then the Voice of God says to his family "I never liked him."

Pee Wee Herman has to destroy an ICBM using a nuclear ballistic missile shield weapons program, all of the things used for his aid go nuts like on his show, with the intercom in the war room blaring "YOU SAID THE WORD OF THE DAY" during the start of nuclear apocalpyse but then Lawrence Fishburn comes by on his horse and sings a song about how the Old West was won only the people in their bomb shelters on the radio are wondering why a white sex pervert would be friends with a black cowboy anachronism, but then they realize that it is the perfect friendship for the two of them.

Mr. Rogers sings and lets the cameramen into his house to watch him change clothing (like always) only they find corpses behind his magical train set.

Middle aged man who is an electronics department supervisor at a one stop shop really enjoys his Enya until a television falls on his head.  He ends up in a concussion and all the police officers at his bed are howling for a public execution.  He finds out later at his hanging that they destroyed his favorite Enya album so he screams

sometimes
i feel that the only two words
in any language that folks and gents and dames and kids
understand any longer is "my money,"
but they fail to realize
that the only reason they have any
is because somebody somehow
gave it to them
and what hurt me in the past
is hey, someone gave me eight hundred a month
but it aint enough for even some stupid rabbit cage
up north.

this is not
what i am angry with any longer
its mostly these things
that when i am trying to be lost,
people will come up to me
and hold me responsible in some sick way
for the fact that they don't like
the color purple
because they only had three brain anuerysms
from drug use
and couldn't get the point
that maybe meth and battery acid
wasn't a healthy mixture
for the olfactory gland
that is used for smelling flowers and sewers
so sometimes
i am expected to listen to them
when they have tons of money
and maybe zero brain cells (i have a theory there)
when they come into my room
and put a bunch soap into my coffee maker
because that is cleaning to them
but to me it signifies
that i cannot drink any more coffee
because you do not drink a cup of soap
mixed with weak coffee
that is now ruined,
or how they say something is wrong with him
when he can't laugh at some dumbass who sliced two of his fingers off
with a garden pruner while high
two days before fucking his daughter

i mean
there is only so much
that i can take, especially Chinese tourists
who despite the race
have the same dipshit mentality
or some lack of mentation

but i won't mention the Chinese
because i don't know any of them
just these slobs that refused a beer and a kind word
because they are smoking drier lint mixed with carpet shavings
after intentionally giving themselves some new high
of drugs mixed with mercury from a rectal thermometer
they found in a dead throat cancer victim's apartment.

i would say something beautiful
but i think at least a stone is a stone
the sky is the sky
they better not mess any longer
with the feeling of cold wind like a soft palm on my cheek
because then i might really feel
what is at the bottom of what is wrong with this world,
AND THESE PEOPLE KEEP HAVING BABIES HOLY FUCK.

for Mom

looking back
like some insane kid
i remember there being laughter
when I was four years old
the three of us
going to Mexico
in some station wagon
where there was a seven year old girl
with my younger brother on her lap
in the backseat
and some kid named Miguel
playing with metal Hot Wheels
in the trunk area.

i know now
that i should never be a vegan,
for some reason this epiphany
seems to resonate with my mother's laugh
and her simple way of always having
beer in the fridge
that isn't awful
but more humanly kind
than any idiot philosophy

i don't know,
these days i feel apart
from friends
and have had to scurry
with tactile thoughts
above the past
so that life seems to come plainly
from memories such as Tijuana
and Rosarito,
those unpretensious vacationing spots
where my mother
brought the poor Mexicans clothing for their children
when we were too young
to know what sleeping in a dead car means,
all that sadness
that came from without
marked with blossoms of something simple
like the lights in a blue swimming pool at night
before her drunk friend
bartered for a piggy bank in the shape of a cartoon character,

for all of that
i am more thankful
than the things i have done in my life
so can i just say
that there ought to be some word
besides 'love'
that we can say to our mothers,
maybe a different one each day
otherwise
this world is just madness.

celebrities

The time I met Dead Sara
in the K-Mart
and she asked me
if I had enough beer
just before I said
"Oh, these are for my grandmother,"
she said she has a great grandmother
who is 99
and I said I one named Althea
who was also 99
and that my great great Russian Jewish
grandmother lived to be 104,
she said, "Ah yes those Russians."

I didn't know who she was
until a day after, when I was like
'jeez, I met Dead Sara from Dead Sara
and we totally talked about our grandmothers."

It beat those Hollywood stories
of looking at sickening Larry Flynt
as he ambled in wheelchair to some idiot
over-priced deli
in freako land
where the poor are dying for attention
at the numb hands of infamous doctors
well
they all get treated like insects
in mad LA
as if there was a science
that tells you
how to fuck people over
and remain completely non-plussed

well David Spade at the Palms
you can go disappear up your own asshole.

REM stories

sleeping in a life
worse than the one that arrives at 9:00 am

had to fight an army
of hospital experiments
weaponized by some Administration,
skeletons replaced
by metallic implements
but believe me
"metallic implements"
is too beautiful
to describe what happened
in that parking garage
when the mass armies of experimentation
chased this paranoiac man
in flowing robes
to the ground floor
which was at this depth
of horror.

he made it,
walked to Western Florida
and was in some costume party
where some kid
recognized his stance and said his name

simply "ZED!!!!"

Parasite

i realized
that a lot of personal relations
and people who seem interested
in peering at me
all amounts to Dope
as the Almighty Dollar.

well i learned
that i don't have any Dope
so leave me alone

tutorials

last night
i was juggling oranges
and teaching my grandmother
how to throw playing cards
with a wrist snap
that could make them stick into a watermelon,

i had two beers
and felt vandalized
so i left with a woman
to the edge of the universe
where we found Knowledge
in the form of comic books
ornately concieved
and humble in their plain truths.

i'm such a girl
named this Steven
i get disgusted and embarassed by young men
when i have to arrive at their dens
and set things straight
like in October
when i almost got murdered
by a Mexican street gang
over a pack of cigarettes
that arrived at my house
somehow
well somehow
i tracked down the gang member
and gave him twenty dollars
for the Marlboro Reds
that had been misplaced
and he invited me in for a Heineken
where I taught his chidlren
physics on sheets of sharp printer paper,
boy had I never known
smarter kids.

for Jean

As a child
looking at all of those stars in the violet night
thinking it must have been love
that cast their light
so we could look back millions of years
into that past
of charnel and diamonds
i thought it was important
to not speak

but just to gaze
in a lazy warm way
as this small person
wondering what the whole show was,
if it were heaven or prison
that gyrated people in and out
of our spheres
or how you could know another person
at certain times
just by looking into their eyes.

there was this dream
that eight people
got together
before humanity
and created their souls
from three objects,
some choosing the pistol
with nastersiums and blueberries
another with a thimble and grains of sand
staying here
to remind us
that the people we love and things we love
are immortal
and the only ones that knew our names
were the ones who cared for us.

well i know the names of those stars now
and parts of their stories, rumors
of greater battles fought
over the shape of small hearts,
some of them frightened
and some of them, like lonely Sagitarius A
melancholy to the hilt
as they drag their old light out
every desert night
and remind us to love and live.

Celebrating 400 Page Views in An Hour and A Half

Email me at theounderground@outlook.com
and I will write you a custom poem (if I really like you you will get a short story)

only atheists end up in foxholes aka Songs For the Deaf and Dumb

did they tell you, son
that you'd be breathing in horse shit
and chewing on wet gunpowder
as the rations quit coming in
and your feet turned blue and ivory
in cheap boots made in China
which was where all those enemy bullets
originated?

but you had things figured.
you fucked the wrong prom queen
and you came home
to snort a bunch of black and white shit
up your nose
that came from the end of a pen
and not your lurid fantasy
that somehow it came across the border
from thousands of miles
from Venezula.

but you dressed in t-shirts and shorts
always talking about rape stains
and things we can't even think about
in this thin house
as you leaned over her bleeding vessel
and shouted "I am the king of Fuck."

did it hit home
when you lost your dead feet
that maybe
during VA rehabilitation
that you weren't cut out for this life after all?

we looked at your high school citizenship record
and decided there without arched eyebrows or teasing
just that
"this one doesn't deserve to live"
because that's the one thing you invoked
your whole damned and hideous life.

radioactive

sisterless rider
with hair woven in fronds
of raven feather
quiver on back
in leather
and horse hooves
in the chemical dust

found a friend
at the city with no gatekeeper
but only jerk off drug addicts
addled in eye and frame
like sickened plague rats

you can see their fumes
as they babble by the blessed river
which may carry their sins of self aggrandizement
away and downstream
but know that even the toads with their poison
won't sit where they have scurried
whether on silver rock
or lily pad frosted emerald

no no
they were not for me
i loved your horse's stance
as you threw me side saddle
and got me out of that white ransacked hell
where there was some girl-thang
slumbering in bed
with the stench of a dead grizzly
as the houses outside
were torn and lashed by bullets in the wind,
my hair flying
when I was three quarters dead
and the coward captain
ready to hang me
from a new rope

Family

this house
feels like
m y skull casement
vibrating and shaking
sometimes luminous
through the art of angles
as they have been known
to share a human face.

my family
working at paying the bills,
for them
i hope that i was a gift
for at least a living second
when we could see
and sing
eye to eye
but then i know
that the only one i love
is by way of marital instruction,
not my family, no
but her, everloving, how can
I call her by her name
when just thinking about it
is more than a lifetime
meaning
Jesus fucking Christ
is my wife smart and beautiful,
I told the doctor
and well
he should have been beheaded
for not listening

Larry Pompa

met a time traveler
who could have used some friends,
but he was wearing 400 dollar slacks
and digging up graves,
apparently for fun
so I put a cigarette out on his neck

when the flaming cherry landed on his pants
I told him
in the words of an African
"It's been old since last Sunday."

for some reason
he was blaming me for his plastic surgery
meaning I had hit him
in the face,
the fucking Jack Off.

Power

There was a young man, ne'er do well, traitor, this side of oiled whale skin

who so embarassed God

that the Angel of Death

when sent to kill him

got murdered.

God had this man been through hell,

consigned and conscripted 

for 80,000 years

but he escaped with ease

each time with only eighty dollars

on the books.

God came down 

from his cloud nine 

made of tumultuous lime

to cast him out

to the Nether realms

but this time the young man

unscrewed the medical pins

from his right arm

and said simply "Here, as a parting present

between old enemies

the last Angel you sent

seemed like he could use

a new one to get by

and to shake your filthy green radioactive hand."

Well the man got cast out

to parts of the universe

that even God didn't like

but God, in his infinite wisdom

didn't know what the ulna was for

or how the man

without even so much as a grimace

had unscrewed it from tempered medical plate

and weilded it so efficiently

when he had been stripped effectively

of mortal and immortal weapons.

He remembered the speech

but without the man

he knew

it must have been the stink

of a mortal ego that had become tattered

in Holy Hell.

One day a message came back to god

(by this time he wasn't feeling too capital)

in a letter form

that said "Do Not Duplicate"

and inside was nothing

but a piece of parchment

with a left hand print in dark maroon

that looked like blood

that looked like blood

that smelled of wine.

The new Angel of Death

told god to his face

"Your ego

is that disgusting,

from now on, I'm siding with Him."

aerial combat

red hayseed
tumbled in mercury of Argentina,
you imagine
that I didn't recognize
his shaved lab rat sun
aping the motions
of a diviner surface
than the sunrise.

all he wore
was leather
when he jabbed that crux
into his decaying forearm
like anybody
who was a man
and hadn't reconciled
that pain of humanity
as removed
from suffering,
which is an impossible trap
when even flowers
remind one of rape.

I drank a beer
then had another afterwords
afterwards
and figured nothing
but a cliff's outrage
during the Battle of Britain
when the Hurricanes
survived armor piercing rounds
and came back home
to find a ruined and smoking factory
lit up by tracer phosporesence. 

Why didn't you tell the others with their radios
that they would have a small knife
between their shoulder blades
that couldn't be pulled out?

Well its because
we call that grief.

grotesques

edge of a funeral
hopped off the bus
where a cowboy hat
rested on a juicy corpse
all that liquid all over the floor.

lavender, rhodendarins, rose.
you and I
we passed through the train station
with its clunky mechanism
telling us only
to be cowards.

old man this side of green grass
not growing in wicker or wisps
all that dew
coagulated in blood stains
on the floor of the godawful metro.

things happen, these things
where a gang member
got cut in half by a metro wheel.

can I tell?
there are two I love and live for
not these sacks of organic phosphate
bumbling through the harrow
of drugs and life.

in Hollywood
I stole a cup
because you asked
and the transient evasion
set the ideology of the police
into flames
that burnt gawkers
and tortured faggots
because
because
they never could know you
and I realized the kindest thing
you ever did
was letting me relax my tired head
on your wounded shoulder
when we had no heat
but only third degree burns
after rearriving
from this side of Hell

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mercury_poisoning

law and order (that's us every time, ma'am)

They said that no court
would ever convict him,
not because it was an issue of guilt
but because no punishment
would be as incredible
as the tortures
he inflicted
on the human blossom.

notes from underground

I would say something about the disgusting-ness
of things that are human
but the beauty in that statement
is just
that humanity is temporary
and its pain
is in fleeting victories
that seem in retrospect
to convey that meaning of proximity to ego and id.

One time
I threw a bible
at a bible salesman
and boy
did he quickly forget
about Jesus Fucking Christ...
maybe like those plague bitten rats
cursed as Crusaders
who wiped their ass
with the Virgin Mary
and knew only of Rome's blood-stained future
that shook the West
worse than an Aztec Lobotomy.

These days I just smoke
used to be
the other way around
where they smoked each other's powdered bones
like a cannibal carnival
only through them

only with them
do i know how to weep,
can you?

War As Historical Allegory To The Unfettered Dead

It wasn't supposed to be like that
where they educated him
with dull charts and gaping graphs
inferring superiority of the know
when the experience felt
like three seconds of alarm
and thirty minutes of pain
as the rifle bullet
had cross-stitched his messenger bag
and the sargeant
threw out blood smeared communiques
that looked like desperate love letters
written by a retard
to survive all of war's lessons
like the distance of Sarin
and the dicotomy of bombings
versus blast radius
that never measured a single goddamn geometry
except for human cruelty
locked in a purple vase
and kept empty except for blood red roses
swimming in earnest
in the houses that refused to fool their young sons.

Love and Other Rifles

To the freaks in Asheville, NC;

You never accepted my olive branch.

--A

Demonology

Cassette Tape 4;:  Forces and people that and who are counterintuitive and against Life.

Rewound Backwards Tapes::  Sounds like music

Fastforward;:  Books that look like Julian Strange.  Has that stink of warm wood mixed with cinnamon that was stolen from that Purgatory.  See "Notes on Purgatory, Second Side AA."

Cassette Tape 4, 1:24:;  Noted as The Heartless, cannot have a relationship towards Art but in its refusal and/or Pantomime.  Diagrams listed as "Ye Ol' Skool," made up of babbling language.  Did he save the Czech?  Means no paydirt.

Cassette Tap 4, 1:25:; Lights are Foreign, for the Prosecution to test the Case.  Heavy, insidious, not even worth Bread on the Black Foreign Market.  Books smelled of Steel Ships.  Before the Harriers.

Cassette Tape 3, Wiretapped Scars::  They placed your Head in a Fishbowl.

there is no divisible
between red kempt hair
and fuchsia blossomings
wrapped around a rakes odd curl of flanges
rasping dead old dirt that settled
through the vines of hatred
so attached
so attached
so attacked
so attacked
by weirder permutations
than that mathematical possibility
which in arrogance once laid claim
to this universe's scythe, flipping with cold heat
against the backdoor backdrop
of a hideous shower curtain.

you
YOU
you make no sense
in the realm of those chemicals.

could be some kind of dive bar
required to be artificial
for the sake of selling numbers
by the amount of folly
witness
WITNESS
witless like they
witches like me
old and tired
but with soup instead of a tool handle,
you dumb ass motherfuckers.

goodnight moon

Fragmentation Grenades

Two figures clad in black, approaching White France.  All the loops of former wires trailing from speckled
shell of dark coats, a pale vitality expelled from their snow frosted breath, faces masked by scarves.

Worn nuisances with a side saddle filled with worms, a dark pouch covered with lightning's red sheen
upon the pillow that rested only cowards who wanted to murder.

Haven upon a green porch light.

Black black tormented across the moon

Furthermore, it is a standard injunction to phrase the language in the most beautiful possibility of worlds.

One must.  One mast.  Scarred and flea bitten by hen pecked.

We no longer dance, you see.

A probability curve is heretical across even a graph page made ludicrous by rulers that measure inches instead
of centimeters.

One must chirp.  Two masts and a sandpiper writer.

Sampler at Denny's costs an arm, har. har. har.

You could have given me examples of rusted blood, woven into those serial killer novels planned and tuned according
to carberator noise.  A gaff, strung up with metallic fishing line and preserved.

PT Barnum was a private in a war.

A yes...A yes (he slithered).

ELIZABETH, what a vulgarity lopped into a zoetroppe and paged from nastersiums kept in crystal funnel.

Hell has no freeway.  Ironic, or fitting?  Both.

Ensign lies about ownership, can no longer buy or sell, har. har. har.

"I'm wondering where he is.  Based on the time, he is in one location or in several at once."

Delirium tremens, shaky substrate of plant rot decanted into the lily-livered apportioning of those
who are scared of happiness.  "Happiness is a bit faggy, yeah?"