Filthy planet. Third from the sun, filled with pricks and whores. I had crashed on it during a cartography mission from what you call the constellation Virgo. Now, its been about a million and a half years. Figure it out. I'm an alien, mainly immortal. A few other immortal ones were trapped here too. The people of Earth were so stupid that their fucking rocket systems could barely carry their own people to the moon. We learned also that they were rude and murderous, as for my immortal pals, they were even worse in their ways, like the people of the planet, using their time to make everything miserable for everyone else.
My ship crashed in a tar pit, hit by some poorly made Arab rocket all that time ago. A million and a half years ago, there were humans with rockets? If you read those history books now, it's like getting hit by a torpedo. The bulkheads of reality and the past burst open, leaving a person to ingest the seawater of lies under the pressure of both myths and mandatory educations. So yes, I am saying now that I am both pissed off by their history books, religions, and that fabulous greeting card of a fucking rocket.
I scrounged around for awhile on foot. It was tedious. The usual always, drugged up men with guns chewing khat or cocaine leafs, guarding drugs and weapons. I found my way into the tent of a general once, rummaging around for ship parts. I told him I was immortal and could fight for him, out of a gesture, and he figured I was insane, which is a common designation by drug mad generals apparently. He had me taken away in iron cuffs, but the blacksmithing in the iron was so poor that a pliable sewing needle I had on hand picked the cuffs. I ran away without much resistance besides them yelling and shooting into the air.
Picking up a lift on a helicopter, I heard on the human noise radio some fat cat named President Haywood insulting an Empress. The soldiers who I had told would be paid handsomely for the ride spat sexual slurs. It scared the shit out of me. We hovered over military tents, drawing enemy fire until the co-pilot got something in the neck that made him slump out of his chair before he crawled out of the side door where the machine gunner was rat tat tating away. He must have fallen fifty feet. I moved from the passenger seat to the co-pilot section, where the pilot stopped piloting to try to knock me out of the fucking flying craft. Well the helicopter dove off to the right and with his force he slid over me and out of the doorless cockpit, down into all that jungle rising before us like a waving green tarmac, and I wasn't really that concerned about a potential crash since I would survive but a bit mangled and pissed, but the helicopter seemed worth saving so I grabbed the co-pilots control yoke and pulled it up and to the left. The tick tack of shrapnel and small arms fire kept pinging the metal armor from all those certain assholes on the ground. Something went wrong with the foul mouthed Emperess-hating machine gunner at the time because he was firing into the blue sky and hills beyond his range, while President Haywood continued spouting rhetoric in a fashion that wanted to make me vomit into the radio.
I glanced back and there was nothing but an arm with a tense hand curled around the machine gun, it fired wildly and the thrust of the gunner-less shooting kept throwing off the flight characteristics. Thank the heavens I knew how to pilot. I used the air speed paired with a left turn maneuver that slowed the helicoptor from a spiral and landed. I was immediately held at gunpoint by drugged out men with guns, and I kind of wasn't about revealing myself as an immortal from off the racist planet so I held up my arms and mouthed something into my translator. They seemed pissed. I told them to fuck off and get drunk and pass out and maybe the wars would be over by the morning if they all did that. They laughed and for some reason appeared pleased.
Well, I found Eris. They took me to her. She wasn't the fabled Emperess, just some low-level scum who was wanted in the constellation Virgo for stealing an immortality relic. We had hoped that she was too dumb to use the artifact, but when I saw her I knew otherwise. It is and was against the Law of the Milky Way for a corrupt or corruptable person to be endowed with immortality. She fired a brown pistol at me that hit me in the gut and then she knew. I asked her what she was doing. "Having fun" she said before laughing.
She introduced me to Steve Farnsworth first. All I can tell you now, even after a million and a half years, is what a fucking prick. He had set up some technology business, and was even trading weapons systems and computers with the natives for money, which pissed me off to no end then and now because he was immortal himself. When I first saw him he was sitting on a velvet couch surrounded by naked women feeding him fucking cherries, and at that point I knew that the rocket that hit my ship had been his. This was a complete mess, but I guess they both called themselves Erisian.
They hated me since I was moral and had love in my heart. Pretty soon I was introduced to some immortal syphlic patient named Casey, and I discovered that they were all partying and doing the same drugs the humans were, only they didn't care what happened to the natives or how they progressed because they were evil and demonic. Unfortunately there were more of them than me (the immortals) so I had to mind my p's and q's unless I wanted to be locked in some cave, where I would have to wait millions or billions of years until the existence of the planet ended, leaving me to float out into deep space with nothing to get me back to anywhere except for Hope and Prayer. I felt like they were involved in grave robbery. There's much more, but how do you catalog a million and a half years in this place?
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
in the land of the dead
where summer fails to warm the birch's bones
from hue of black to shaded white
lay echoes of mists as shaped as ghosts
that tumble through the archaic motions of Labor.
i grasped a branch and pointed there
at the forlorn father with blistered hands
and wondered to what mushroom mead he had tied his mind
as his hands would not quit at the still of his dying master
through violet fog and writ of parallel laws
his throat grew coarse, his face even worse
while his son worked a rotten jig
and mother's back arched in the pain of a shot black bear
while sister's lessons lay on that stump
where polluted breeze had signed its course,
the Lessons there from ghosts.
certain strawberry dew upon thine lips
i heard thee speak in tongues of scarlet
while spinal columns snapped like yew,
your dress,
it was as White as sails rigged for the dawn
when simple figs and honey ale
would reach from ropes and yardarms flanked
by barrels of sweet cranberry tea.
while the World lay stuck in its greasy bawdy blackened Work
we sat on sea shore cliffs and yawned.
the old spray from salt, lifting up ship's bows
as the forestry fell apart in caustic Sun,
the nation's blood in small wrist veins
of a Seamstress' form exhausted in the black streets
beneath maroon banners
while the engines burnt their horrid mess
and newsboys mouthed the words of the Mad
through alleyways and backyard puzzles
laying there skewed like the Bones of Something Wrong.
Bodies unexamined in fashion's flair,
a coachman's form propped up by silk lined vest and fair flaxen hair
as the coach rumbled through the road
we waved our black pistols and fired into the air
well, he tumbled off and what we found in those flamed-scarlet trunks
was gold and silk, new dresses, and jewels from some Affair
where pearls had been bartered as a matter of course
to keep the Dead from breathing within their battered Lair.
from hue of black to shaded white
lay echoes of mists as shaped as ghosts
that tumble through the archaic motions of Labor.
i grasped a branch and pointed there
at the forlorn father with blistered hands
and wondered to what mushroom mead he had tied his mind
as his hands would not quit at the still of his dying master
through violet fog and writ of parallel laws
his throat grew coarse, his face even worse
while his son worked a rotten jig
and mother's back arched in the pain of a shot black bear
while sister's lessons lay on that stump
where polluted breeze had signed its course,
the Lessons there from ghosts.
certain strawberry dew upon thine lips
i heard thee speak in tongues of scarlet
while spinal columns snapped like yew,
your dress,
it was as White as sails rigged for the dawn
when simple figs and honey ale
would reach from ropes and yardarms flanked
by barrels of sweet cranberry tea.
while the World lay stuck in its greasy bawdy blackened Work
we sat on sea shore cliffs and yawned.
the old spray from salt, lifting up ship's bows
as the forestry fell apart in caustic Sun,
the nation's blood in small wrist veins
of a Seamstress' form exhausted in the black streets
beneath maroon banners
while the engines burnt their horrid mess
and newsboys mouthed the words of the Mad
through alleyways and backyard puzzles
laying there skewed like the Bones of Something Wrong.
Bodies unexamined in fashion's flair,
a coachman's form propped up by silk lined vest and fair flaxen hair
as the coach rumbled through the road
we waved our black pistols and fired into the air
well, he tumbled off and what we found in those flamed-scarlet trunks
was gold and silk, new dresses, and jewels from some Affair
where pearls had been bartered as a matter of course
to keep the Dead from breathing within their battered Lair.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Frankenstein Rehash
I was never curious about Frankenstein's monster. What I wanted to know was mainly what the "scientist's" motives were. I am curious how a book that involved sewing pieces of dead people together to make some electrified monstrosity was tolerated in the supposed Age of Reason where people were supposedly interested in exploring and exposing the power of human thought. I am not going to rag on Mary Shelley here, it is my understanding that she based the book and creation of the monster after persistent dreams as a child.
What is so frightening to me about the concept in our modern age is that it is technically feasible. You take some corpse out of the morgue that has been embalmed and rig it up with a robotic skeleton that runs on solar power or some weird shit, and then program it through remote control to walk around and talk according to the desires of the controllers. If the possibility seems remote, remember that there are such devices in popular medical usage that use robotics and even mechanics to replace organs, to control motorized prosthetic limbs, and to provide for communication for people with degenerative diseases.
It makes one wonder if the hidden experiments in the cult of the physician have been hidden. Have we passed amid strangers who were already literally dead, but were revived for the thinly veiled and monstrous purposes of a Church of Science that has shown itself persistently to be lacking in moral compass through its past involvement with weapons designs, prisons, institutions, genetic engineering, and civil oppression?
What I wonder now is if Science is legitimate, or if it pursues experiments, variables, equations, and inventions that are only mere reflections of the grotesque nature of its men and women who have done little to help humanity survive beyond certain measures like water sanitation. It did not provide a solution for poverty or hunger, as we can well see in this nation which has sprouted only billionaires and a trifling number of improvements (those of which even can be traced back to the end of World War II, including computers). I do not want to be anti-Science. What I wish to be instead is inquisitive, like a philosopher but without those games. My questions is not really "do the dead live among us as remote control robots" but rather "what prevents Science from utlilzing demoically destructive or grotesque discoveries when they have the ability, either socially, politically, economically, or technologically to do so?" and more importantly "where is the Science Police Agency?"
Unfortunately, in a technologically induced age of global climate change, we cannot point to ways of operating or incorporating science in the past. It is my contention that the discoveries of funded polticians working on new market and military products are not science, but rather the downturn of major political, economic, and humanitarian philosophies. We cannot let the same people who put a form of shoe rubber in Subway sandwich bread to make it look more appetizing act as custodians for our future, just as we cannot belief all the skewed studies that come from research labs that are tied and used by advertising agencies to install complacency in the public at large.
The only real solution I see is a tough gambit. It involves setting up educated Citizen's Boards as legally viable watchdogs in every community, abandoning politics, and coming to terms with clear facts. If driving vehicles increases greenhouse gases and ruins the planet, why shouldn't communities incorporate walking, bicycling, and pushes for development of alternative energy sources? I wonder even why these should not be seen as jobs more important than Congressional Voting, as it is directly connected to our lifestyles, our health and wellness, and our futures.
In reality it is my understanding that data and facts are met with skepticism, but with watchdog commissions and policing units, it should be our duty as people who aspire towards brighter futures to insist, insure, and fight for futures devoid of new inventions that may be worse than the atomic bomb, to bolster oversight of past technologies before they ruin the ever-loving planet, and first and foremostly to insure for the sake of our collective grandchildren that the world will no longer be or become a Frankenstein's monster.
What is so frightening to me about the concept in our modern age is that it is technically feasible. You take some corpse out of the morgue that has been embalmed and rig it up with a robotic skeleton that runs on solar power or some weird shit, and then program it through remote control to walk around and talk according to the desires of the controllers. If the possibility seems remote, remember that there are such devices in popular medical usage that use robotics and even mechanics to replace organs, to control motorized prosthetic limbs, and to provide for communication for people with degenerative diseases.
It makes one wonder if the hidden experiments in the cult of the physician have been hidden. Have we passed amid strangers who were already literally dead, but were revived for the thinly veiled and monstrous purposes of a Church of Science that has shown itself persistently to be lacking in moral compass through its past involvement with weapons designs, prisons, institutions, genetic engineering, and civil oppression?
What I wonder now is if Science is legitimate, or if it pursues experiments, variables, equations, and inventions that are only mere reflections of the grotesque nature of its men and women who have done little to help humanity survive beyond certain measures like water sanitation. It did not provide a solution for poverty or hunger, as we can well see in this nation which has sprouted only billionaires and a trifling number of improvements (those of which even can be traced back to the end of World War II, including computers). I do not want to be anti-Science. What I wish to be instead is inquisitive, like a philosopher but without those games. My questions is not really "do the dead live among us as remote control robots" but rather "what prevents Science from utlilzing demoically destructive or grotesque discoveries when they have the ability, either socially, politically, economically, or technologically to do so?" and more importantly "where is the Science Police Agency?"
Unfortunately, in a technologically induced age of global climate change, we cannot point to ways of operating or incorporating science in the past. It is my contention that the discoveries of funded polticians working on new market and military products are not science, but rather the downturn of major political, economic, and humanitarian philosophies. We cannot let the same people who put a form of shoe rubber in Subway sandwich bread to make it look more appetizing act as custodians for our future, just as we cannot belief all the skewed studies that come from research labs that are tied and used by advertising agencies to install complacency in the public at large.
The only real solution I see is a tough gambit. It involves setting up educated Citizen's Boards as legally viable watchdogs in every community, abandoning politics, and coming to terms with clear facts. If driving vehicles increases greenhouse gases and ruins the planet, why shouldn't communities incorporate walking, bicycling, and pushes for development of alternative energy sources? I wonder even why these should not be seen as jobs more important than Congressional Voting, as it is directly connected to our lifestyles, our health and wellness, and our futures.
In reality it is my understanding that data and facts are met with skepticism, but with watchdog commissions and policing units, it should be our duty as people who aspire towards brighter futures to insist, insure, and fight for futures devoid of new inventions that may be worse than the atomic bomb, to bolster oversight of past technologies before they ruin the ever-loving planet, and first and foremostly to insure for the sake of our collective grandchildren that the world will no longer be or become a Frankenstein's monster.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Second Autobiography
What dances in a day is not nightfall,
like my marriage to the Moon
but made of lustre worn grey by clouds
or spilling gold in your open arms.
If I had a hatchet amid the woodlands
I might throw it into a steel hued stump
and walk amid the nettles in tucked in boots
to deliver a message of fury
to the coddled dumb men
who brought their girlfriends out into the white white snow.
Through mix of rabble like ugly cattle
do i work in simple song, humming through
mechanical insect's measure and ignoring
clockworks of Accomplishment as they cantanker
by the paths that should be witness
to the Moon's dark gloom, its half light
a shroud hung from boughs as rough as land
and like myself, working to no avail but for
the small unnoticed beauty that is my Life.
Those men and women here
they do not matter
for I know their simple frail orbits
like the deepening crosshatching on my hands and fingers
that wear there with age
and I am too tired to sleep a day as Red as them away
when I gaze imploringly,
trying to find their Virtue.
Out in meadows and privately engendered
to the Dark as night may fall upon blueish hue,
I wonder if anything has ever worked
even the contrast of ugly favors like calling collect
or the huge/small image of voicedial
winding around the sky invisibly in networks of sound
that nestle in our lives like rivers but without song,
reminiscent of old Dali paintings
where it wasn't clear then
that ghosts had made up their minds to spoil this Earth
by residing in the hallways of men and women's thoughts,
rustling through their architecture and out into the things I observe
in the quiet solicitudes of sadness.
I should tell the winter rose that I am sick
for all it does is create another rose
while I need cream, and eggs, and butter
and human gibberish to salt the bones before my grave turns heavy
with broken song of body's betrayal
for now i will stay
and wonder without awe
about all the times the Good turned out flawed
as for my scars
they rest in me like deserts
and I can tell you now
that I do not care
except when windows glow with morning mist
and lanterns spill their volumes of glaze
while somewhere I imagine
that Spring will tend to us
as the old oak will grow
like my marriage to the Moon
but made of lustre worn grey by clouds
or spilling gold in your open arms.
If I had a hatchet amid the woodlands
I might throw it into a steel hued stump
and walk amid the nettles in tucked in boots
to deliver a message of fury
to the coddled dumb men
who brought their girlfriends out into the white white snow.
Through mix of rabble like ugly cattle
do i work in simple song, humming through
mechanical insect's measure and ignoring
clockworks of Accomplishment as they cantanker
by the paths that should be witness
to the Moon's dark gloom, its half light
a shroud hung from boughs as rough as land
and like myself, working to no avail but for
the small unnoticed beauty that is my Life.
Those men and women here
they do not matter
for I know their simple frail orbits
like the deepening crosshatching on my hands and fingers
that wear there with age
and I am too tired to sleep a day as Red as them away
when I gaze imploringly,
trying to find their Virtue.
Out in meadows and privately engendered
to the Dark as night may fall upon blueish hue,
I wonder if anything has ever worked
even the contrast of ugly favors like calling collect
or the huge/small image of voicedial
winding around the sky invisibly in networks of sound
that nestle in our lives like rivers but without song,
reminiscent of old Dali paintings
where it wasn't clear then
that ghosts had made up their minds to spoil this Earth
by residing in the hallways of men and women's thoughts,
rustling through their architecture and out into the things I observe
in the quiet solicitudes of sadness.
I should tell the winter rose that I am sick
for all it does is create another rose
while I need cream, and eggs, and butter
and human gibberish to salt the bones before my grave turns heavy
with broken song of body's betrayal
for now i will stay
and wonder without awe
about all the times the Good turned out flawed
as for my scars
they rest in me like deserts
and I can tell you now
that I do not care
except when windows glow with morning mist
and lanterns spill their volumes of glaze
while somewhere I imagine
that Spring will tend to us
as the old oak will grow
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Tales of a Dark Medic
White armband with black cross,
moving from stifling air conditioned halls
to field of operations
with army satchel,
no medicine
but only bandanges
I saved some girl's life
by trading her what they gave me
and now though she lives in NY
she won't talk to me
maybe because she figured
that I was or wasn't after something conjugal after all.
The other one
who almost died
in bar-splatter
didn't even thank me
and felt it was some living and disgusting disservice
that I had taken her to a hospital,
but I let those bad feelings go
because after all
I had known her Nazi brother for years.
It began as a disguise
and dreams of white silk cloth
arrayed as deadly hospice
in desert rays,
and I never really told people
how many lives I had saved
but now maybe it does not matter
because I know with my black heart
about their matters now
and I feel ancient again
when I realize that they are not interested in sparing themselves any longer
so go live a chaotic life in San Francisco
maybe one day
you will accidently say something kind
but what I really hoped for
was that in the scope of the vertiginous world
that they would save something that I loved
out of the lashing sandstorm known as time
and send it in a letter like a dried blood red rose petal
that I could pin to my lapel
so that I could forget
the fork that my enemies polished
and the lies that they told
to try to seem impressive
when food was scarce
and new war had broken out like Plague.
moving from stifling air conditioned halls
to field of operations
with army satchel,
no medicine
but only bandanges
I saved some girl's life
by trading her what they gave me
and now though she lives in NY
she won't talk to me
maybe because she figured
that I was or wasn't after something conjugal after all.
The other one
who almost died
in bar-splatter
didn't even thank me
and felt it was some living and disgusting disservice
that I had taken her to a hospital,
but I let those bad feelings go
because after all
I had known her Nazi brother for years.
It began as a disguise
and dreams of white silk cloth
arrayed as deadly hospice
in desert rays,
and I never really told people
how many lives I had saved
but now maybe it does not matter
because I know with my black heart
about their matters now
and I feel ancient again
when I realize that they are not interested in sparing themselves any longer
so go live a chaotic life in San Francisco
maybe one day
you will accidently say something kind
but what I really hoped for
was that in the scope of the vertiginous world
that they would save something that I loved
out of the lashing sandstorm known as time
and send it in a letter like a dried blood red rose petal
that I could pin to my lapel
so that I could forget
the fork that my enemies polished
and the lies that they told
to try to seem impressive
when food was scarce
and new war had broken out like Plague.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Haunted Heart
I am used
to the asininity
but what hurts
are not the refusals
or those legs
or brushed teeth in the morning
it is the lame excuses
for sleeping around
and the constant need of the other
to defend their ego
amid decisions
that aren't really in anybody's best interest.
it used to be exciting
back in high school and college,
that game of who likes who
but now it makes me sick
because the liking comes
before the living
which is often between
two very different people
observing two very different worlds
and to accomodate this split in perspective
usually there are gifts and fights
and break ups and arguments,
so it really is enough.
i don't care so much about it like i used to
i am just adding these small scrawlings of argument
to prevent love between people who think that
Valentine's Day is a really great idea
when you can do that stuff anytime, har har har
to be honest
what weirds me out
are the number of shipwrecks i have seen
and i don't mean the men or the women
but more the insistance on poor logic and whim
when it comes to matters of the spoiled heart.
if love were an organ
it would be the liver,
filtering all that abuse
as though from bender after bender
leaving only sieves in cleared out bombed apartment buildings
after somebody decided that they found themselves again
but not in the eyes of the other
and it is almost an attack
to be sure
and the worst of it is
in my life
i no longer feel that love is a possibility or a thing
but just a word between two pigs
who have no humility
when it comes to their lives.
to the asininity
but what hurts
are not the refusals
or those legs
or brushed teeth in the morning
it is the lame excuses
for sleeping around
and the constant need of the other
to defend their ego
amid decisions
that aren't really in anybody's best interest.
it used to be exciting
back in high school and college,
that game of who likes who
but now it makes me sick
because the liking comes
before the living
which is often between
two very different people
observing two very different worlds
and to accomodate this split in perspective
usually there are gifts and fights
and break ups and arguments,
so it really is enough.
i don't care so much about it like i used to
i am just adding these small scrawlings of argument
to prevent love between people who think that
Valentine's Day is a really great idea
when you can do that stuff anytime, har har har
to be honest
what weirds me out
are the number of shipwrecks i have seen
and i don't mean the men or the women
but more the insistance on poor logic and whim
when it comes to matters of the spoiled heart.
if love were an organ
it would be the liver,
filtering all that abuse
as though from bender after bender
leaving only sieves in cleared out bombed apartment buildings
after somebody decided that they found themselves again
but not in the eyes of the other
and it is almost an attack
to be sure
and the worst of it is
in my life
i no longer feel that love is a possibility or a thing
but just a word between two pigs
who have no humility
when it comes to their lives.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Broadcast In Case of the End of the World, ala "Goodnight Moon"
goodnight you
goodnight me
goodnight to the monkeys that once hung from our acacia trees
goodnight store
goodnight oil
goodnight to the insane inhabitants of the city snorting lines off tinfoil
goodnight you
goodnight thee
goodnight to the crowds who were wary of hanging bureaucrats from elm trees
goodnight dance
goodnight you
goodnight to designer pants rich assholes wore
goodnight to cheating and doping Lance Armstrong who proved that drugs could make you famous
goodnight bow tie
goodnight pumpkin pie
good night Beauty
good night Temperance and Justice
good night to the fool old men who thought they were saavy enough to run the blood of those things known as countries
goodnight thee
goodnight thimble
goodnight spool of thread
goodnight to the nice knights in their armored cars
who killed rather than bled
goodnight shopping mall
goodnight age old curse
goodnight to the man who charged my dead brother for his hearse
goodnight seas of change
goodnight tax plans that got unfairly rearranged
goodnight to the dope who huffed gas and worked his fingers to the scarlet bone
goodnight hope
goodnight relief
goodnight sense of terror so awful
that it makes it hard to get to sleep
goodnight you, goodnight thee
before we part i hope you were Good and Beautiful
as opposed to invoking wavering darkness so awful that they gave thee a Name
goodnight God
goodnight Cape Cod
goodnight cover used to lull us into a soft sense of complacency at the culmination of false ends
goodnight nuclear bombs
goodnight bombshell
goodnight to the cats who felt that this place
was some kind of hell
goodnight sea shell
goodnight room
goodnight to children's books so colorful
that they inspired senses of gloom
goodnight bride
goodnight groom
goodnight dream of a future
as fine as the moon
goodnight me
goodnight to the monkeys that once hung from our acacia trees
goodnight store
goodnight oil
goodnight to the insane inhabitants of the city snorting lines off tinfoil
goodnight you
goodnight thee
goodnight to the crowds who were wary of hanging bureaucrats from elm trees
goodnight dance
goodnight you
goodnight to designer pants rich assholes wore
goodnight to cheating and doping Lance Armstrong who proved that drugs could make you famous
goodnight bow tie
goodnight pumpkin pie
good night Beauty
good night Temperance and Justice
good night to the fool old men who thought they were saavy enough to run the blood of those things known as countries
goodnight thee
goodnight thimble
goodnight spool of thread
goodnight to the nice knights in their armored cars
who killed rather than bled
goodnight shopping mall
goodnight age old curse
goodnight to the man who charged my dead brother for his hearse
goodnight seas of change
goodnight tax plans that got unfairly rearranged
goodnight to the dope who huffed gas and worked his fingers to the scarlet bone
goodnight hope
goodnight relief
goodnight sense of terror so awful
that it makes it hard to get to sleep
goodnight you, goodnight thee
before we part i hope you were Good and Beautiful
as opposed to invoking wavering darkness so awful that they gave thee a Name
goodnight God
goodnight Cape Cod
goodnight cover used to lull us into a soft sense of complacency at the culmination of false ends
goodnight nuclear bombs
goodnight bombshell
goodnight to the cats who felt that this place
was some kind of hell
goodnight sea shell
goodnight room
goodnight to children's books so colorful
that they inspired senses of gloom
goodnight bride
goodnight groom
goodnight dream of a future
as fine as the moon
knife
tendrils of smoke from spent ash
on icicle's examined waves of frozen drop,
i had seen the hooves thump across the desert that August day
and kick up spent rust
from the earthen floor of forbidden deserts.
now i howl
unlike Ginsberg's academic fame
made from popping uppers
in the flame of some sun
where he had forgotten battles and murder.
used to this
filthy Earth
i carried tattered flags as an outcast
and wanted nothing more than old rusted leather
so i could wipe off the blood from my boots
after they believed in a murder so fulminous
that i could not wipe the bulletholes from my memory
oh, lamenting incorporation of business,
it is because of a single word
that women lend their tragic breasts
and scoop up underlings without crying
for it is the same word
that men talk in false knowing tones
as they carry their score
past dark dumpsters
and onto remote Syrian torture tables
scorched with the marks of past dinners
paid in tribute to King Meth.
i once whittled a bow of yew
and found i couldn't fire even
on the son of a bastard
who would inherit all that blood
which pulses behind their fortress walls like oil
and works in sways in matters of currency's river,
toss those out
those dollars
throw them in their face
the one they wouldn't give you
so you could save some water
when the horses fled from gunfire
and left you all alone.
on icicle's examined waves of frozen drop,
i had seen the hooves thump across the desert that August day
and kick up spent rust
from the earthen floor of forbidden deserts.
now i howl
unlike Ginsberg's academic fame
made from popping uppers
in the flame of some sun
where he had forgotten battles and murder.
used to this
filthy Earth
i carried tattered flags as an outcast
and wanted nothing more than old rusted leather
so i could wipe off the blood from my boots
after they believed in a murder so fulminous
that i could not wipe the bulletholes from my memory
oh, lamenting incorporation of business,
it is because of a single word
that women lend their tragic breasts
and scoop up underlings without crying
for it is the same word
that men talk in false knowing tones
as they carry their score
past dark dumpsters
and onto remote Syrian torture tables
scorched with the marks of past dinners
paid in tribute to King Meth.
i once whittled a bow of yew
and found i couldn't fire even
on the son of a bastard
who would inherit all that blood
which pulses behind their fortress walls like oil
and works in sways in matters of currency's river,
toss those out
those dollars
throw them in their face
the one they wouldn't give you
so you could save some water
when the horses fled from gunfire
and left you all alone.
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