Happen

cast:
- The Mouth of Always
- The Mouth of Seldom
- The Mouth of Never

Always: Breathe, think, own, allow.

Seldom: Drink, make, feed, cough.

Never: No, no, no! You've both got it all wrong; those items belong to me and me only!

Seldom: I think not! --

Never: Of course not! "Think" is mine, "Think" is never!

Always: Now hold on, I payed good money for those items!

Seldom: May I...

Always and Never: No!

Never: Now, we'll settle this: a game!

Always: Chess, perhaps?

Never: A wise choice!

(Seldom gives up, exits room)

Never: Now that the fool is gone,
(reveals forked tongue)
We can begin!

Always: No, no. I think I will leave now...You may keep our items. That tongue...

Never: Ha! So be it. I am wealthy, so wealthy!
(cracks a wide, strong smile)

END

Beaches

One:
I saw the lighthouse.
It stood, revolving beacon,
A miniature monument,
Miles down the beach road.
Oh how it grew as we
Approached it.

A clock tics,
A baseball game,
A silent, salt-aired
Night.

Two:
Dark beach.
All street lights sleep.
An orange, bittersweet moon
Looks down upon the calm sea
(Like a sad old demon).
And the stars
Shine as brightly as they may.
Two men cast bait into the low
Tide. I lay on my back,
Another prop on the Beach's stage:
A perfect production.

Three:
Sun,
Everywhere.
Bright white sand
And sun.
Blue sky,
Green water
And sun.
One eye closed
And sun.
Feet in sand,
Sun on face
And sun.
Boat moving with conviction
Along the top of the Atlantic
And sun.
Sun taking
Sun breaking
Sun giving
Sun grinning
And sun, sun, sun, sun, sun.

Four:
Somehow,
You are just sea glass.
Worn and soft,
Washed upon a shore after
Years of Ocean churning.

Five:
Cemetery road;
Not a fitting name.
Everything is green,
With a light breeze
(like just enough salt)
Nudging the lazy foliage
This way and that.
I see no graves,
No grim reminders of
My mortality. What
Gave this road its name?

Six:
The gulls laugh
And the gulls cry.
They feel the same
Range of emotions
As I do.
And when you punch
Sand, it feels just the
Same as a brick,
Despite its white, soft,
Gentle face.

Seven:
There was a face in the
Sand. No, two.
Two faces. Both
Stared at me, with a secret
Just behind their grin.
I wanted to wipe those smirks
Off of their faces, so
I stomped and stomped
Until they were just sand again.

Astray

It was hot
that day in the car,
the kind of hot that
made you want to tear
all of the clothes from
your body, then shave your head.
Who was driving, anyway?
Maybe you were alone.

You can't remember when,
but at some point,
you lost your way.
That damn yellow leaf
in the middle of summer
had led you astray.
Where the wind took
the leaf, the leaf took
you.

Sun went down
Leaf faded
(yellow to brown)
Road became dirt
became open field
Car left you, clothes left
You, alone naked
Broken leg sighing soft.

Modern Bible

My cell phone, a gateway
To a land full of other
Cell phones/
People to talk to.
But the doors are closing
As my screen stays dark.
I could get up,
Visit someone in the flesh,
But that calls for effort
Not in the fingers.
So sure, I'll let the gates
Slam shut and I'll stay here
In Hell, with my 2 inch by
4 inch portal to salvation
Under my heel on the floor.
The busy people outside
Will laugh, call me dramatic.
Don't they see?
This Hell has no curtains
And I am not an actor.
Oh but the worst part is:

I think this may also be Heaven.

A Nation's dry skin

Aquatic eyesores on
My fourth night on the ship.
If I could, I'd tear a block
Out of my fourth dimension.

Look at us, we are shell-
Shocked American servants.
Despite our rebel's skin
And rebel's heart, we are
Just a fleck of a Nation's
Dry skin, dandruff.

Score a goal for me,
Sick soccer slave,
So maybe I'll look at
You and call off the
Dogs.

There is no Hell,
No Heaven.
They are under construction.
The workers always
Whistle when our girlfriends
Walk by, even when they
Don't wear makeup.
May I man the crane?

Thunder and Hands

With any luck,
The thunder will not be
Rocks raining from the sky,
Breaking through my roof,
My ceiling, coming to take
What is theirs:
My book, my poems, my pen
My
Hands.

Language

What is language?
And when,
Why, how, will it end?

When will it allow me
To say what must be said?
Where, if not to paper, do
These words and thoughts go?
And do please tell me
How do feelings, senses
Translate into shapes and lines?
Our teeth have sharpened themselves.
Now our word can cut itself
To be an easier feed.
We shall feast on the word.
I will stuff you with it,
You will shove spoonfuls into my mouth.

Blue and Young

The flowers in my front yard
looked like angry canker sores
(or maybe the opposite,
yes, the opposite)

And oh the sky
looked so blue
and so young, that
I too felt blue and young.

If competition is our nature,
why do I scribble and think,
while some lift weights, to grow
muscles to crush me to mixed-berry powder?

Once crushed, though, I can be
poured into water/
should you drink it, berry flavored,
maybe you'll scribble and think too.

And maybe you'll
look up at the blue, young sky,
thinking
"What was in that water?"

Then the flowers (so far from
canker sores) will grow in your
yard; you'll smile.

Gems

The stones are so petty,
but sometimes they're pretty.

The stones can be diamonds.
But they could just be slate
or granite.

The stones can be worth
the mining and searching,
but in the end,
gem or not,
a rock is a rock is a rock.

The Water from The Pond

Like a good, salty
Tear, the water from
The pond tasted.
And we drank and
Drank until our guts
Felt like ticks full
Of human blood.
There were whispers
From the shrubs
Behind us, but no
Mind was paid to
Their owners.
You and I,
We just drank ourselves
Into the pond and
Away, away,
Gone to the bottom:
"Be back in five".

The War began with a sneeze

Lacking a plan
Of attack, I charged into
The fray. I couldn't wish for
The best - no, that was rather
Ignorant- but, I wished for
Acceptable results.
Luck wasn't on my side.
Nor was faith
Or logic.
All I had,
All that I needed,
Were clothes on my body,
A door to burst through,
And a horse with a heartbeat
To ride in on.
I think I did just fine, everyone.
The war began with a sneeze.
And the war ended,
It ended with a wheeze.

Burning

There is a smell
In the air,
Like something is burning.
So I close my mouth,
Close my eyes,
Close the windows,
Door and laptop.
I believe in a god
For a moment and pray,
Pray that I am not
The burning mystery.

History

A sea is drained.
At the bottom, the
body of an old whale,
somehow preserved,
lies covered in seaweed.
The scientists say:
"It is very old."
"Let us cut it open."

So, they cut the old
whale open, look in
its guts.
Inside:
Zeus.
Jesus Christ.
Sleeping cave-people.
Socrates (asking "why?").

Next,
a woman follows you
down a city's street.
She taunts you, and now
you follow her, to a castle.

Now, in the castle's
tallest tower, you have a
perfect view of the drained
sea. The whale is open.
The woman shoves you;
you almost topple out through
the window.
But, you overpower her,
she is hurled out the window.
[Not you].
Then, as she hits the
ground below and shatters,
you realize that you loved
her. A shame.
Now...

Back to the whale's scene.
You're there, don't worry.
But:
"The sea!"
"It's back!"
Everyone is swept away
by waves and waves of
Salt Water.
Then,
There are surfers,
tanned and high,
happy to ride such a wave.

Unlikely Explanations.

-ONE-
"Left!...no...
Right, right!"
"Would you make up
Your mind already?"
But, neither had a
Say in which direction
They would ultimately go.
You see, there is a scale
Upon which our chances
Are measured (like stones).
And there is a magnet,
Both small and large/
Everywhere and nowhere/
It pulls them (they of
Opposite poles), like cargo,
To the destination.

-TWO-
A person stabbed
A piece of metal
Into the existence-area
Of another person.
What can explain this?
And for what reason
Did the stabber run?
Performing an action
That will later be denied
By the performer:
The essence of Soulessness/
The essence of humans today.

-THREE-
A sun is revealed.
The leaves,
The streets
Are illuminated.
Smells and sounds
Are brighter, too.

-FOUR-
Does one maim oneself
When getting a haircut?

-FIVE-
Afterlife (singular).
Perhaps the word
Afterlives (plural) is more
Appropriate.
What living being
Could ever be happy with
One (1) life and one (1)
Afterlife? Life after life
Should tumble, like dominoes,
Into the well of Forever.

-SIX-
And I laughed like
A saint in heaven.
And you laughed like
A man with sad eyes.
And we have to laugh
Sometimes...

-SEVEN-
People in cares
Passing my house
Look at me, as
I sit on my porch.
Am I so interesting?
I'm through now/
Done.

1/4

If the tides turn
Again, I will weep
For my short-lived
Days of freedom.

Holiday at the Lake

You're at the lake
With a few good friends,
Trying to catch frogs with
Butterfly nets.
In the trees, hidden by
The thick summer leaves,
Sits God and his snickering
Little brothers.

"I've got one!", says Ted,
But the frog is fat and
Arrogant, it gets away,
Scowling. Then
God hurls a stone at Ted,
And God don't miss, so
Ted is dead, and God with
His family laughs.

Stew and The Hunt

There will never be
Enough time for me
To say everything I
Must say.
My head is just a
Bowl of word stew,
And it is bottomless.
I scoop and I scoop,
But there is no ladle
Big enough to empty me.

I am an animal,
Foot caught in a trap,
Bleeding. Makes me sick.
I have to scribble on
Fallen leaves, using sticks
And twigs dipped in my
Own clotting, wild blood.
When the hunter comes
To reap his rewards
(and tonight's dinner), I
Will have written
A compelling argument on my
Leaves. Perhaps the man will
Have the heart to let me go.
He'll think "Lord, I have to find
Myself some game that isn't
So wordy".

A new-old-young Life Beginning

"When I was younger, I always needed an explanation. If there were ever a mystery that my parents or friends or family could not shed light on, I simply had to fabricate a reason for its existence. 'Why is the sky blue?', I once asked a playmate of mine (we were barely into elementary school). He did not know the answer. I was determined to find out. One way or another, I did not figure out the answer. So, I created one. The sky was blue because it was a 'big old mirror, reflecting the oceans'. And I believed this after a while.

"So it went, for years. I made up lie after lie, and I believed myself. It came to the point where I held my own fantastic reasoning above the ideas thrown at me by textbook and teacher, family and friend. I was an autonomous learning machine, completely self-contained. As I forced the puzzle pieces of reality into ill-fitting spaces, the entire world began to look new and exciting to me. This was that. Here was there. You were me.

"Of course, this didn't exactly create a mindset that would lead to success in the 'real world'. I dropped out of high school, left my parents' house, became homeless; all by eighteen years old. Free from the last of this reality's chains, I was able to blossom fully in my own prettier world. And believe me, it was beautiful. If only you could see it... You would understand (the term understand comes from its opposite, overstand. You always know more about something while under it, right? a-ha-ha-a-ha).

"There I was, waltzing 'round the streets of cities; they were my cities. It didn't matter that I got suspicious looks, or that I didn't shower for two years, or that I only ate every few days to keep myself alive, just so I could spend some time in my perfect, explained, understandable world. Everything was mine to study and dissect-- why do rocks never float in water? The water's bubble-hands hate rocks, and push them down! But they love wood and plastic bottles; they hold them up. Why do most people sleep in beds? Well, human backs just love soft fabric to kiss! Where exactly is Wyoming? No-where. It is a black hole, staring at us across America.

"You get the idea. From eighteen to twenty, things really picked up. I was out by myself, no remnants of true reality to tether me to the ground during my storm of creation. So, how am I talking to you here today? Well, it all happened very suddenly. The day was like any other in my reality: the Sun was shining because it was looking for the Moon, whom he missed very much. I sat on the curb of some poverty-stricken street, reciting some song's lyrics in a confused monotone. Suddenly, a bird relieved itself on my shoulder. I couldn't explain that one. So I got up, asked myself 'what the fuck am I doing?', got a job, went to college, bought a home, and here I stand. Does that cover everything you wanted to know? "

"Yeah... Yes, that explains it."

Within that Heaven

Within that Heaven,
In which you so firmly believe,
I hope that you come across
The answers to all of my questions.

If you do, please, be a doll
And send them my way.
I'm sure there exists some
sparkling, crystal Telephone Booth

In your heaven. So
Again, if you get the time,
You remember my number;
Give me a call. We'll reminisce.

But know this: I want the
Real Details. If you've got nothing
To say to me other than "how
Are you?", I'll hang up, I

Promise. I know you love
Me and all, but honey, I'm
A curious guy; if God won't
Tell me, I'll have you:

A spy in His Holy Kingdom.

A Misunderstanding

While I was showering,
My mother was in the adjacent
Room, watching a sales show.
Through the splash and splatter
Of water on porcelain, I could not
Make out what the saleswoman
Was saying. By the tone of her
Voice, I had thought something
Terrible had happened; that she
Was a newswoman instead, reporting
Some tragic occurrence.
Nay, she was selling jewelry.
"These bracelets will go
Quick, so you had better hurry!"

The Man with Joints of Stone

The man with joints of stone
Had shame on his mind,
And ache in his skull.
The poor vagabond fell
Ungracefully to his knees
In the local church
(He never went to one a second time),
The clergymen and church-goers looking
On with anxiety and suspicion.
He wept as the tortured, wooden
Christ statue looked pleadingly
Down upon him. The weight
Of the Son-of-God's stare
Added more to the man's
Already stone-heavy heft.
He rose to his feet, having
Relieved himself of
His shame, forcing it upon the
Others in the small church.
His joints ground, the sound of
Earthquakes and crumbling cities.
As his face dried, tears began to
Stream down the faces of
Every man, woman, and
Child in the church.

As many times as the stone-jointed
Man had done this very act,
He could never grow to feel
As if what he was doing
Could ever be right.
Yes, like a bottle, a jug,
He filled himself with
Shame, regret, sadness, anger,
Hatred.
He entered the local faith-house,
And he poured his elixir
Over every occupant of the building.
It was his duty, his
Solemn, single task.
Flesh was stretched over his
Stone skeleton for this purpose.
Eyes were placed in his stone skull
For this purpose. Every organ
In his body was created
For this purpose.
He rebels in the faintest of ways,
But, he may never stop.
O, the stone being is the
Bringer of Doubt, The Blade of Shame,
The Monument to Hate.

Now, he was forged to keep
The human spirit on its knees.
So what sick irony is this,
That the cause of this all,
The most vile invention,
Feels true shame
For what he has done?
Should you ever see this man,
(And you will know; those
Tired eyes can only belong to him)
Show him pity, for he is
Made not only of stone;
He is woven of grief.

Born then Born again to Die to be Born

Before I existed,
I was a beautiful, blue fog.
I covered villages, supplying an eerie calm.

Before you existed,
You were a sick, whimpering breeze.
You blew me away, despite your weakness.

Away, into the mountains,
To be born again,
As an infant, then boy, then man.

One day I will be a stone.
A small man will happen upon me,
Pick me up, and throw me into you,
The ocean. A wave. The salty,
Strong gusts.

TO: The Verb: To wonder why

I once wrote poems
about throwing away
the negative things in my life.

What do I write about now?
I just feel like I'm going insane
half of the time that I write.
You should see some of
the things in this little journal.
They are as putrid, gray-tinted,
and sick as vomit.
I worry about myself.
But this is what I love.
This is my exact purpose,
for now.
So I will write, and write some
more. And I will do so until my
mind's ink runs dry. I love it
all, and if you love it too,
then I love you.
I will write until I cannot.
OR
until everything both vile and beautiful
(both arrogant and humble)
(both sick and healthy)
(both old and new)
(both ending and starting)
is gone. Yes, I will do this until
tomorrow morning, and FOREVER.

Love,

Ben

The word "no"

Our languages
Started out with
One word: No.
To decline is so
Human; what other species
Is convinced that a simple
Utterance can achieve a goal?
We say "no" when we mean
"Yes", too. Of all the
Organisms, I like trees
Most. They do not need
Sound or excuses to
Prove their might.
And if they must be
Cut down, so be it.
They always die
With dignity.
You or me?
Well, wouldn't our
Last word be "no" ?

Math

It is basic arithmetic:
Rhythm
+ Stolen religions
+ Fake ideologies
- All the extra souls floating about
+ A balloon, free for the time being
- A negative hair color (black x brown -blonde)
All of that to the power of
"Lonely farming communities of the heart."
Then, divide that number
By the amount of trees within one mile
Of where you sit.

This will explain why you
Sometimes
Feel like you need a friend.

Silences

May I never again
Find the words to throw
At you. May I never
Force another imbecile sentence
Out of myself like an egg
(hard boiled before birth).
The nest I had become so
Proud of protecting and sharing
With you is now just a
Yolk-soaked pile of
Insults and then silences.
... and then silences,
Towers of nothing.
You are not a phoenix.
I am not a phoenix.
Neither of us
Will ever rise from the ash
Of this damp silence...
...and then silences
Towers of them--No!
A city. A city of Silences.
Not one citizen
(not you nor I)
Will ever be a phoenix.
Ashes
Ashes
Blown away.

Darkness...Oh, but then the lights.

Doesn't anyone think
This is BEAUTIFUL?
Doesn't
Anyone THINK
This is beautiful?
Am I the only man alive
To see this as it really
Should be seen?
I find fault in a place
That houses
Women and men
Who cannot see that
WATER
Should flow back the way
It has come.
Waterfalls should once again
Climb their cliffs.

-- Time/ the answer to "this" riddle --

...you remain only the shell of a taker, cracked and desolate. The constant interloper, you are. Your hands -like those of a clock- are always pointed in some direction, at some angry angle (or do I mean angel?). You so often putrefy the histories and futures of your inferiors, which is to say most things. You are an age old chef as you bathe us, wrinkle us away, in the broths of your stews and soups. You tic and you toc -you are a musician. So, while you've been here as long as anything has, even you -yes even the constant interloper, the forever interruption, the gavel that falls upon the desk- will whither and cry under your own cracked, hollow governance.

Gift/

For the benefit of
My audience, I will explain
Myself in words.

What I've almost discovered
Is: There will never be a star
Brighter than the one
That you could dig from out
Of your body. Harvest it well,
As only one is allotted to
You.
There is/
No/
Greater/
Gift/

The Modern Friend

I'll still tell anyone who asks me: "It is better to be nothing than to be something that doesn't mean anything."

"Well how", they'll wonder, "does one go about becoming nothing?"

"You're on the right track.", I'll say as I begin my attempt at surgery on a patient's battered Reflective Soul Lens Membrane.

"And if you need to speed up the process", I'll continue, "just find a creaky wooden fence, follow its example. That's how I did it."

"Thanks, doc!", they always say.

It warms my heart to know that I'm doing some good for the world. These days, this place needs all the help it can get.

Silence Rings

"Do you remember the sound?"
-Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson

Sometimes, when I sit alone,
I feel the silence begin to ring.
Whether or not it is an auditory
Phenomenon, I know not.
Lately,
Though, the silence has decided to sit,
And to stay, like an ill-tempered dog.

There is so much talk of a god;
I wonder, should it exist, does the
Silence ring?
Does it ring for a god?

Wyoming.

We tend to forget
-----About Wyoming.

Do the humans there
------Think of the things
-------------I do?

There are many places,
--------Most actually,
-----------That I've never been,
---------------But Wyoming

Seems to me, a
-------Gaping black hole.
-----------Sometimes I stare
----------------Across America/
-------------------I feel it returning

My gaze. Are there
-------Rivers in Wyoming?
----------Ponds? Lakes? Dead end
---------------Roads? I hope to go,
------------------One day, to Wyoming,
-----------------------To the point of no-

Return, the point of no-going-back.

High Ceilings

When he thought about
Death, and whatever may follow,
The first question that he had,
Always, was "Well, does it have high ceilings?"

Every time, I could only ever look
At him and say, "I hope, I really do."

I don't know where he is now.
But...
Wherever he has gone,
I hope, I really do, that the place
Has ceilings up in the heavens.

The Theory of Evolution

Some asshole
Rides a Children's bicycle
Across the street.
Watching him, I cannot
Help but be reminded
Of a club-wielding
Primate, not yet a man
(but almost), Hunched over
A newly speared buffalo.
As the two lanes of
Traffic obscure him,
I realize that I am the
One with the spear in my
Hands. I hunt like this
Nearly every day. I stab
Stab stab, and then I call it
"Writing".

A Bride Near John Fries Highway

Driving tonight, I saw
A bride walking into a hotel
On John Fries Highway.
Although we sped past the scene
In no more than a second,
It has dug itself into my mind.
The clock had said it was
Past twelve AM, which meant
Easter was upon us.
I believe
And I know.
That woman was.
That woman [bride] is
Jesus Christ rising from his grave.

When she has finished her
Honeymoon, she will smooth out
All the wrinkles and creases in [on]
Society [Earth].

Murder

Just the other day
There was an insect on my wall.
It looked like a tank.
It looked as though it had
A mission. Perhaps it was sent here
To kill me. I
Stared at the thing for a bit,
Maybe a few minutes.
I think
It stared back. We
Were waiting, each of us
Preparing for the other to strike.
Then I got up, grabbed a tissue,
And folded the little son-of-a
Bitch in it. I didn't crush him,
No, that would be too easy;
That is what he wanted.
So I took the wad of tissue,
Insect intact,
And I flushed it down the toilet.
The last words the motherfucker ever heard
Were
"Good luck down there."
How appropriate.

The Calm

And there is a
Lazy carelessness
On Earth today.
It weighs on us
With the atmosphere.
The flies feel it;
They are not so afraid
Of being swatted at.
The warm breeze
Timidly flows like
The current of a drowsy
River. Even you or I,
The busy humans,
Take our time to
Appreciate such a
Melodiously slow-moving
Day. For once, it is not
"The calm before the storm".
Today it is just The Calm.

There is a Balance

We can not
Explain away
Every dark ha-
ppening In our hurri-

cane lives. We
Must simply roll
With the punches that
The void throws at us. If

We all stop-
Stop for just a
Moment- We may see
That there is a balance,

Meaning in
A seemingly
Loveless universe.
Sift through the gray ashes

To find the
Emerald scale
Upon which our chanc-
es Are measured like stones.

Cookbook

Once in a while
It is just your day
To feel worthless.
The sun may be out,
The birds may be singing,
But today is your day.

What does it all mean?
Success? Life? Happiness?
On a day like this,
You are content
Just boiling, like potatoes,
In a stew, in a broth of:
-Doubt
-Self cynicism
-1/2 cup of olives
-False determination
-A pint of hate
-1 table spoon of "Am I a fuck-up?"

Insanity: A Portrait

Here
In this blank room,
A vent breathes air,
Exhales it, to keep everything comfortable.
From somewhere outside, down the hall,
You hear someone singing an opera tune.
In the wall there is an electrical outlet.
"Why do they always have such surprised
Expressions?", you wonder aloud.
You turn to your left, having heard someone speak
Your name. A crack in the wall, moving like
A mouth, begins preaching Christianity to you
In a rusty croak.
Now:
The door opens and in walks everyone.
Will they fit?
Of course they'll fit.
Their chatter is deafening.
But then they all shut up!

One begins shouting,"Visa or Mastercard,
Visa or Mastercard, Visa or Mastercard,
VISA OR
mastercard..."
You begin to cry, but it's O.K.
Everyone turns to sand and water,
And now you are at the shore.

Can't stop progess...

Science is a blind child
Stumbling through an existence
Much to great to stuff into
The human mind.

Can our world's most
Ambitious thinkers be nothing more
Than clumps of dust with
Delusions of grandeur?

A Messiah

Lesser men might quake with cowardice.
But you,
You will burst into anything,
Take any pain, bear any burden.

Be it arrows,
Be it cannons,
Be it governments,
Be it fairness,
Be it mothers,
Be it fathers,
Be it shame,
Be it skies,
Be it oceans,
Be it gods.

So why is this?
Why (how?) can one glass of pride
Burn through you like fire?
Can this liquor truly be so potent a poison?

Old Ink Hands

Old Ink Hands cried
His final tears.
Out the window he fell,
And to dust he turned in the breeze.
He made your life Hell, he took
Your most precious things,
Soaked you in ink.
But you will miss
The old demon regardless.

My Kingdom

I am the ruler of this
Kingdom. I may make or erase
Any Clock-tower. I may bathe
In honey. I may wear the bees
As my robe. My diamond Lenses
Let me see as far as I might
Dream. My crown is forged
Of Poets' bones, painted
A shining gold.

Yet all of this could be yours.
Grab a pen, have a seat,
Come usurp my throne.
Give me something to cry about,
To write [HOME] about.

Window

During the entire ordeal
I could not once remove
My gaze from the stained glass
Window. Yes, I could hear
The buildings falling, I could
Feel the foundation rocking.
But...
There was just something
About how the flames shined
Through the window's holy colors.
I imagined whales swimming in the blue,
Petals, swept away by the wind, in the yellow,
Beautiful wine pouring in the red.

Then the window shattered.
The world it revealed
Was so ugly; I closed my eyes.
I waited for an end.

Thief's mind

It has always been a thief's mind,
That void which rests in your skull.
It begs you to take; it needs new emeralds
To hold its attention, to entertain itself.
But now, the world has run out of
Gems. To what will your thief's mind
Turn? If experience provides any
Wisdom, I know.
Yes, I know what your thief's mind shall do:
It will eat itself, and you will be gone,
Gone away to the bottom of this
Forgotten stomach.

A storm rolls into The City

As the rainclouds roll in,
The earthworms come out
To frolic in the damp
City. Do they realize
That they will all be crushed
Under the foot of some
Heartless giant?
I think
When my rainclouds roll in,
I will really be just like them,
Twisted and broken on the pavement.

Muse

You have risen again,
From the cracks and folds
Of memory.
Each of our encounters
Leaves me shining
Like a broken mirror.
O, muse.
You can create me.
And you can end me.

Sequel

I clear my throat,
Not to attract attention
(I am alone), but to give
The rain outside a hint
That I heard it creeping
Up on me, and I have
No intention to go for
A swim tonight.

The time is almost
Upon us. Soon we
Will begin; we
Will rebuild our
Beach Fortress,
And your hair
Will once again glow
That brilliant gold.

Life Cycle

When she said her life
Was a cycle, I didn't
Know what she meant.
But now, as I sit here,
Spinning round and round,
I can begin to picture it:

Cycle one: I see a face, made pale by fear.

Cycle two: Every fruit has rotted and fallen close to its tree.

Cycle three: The clock strikes my hour and its two hands clench into fists.

Cycle four: All the ink in the world rains like water from the sky.

Cycle five: I am hurled into the gray sunset by the mary-
Go-round's most mean-spirited horse.

Like Clockwork

You're not a friend, you're a virus.
Not a plague just yet, but
That seems rather possible.
One day some Camus wannabe
Will write about how you tortured
A small French-speaking port town.
And like some Ancient Greek man,
I will state that "I
Am
No one."
And maybe then you will settle
Into the ground like dust.
I know you'll be kicked up again...
But I want to be long gone when
It finally happens.
Also:
I hope your resurrection HURTS.

If I

It's as if I could trace
The creases left by my body
In the bed sheets, with a pen,
To perfectly map every town
In America in which I will sleep.

It's as if I could set
Fire to the carpet, and in
The flames I could see ev-
ery Foot that had ever stepped there.

It's as if a dead man in
California could somehow
Control every word that I
Will ever write.

It's as if every swine that
Is slayed to feed me(and
Every cow) devotes their final
Hours to planning MY demise.

It's as if breaking this
Old wineglass over
My head could somehow
Change my name, my eye color,
My shoe size, and my faith.

Just

Just a footprint on my chest:
Your dominance forever a part of me.

Just a slammed car door:
Some stranger's anger out in the night.

Just a suit and tie:
A pitiful cover for your broken ribs (right?)

Just a sour fruit:
A way to sting a tongue too tired to speak.

Just a scribbled poem:
My effort to be your disciple.

Just a God:
Another reason to...

What?

Naked in the Field

Naked in the field again-
Copper Doves fly vertically into the sky,
Like so many missiles being launched;
Perhaps they will meet a similarly
Explosive end.
In your nude naiveté you mistake
The Doves, moonlight on their reflective feathers,
For stars, somehow fallen to Earth, now
Returning to their dark, vast home.
You feel alone, at peace.
But no, you are in secret company.
Hidden from you, using your awestruck state
To their advantage, Two men,
Each with their own reason for keeping you,
Creep quietly through the tall grass.

And Somewhere, there exists a city.
In this city, a man- sitting alone in a Library.
But within the man within the Library within the City of Somewhere,
Something else watches you, Naked in the field again.

I've been...

There is a banging.
It reverberates through
The floor below me.
What is the origin of
This peculiar sound?

(Perhaps there is a butcher
Pounding away at slabs of
Bloody meat?)

(Could it be a min-
iature Marching band, celebrating
Some great achievement?)

(Better yet, and angry thinker,
Frustrated enough to smash his
Head again and again to the wall?)

No, no.
It is the foundation
Of this life being
Struck and chipped away at.
Soon enough it will all come
Tumbling down upon whomever is
Unlucky enough to be in the kitchen
With Dinah STRUMMIN'
THE
OLD
BAN
JO

Making new friends

I know it isn't easy.
I can tell I'll be stuck
To this chair, some Guardian
Angel giving me a good black
Eye, maybe a broken nose. He'll
Show me. Next he'll take me out
For a beer and smother me with
Other-worldly gifts. "Sir Roylance", he'll
Say, as he becomes five beautiful
Women. "Is there anything else I
Can do for you?". I'll say, "I want
My own planet and my own race."
The five beautiful women(my Guard-
ian Angel) Will grant my wish.

To Mr. Poe

Beeps. Hand-held communication radios. Conversation.
Noises fill the area beyond
My sliding curtain.
Where is my nurse?
Where is my doctor?
I can't feel much,
And I want some Fucking Relief.
"Breathe normally."
"Take a deep breath and hold it."
Says the Toshiba machine.
There is no beauty to
Infect this paper tonight.

I want that taxidermy bear
Back. Instead I have bald
Women with holes in their skulls.
The hospital of 2010 would be
A lovely place for Mr. Poe.

Horns

There are horns on all of your heads.
You smile at me, we shake hands...
But there are horns on all of your heads.
It doesn't take an artist
To paint a picture of your bony, new
Accessories. I could sketch them with
My own two hands. A few of you skewer
Your social security cards or taxes on them.
They are pale, pale white.
A bird has impaled itself on a
Horn of yours.
There are horns on all of your heads.
But where are mine?

Egypt

My tin foil
Fucking
Sarcophagus keeps me
Comfortable. Within it
I can enjoy summer days,
I can eat kumquats,
I
Can love you all just fine.
But it won't be long now...
I will tear through the foil, I
Will walk the pretty, pretty
Earth again: Forever.

Me not

Nail me not to the wall.
Nail me to the one that
I adore.
Let her fire eat away
at my tall, dark, handsome
Gallows: Hang me not!

River

I can hear it now.
It rushes down the
River toward me.

It cries tears of bro-
ken Mirror. It howls,
A freight train of a
Beast. Under its feet

Little porcelain sailors
Are crushed. The shards,
Like splinters, stick in
The thing's feet. Still,
It rushes down the river

Toward my boat. I will
Let it take me, with a
Smile.

Distort

My narrator,
With his guitar swell voice,
Has been around more often
This past week.

His tone gives
No insight into his
Feelings on my predicaments.
Is he sympathetic?

Or does he chuckle
When I look up at the ceiling?
Perhaps he smirks as I sit
Writing this.

Somewhere over the
Brick Rainbow my narr-
ator Sits, bees buzzing around him.
He reads my book,
My
Bible With
A Shattered
Lense.

Do I want to live forever?

Oh, turritopsis nutricula jellyfish,
Do I envy you or pity you?
To be alive forever, with headaches,
With women, with politicians, with
Dirty "Home SWEET HOME".
But, living forever, in the sea
Floating along, maybe it suits
You. Me, I think I'd just
Complain my way through the
Tunnels of eternity.

Laughing

I find it funny to think
That
There was ever love in this house.
Spring
Is here, but there is no romance
In the air.
Just idiot thoughts and unneeded
Reflexes.
She tells me that I get like
This
Only because I allow myself to.
I let it grab me and take me
Out
With the trash.
At least outside, in a trashcan,
I can see the sunset.

"Thy name"

"Are you made of flesh?"
"No"

"Are you made of stone?"
"No"

"Are you made of paint?"
"No"

"Are you made of tears?"
"No"

"Are you made of paper, of ink?"
"Not one nor the other."

"Are you a diamond, a jewel?"
"Afraid not my friend."

"Are you free?"
"I am"

"Are you made of silence?"
"Closer."

"What are you?"
"I am not."

In solitude

In solitude
So many questions, forever unasked, unanswered.
In solitude
The mind serves as a magnifying lense.
In solitude
One may think "is there a world beyond the curtains?".
In solitude
Even the strongest of men grow weak.
In solitude
One may find oneself shit out of luck.

Escape

Picture this:
Me, in a field of tall, swaying wheat.
For miles, just the crop, with its charming dance.
I look up to a cloudless sky, the sun blazing,
Each ray of light so defined, like loose threads.
If I were to pull on one, the entire ball of fire
Would unravel.

Sick day blues

The cars' wheels
Spin down the road.
The rain soaks the ground.
I sit in a bed that is
Not my own, wallowing in
Dirty clothing and day time
Television. Tell me, when you
Look in a mirror, do you ever wonder
When you became so tired?
As my friends grow prosperous
And happy, will I be stuck here?
Will my own fear and selfish
Laziness strand me here in
Rainy, sick Allentown? How
Long until I am dealt an ace?
Or even a king.

More of the classics

BAGS: full of dirt.
MEN: full of pride.
WALKING: to their homes.
FEEDING: their honey to
The rocks.
Lenses magnify the patterns in
Your corrupt business
You may not sell
The honey to
US, it
Is full of stingers, and the folk singer's
Guitar strings. Return to the nest, the hive, your
Home. There is no place for you in
The blue shade room.
There have been too many loves lost to that bed.
Take your honey pots elsewhere...

To the Nile\\

To Write

Draining from me,
Like water down
To the gutter, like
Juice from a fruit.
It pours from my
Temples, my forehead,
My fingers. It pours
When I am sick, it
Pours when I am well.
"Is any of it worth
The ink?" I wonder.

Perhaps.

If I Dream...

If I dream correctly,
You will show up on
My doorstep.

If I dream correctly,
Your cage will rust away;
You will be freed.

If I dream correctly,
Summer nights will be spent
On a moonlit beach.

If I dream correctly,
Every youthful memory
Will be savored.

If we dream in sync,
You'll know what I see
Every time I close my
Longing eyes and picture you-
Picture us, as we should be:
Two humans, a perfect complement.

The Flowers Don't Seem Too Bright...

As I sit,
Slouched in a chair
In a neutral-colored, 65 degree
Room, I wait. While I wait,
I wonder:
"Why do I sit here, slouched
In a chair?"
"Why do I suffer for myself like this?"
As sad as it is, I have decided that
Everyone is their own
#1.
Don't let my fashion or my attitude
Throw you off, we are really all
Exactly alike. Next time I comment
On the stupidity of it all, the
Barbaric nature of it all, perhaps I
Should also point out my own
Weakness

To: Cristina

You've become pixels.
The screen reveals not
Even a fraction of the
Grace and beauty of you'
re Existence. One cannot be
Separated from what one is
Bound to for long. A great
Reunion is on our horizon.
Love it has been and
Love it shall stay.

Leaving the beach fortress

I

Our final beach fortress
Is collapsing, as you and I
Stand vulnerable on the last
Few feet of dry cement.

You are swept away again
And again, by roaring blue waves.
But, you always end up by my side once more,
Somehow returned on the crest of the next wave.

Tell me, how is it so
That such dark, black hair
Can glow such a beautiful gold
In the deepest reaches of this storm's chest?

I weep my salty, sea water tears.
As this time, you have not returned.
The swelling, angry sea just a few feet
Below me reveals nothing of your whereabouts.

II

The storm cried out in disgust and disappeared.
The waves sank away from me, and back
Down to their appropriate depths. Sand
Is once again visible; but the destruction is apparent.

Whales, horses, humans, fish, and debris
All grace the same heaps. I begin my
Ascent down to the ruined shore.
Finding you will alive would be a miracle...

Sorting through the bodies(some living some not)
Is a sad task. Cries, roars, whinnies of pain and confusion
Ring out across the beaches. But I see it. A small ray of light,
From the sun, to your eye. You sit on the dune, alone.

We leave right away. We leave our
Beach fortress; the beauty of it now absent.
We live in the mountains now, as far from any
Beach as we can be. Love, and love it is.

Forest mind

Maybe there's something to this
"Human" thing, after all.
I can't stop looking at you,
Even when it rains.
As the sun and the blue
(not blues)Sky melt away
The ice of another winter,
I can almost justify our
Place. I know this feeling
Cannot last, but I will savor it.
Savor it like a fine fruit
From the highest, thinnest branches
Of the trees that make up my forest mind.

Ache

uchihaledisko (9:08:22 PM): it wont last forever. just yesterday it was march 3rd

uchihaledisko (9:08:27 PM): tomorrow itll be march 5th

uchihaledisko (9:08:57 PM): ull never have to wait the same day twice. <3

Oh right, I'm part of the internet generation.

I click to send an instant message to you.
You're offline.
All of my social network veins are tiny.
I'm stressed. Girls, girls, girls.
Always so many on the screen.
I use medical search engines
To convince myself that I have
Schizophrenia, or Paranoid Personality
Disorder. Why do I do this to myself?
I don't go to a venue to see music.
I go to a File Hoster's home, and I
Ask him "Pretty please?" and
Well, he gives me what I want.
The cops are outside though,
And they just can't seem to kill
The bastard. I eat dinner near the screen.
I sing near the screen. I cry near the screen.
I love near the screen. The internet is the viper.
It is the forbidden fruit. God help me, I AM the screen.

interlude/waiting for muse/magazines

a poet? the tongue is garbage, bent like a wire hanger.
I think to myself "why can't I be original?" I then realize that it is
very likely that I am just a copy, like a worksheet for a third-grade class
to arduously scribble away on. I think I am a math problem.
I've never been elegant, why would I start now? there are clocks
that tick tick tick and chip away at my chains. iron filings begin to pile at
my feet, but the damned things won't break. they won't let me go. I can
scribble(like the kids), and I can write write write but what is this really? I'm just channeling
some other motherfucker who wrote before me. see you in a few days.

Chain

After the sun rises, I rise.
I can begin without hesitation.
I eat my breakfast, I move through the day.
Nothing is chained to me.

By noon, I reach the top.
I am the son, I am the friend.
I sway with the music, I absorb the light.
Nothing is chained to me.

As the sun sets, I settle in.
I can feel the warmth, the comfort.
I strum and I love, each thought a work of art.
Nothing is chained to me.

As night coils itself around me,
I feel my breath grow shallow.
I quiver, I shake, and I stare. I struggle.
I am chained to the floor.

On This Sea

Every tug and yank at my line
Leads to nothing but another example of
The endless ebb and flow of the waves.
There are no fish in that water.
(Maybe a shark, maybe a stone)
There will be no feast tonight,
There will never be a feast on this sea.

Just The Usual...

Suck the sparks from the grinding metal.
I
Look like something I can't be,
I
Sway with the bruised violins.
If I had a rag, I could wipe the honey
That drips from my pores.

If I could think of beauty today, I would.
I
Would take it from under the bridge.
I
Can't breathe without a cottage in the woods.
If I had a book, I'd love to get it signed
By the space that you don't occupy.

I miss the way you had known me so well, and all.

Lenses, Honey, and Businessmen

I was spat onto this slab of tile.

Every hour since then, I’ve been chasing.

I’ve been chased. I’ve yelled to the mountain’s peak.

The rocks, stones, and boulders have always come calling.

They love me so much, and I love them. They couldn’t

Crush me, not even if I slipped (if I fell).

As the avalanche surrounds me, every day,

My rocks, my stones, my boulders may break my lenses.

They may poison my honey. And they may fire my businessmen.

But the only reason my bones, my brain, my “soul” remains is,

Well, I tell them that it’s all off limits. They respect me.

I hope they respect you too. I’ve waited for 1717,

And I’ve reached it. My God, I’ve finally reached it.

Pea Soup parts I&II

I.
A thick fog permeated the streets.
Not a single man nor rat could see a thing.
They stayed indoors, they waited for clarity.
As the hours passed, the fog grew
Thicker, stronger, until all that was left of
The town was a blank white cloud.

II.
I can't see a thing.
I pace back and forth,
Outside of the window,
Nothing, not south or north.
You cry, we cry. I storm out
Into the white street.
A man lies in my way, I trip.
A shout of pain I hear, but...
I keep walking, into walls, stumble
Over curbs and disregarded belongings.
There is a light at the end of my block.
It alone pierces through the solid white.
If I reach it maybe... No. Just a neon sign.
Advertisement for a local diner. I hear
Screams, a loud crash; a car hitting a wall,
I assume. Maybe I'll just lay down.

☼

For once, I don't seem to have anything to say, to cover in dirt and metaphor.
Maybe it's because I don't believe a word of it anymore.
Catharsis has lost its charm, I long to bring it back.
This is no hiatus, no break. Just a change in direction.
Expect great things.

D K

It is all just a process: break in, decay, break out. Sure, it sounds simple...it is. Decay is a strange word isn't it? All it means to most people is, well, "to break down, to deteriorate". Not to me; decaying is life itself. We all decay, every hour of every day. We start out wet, naked, and pure. We are held tightly by a -hopefully- loving figure; the only other person we had ever known up until then. We break in. We are screaming, writhing, bloody, and new. We break in. Then we begin to decay. Decay, decay, decay. Every single hour, every minute, of every day. As we grow, we fall apart. We learn and we get to know just how this existence really works. Is it terrible, disgusting, sad, and sick? Of course it is, it reeks of decay. Is it beautiful, wonderful, memorable? Yes. Maybe you think you get wiser, but are you ever really any wiser than you were at the beginning? Darker perhaps, a little less whole, perhaps. The absurdity of everyday human life: the ecstatic highs, the crushing lows... What can it all mean? It all chips away at you, like waves on a cliff's edge.

Life is only a descent. But it does it follow any laws? Are there any rules of science that apply to the human experience? I'd dare to say no. It is the only descent that ascends. As you gain, you lose. The more you know, the less you truly understand. You decay for years. You know this, and you know all of that. Eventually, you break out. By that point, you will have gained enough knowledge of this existence, spent enough time wandering about, to be afraid of leaving the very same way you came. We all break out. Do any of us know what happens next? Of course not. We are creations of decay, and our race will forever stay as such. But in the end... What else would you expect?

I guess this year isn't so bad after all.

It is decidedly so,
I am content with whatever road down which i go.
The eyes that once tore me apart,
Now leave not a single bruise.

Coming of age,
I cannot feel a single change, but I see them in you.
All those eyes that glared at me,
Cannot even enter my mind.

A few years,
Of toil and fear, shed not a drop of blood from me.
Every eye that ever met mine,
Has been forgiven.

Clichés begin to pile up,
But I can see in all of your faces that I am real.
I may write through a broken lens,
But I believe in it.

Without an even number,
I tend to shut down, I tend to fall into old habits.
All of your eyes are on me,
And I am quite fine.

Ideal American Citizen

Shall I show you around? I know it's been a while. You look tired. Might I offer you a cup of coffee? No? All right. I do hope you stay a while, you know how lonely I get around here. Ever since you and the rest left town, well, I just don't feel the same. All I've really got is silence, a typewriter, and time. I guess those things can work magic for some, but my mind has been rather elusive. So, where have you been? Are you well? Oh, how odd. You sure have lost a bit of your spark, haven't you? These equations of yours unsettle me, friend. I understand how proud you are, but... you were always so abstract. These calculations and pencil marks just hinder you, and you know that.

Oh, Susan? No... she passed away about two years ago. I still keep her around, though. It doesn't help much, but... I'm sure you understand. Are you all right? You look just a bit green. I'll get you a glass of water.

(30 seconds spent in kitchen)

Here you g- Now where might he have run off to? Ah, probably just taking a look upstairs. Bill? George? Eric? He must be here somewhere...

(walks up flight of stairs, stairs lead to nothing, falls off into pile of wood and old furniture)

Ah... I've taken a spill. Where in the world am I? I must have hit my head. I suppose I should just lay here for a bit until I collect myself. I'm sure Frank will come, either way. He must be using the bathroom.

(a dirty, naked man can be seen in the rubble of a half decayed house. he screams incoherent sentences, containing mostly male names and nouns. the man rises to his feet after a few minutes of struggle.)

Oh, forget that fool. He's probably just gone home. I knew he had changed, the bastard... To leave an old friend all alone! The very thought! I... What's that? In the distance... My God. The... the face. The jaws... Help me! Someone! Isn't there a person left in this damn town?

(after rising to his feet, the man had walked only a few paces before falling into a puddle of what looks like mud and urine. he screams for a few minutes, none of it intelligible. in his writhing insanity, a beam from the decrepit house breaks loose from ten feet above, falls, and crushes the man's head.)

An update.

I will no longer be using this blog to talk about my life, it will be strictly a poetry and writing page. If you want to know about my life, you know how to reach me. Maybe I'll create a new blog for that purpose, someday.

Ben's Blues

I am so tired of ejaculating these sterile, dark words.
They paint this world a dark blue, they sometimes scare me.
I saw a sliver of light, and I grabbed it. It was slippery.
I don't have the endurance, I was never much of an athlete.
If this is how it must be, Lord, then I can't believe in you.
I can't believe in a man who would leave his children in this tar pit.
I'll be excavated in a few million years. Leave me be.
When I'm pulled from the depths, all black and fossil,
I will be new, I will be happy. I will love again.

Newer rather than older.

And just like that, he had burst into a strange new place./
It was full of Beauty, it had no pain, it had no hate./
It lacked all of the things that Earth had had in such bounty./

He looked around, wandered about. He felt the ground;/
It felt warm, it felt comforting. He wanted to stay./
There were friends in this place too; familiar faces./

He wanted to stay, but then he woke up./
A dream, of course it was. How foolish of him/
To believe it could all be real. He wept./

Soon, however, he realized: he had learned something./
A dream it was, but so be it. It had been real to him,/
So he would now strive to return to that place again./

That place devoid of pain, hate, paranoia. Devoid of life./

You're fucking fired.

Dear sirs,

With all due respect, I have lost interest in further continuing your branch's involvement in this company. It has grown tiresome and repetitive. I have been trying to decrease your influence in the company for a substantial bit of time now, and I thought I should let you know just how tired I am of your sickening attitudes. Every insignificant twitch or stitch or pain in our company's functions is analyzed and torn apart by your supposedly expert branch. I am not convinced. These glitches in our usually smooth existence should be treated as what they are: negligible. Every time you fools roll around to the main office, you attack us with possible scenarios, unlikely situations, and unnecessary concerns. In fact, we have lost customers and investors because of your consistently negative outlook! We have all become so preoccupied with the unlikely but possible worst-case scenario list of yours, that we have almost no profits at all anymore. The company is bankrupt, and unless something changes soon, we are going under without hope of return. In simpler turns: you can't quit, you are FIRED.

Vehemently yours,
BEN H. ROYLANCE

New pains everyday

Hey, it isn't anything about you//
...Just go that way, I will follow//
After I wiped my nose, I thought it was blood//
Nah, man that's not blood. Just go//
And she'll stay behind//

I've got time on my hands, //
I don't think there's anything else to do//
But sit in my castle and let my city crumble//
Yeah, the smell gets real bad now,//
But it's something I can handle//

There's new pains every time I//
Decide to look at something important//
Why can't I go a day without //
Tripping over my own worried heels?//
Rank and file, rank and file//

FRIENDS, aren't we all just FRIENDS (go fuck ourselves)

I haven't talked to you in days. It seems like the end of the line, this time. You usually told me what to do in this sort of mess, but this time...well this time you are the mess. I sit here for hours on end, trudging through the human sludge of the internet, I numb myself to everything and everyone. Sometimes I could swear you're standing right next to me, but then I look and it's just a shadow or a bottle of hair. You can't keep doing this, man. Every time you disappear for one of your little adventures, I go a little more insane. When you're gone I imagine you taking off the roof of this house and peering in. We never make eye contact, though. Lately I've been having this dream where I'm walking down the road near my house on the Jersey shore, and in every dream a 30-something year old man holding his toddler son walks by me. Well, me and my cousin. She is holding a large knife, and we are discussing the film Juno. As the father and son walk by us, the little boy always looks at me, and every time he calls me a different place. "Hey Pennsylvania", he said once. "Hey Bay Avenue". I've had the dream enough times to know it by heart. The only thing that changes is the place. For some reason, the mood of this dream, the overwhelming feeling it gives me, reminds me of you. In the end it is always just you, isn't it? All these characters I create are just me and you in different forms. Man, I wish you were still real. Whatever. Go fuck ourselves.

Screw

You always plea for it.
You scream for it.
You never accept it,
Once it is handed to you.

If God made you,
Who made me?
You excel at living,
We only excel at failing.

We're not trying to
Form some kind of gang, man.
We just want ours, the way
That you always have yours.

You can drink, and you can fuck, and you can fight, and you can run, and you can play, and you can pay, and you can buy.

We'll just complain.
Our balls hurt.

The Antlers- Hospice review

It’s easy enough to guess the subject manner of The Antlers’ full length debut from its title. The word “hospice” fits the album’s mood and concept so well, in fact, that it would be a difficult task to come up with any other title. The album is loosely based on a man who falls in love with a dying cancer patient, but the subject matter of the album touches on other topics as well (abortion, mental illness, death). To say the album is dark would be an understatement; to say it is emotional wouldn’t even begin to describe it. The Antlers is basically Peter Silberman, and 2 other musicians (Michael Lerner and Darby Cicci) who play the instruments that he does not. In addition to already having a notoriously passionate live performance, the band now has one of the most emotionally exhausting and beautifully written albums released in the past few years to its name. Of course this is all opinion, but I find it hard to believe that anyone who listens to Hospice while reading the lyrics (and truly paying attention to the details of the music) can be anything but thoroughly moved.

“Prologue”, a sparse instrumental introduction, starts the record off. The track does an excellent job of setting a mood for the next track, “Kettering”, to elaborate on. I won’t bore you by explaining how I think the songs relate to the story/concept (I’ll leave that up to my fellow listeners). “Kettering” uses a melody so beautiful and original that, the first time I heard it, I had to listen several more times before moving on to the next track. Songs like “Bear” (which uses a deceivingly uplifting melody to disguise a ferociously depressing subject) or “Two” are instantly impressive, but most of the album takes a few run-throughs to really appreciate. The penultimate track, entitled “Wake”, is a nine-minute behemoth that serves as a climax for both the musical and lyrical aspects of the album. Hospice seems to have this attractive quality about it: once you are hooked, you won’t have the ability to stop listening. Sure, every time the final chorus in closing track “Epilogue” comes around, and the album ends, you’ll feel as though you’ve just completed the most disturbingly sad novel you’ve ever read, but you’ll also feel satisfied. Hospice is truly a gem of an album. I’ve never heard another one like it, and I am doubtful I ever will, even from the same band. The Antlers have created a masterpiece, and it is something to be cherished, even if it does make your life just a little bit less bright.