Sunday, March 28, 2010

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
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.
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 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...


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'

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.


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?


My tin foil
Sarcophagus keeps me
Comfortable. Within it
I can enjoy summer days,
I can eat kumquats,
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!


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

Saturday, March 20, 2010


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,
Bible With
A Shattered

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.


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

"Thy name"

"Are you made of flesh?"

"Are you made of stone?"

"Are you made of paint?"

"Are you made of tears?"

"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?"

"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.


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.

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.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

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
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

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.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Leaving the beach fortress


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.


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.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 4, 2010


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

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

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.