Sunday, April 25, 2010

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,
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.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

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.
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.


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" ?


It is basic arithmetic:
+ 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
Feel like you need a friend.


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.
Blown away.

Darkness...Oh, but then the lights.

Doesn't anyone think
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
Should flow back the way
It has come.
Waterfalls should once again
Climb their cliffs.

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

Sunday, April 18, 2010


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
There is/

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.
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?


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.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

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.
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

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].


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
"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.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


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:
-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

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.
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,
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.


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.
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.


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.


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.