With the Shadow

I watched a television show that described the adaptation of the human brain

To dependence on sight, so that when we view objects in a predicable context,

Such as shadow, an object will appear to us as if it is in shadow,

Even when bearing the same hue as another object,

Simply by the implication of its surroundings 

This brought me to an extrapolation of interrelationships

Dancing around the criterion of what it means to be a man

My lack of a pick-up truck, need to haul shit, or

Height to thump my skull upon any branch of stature  

I am in the veil of shadow appearing as boy, no epic beard or callus palm

To grip the swindle in the cognitive magic acts of assumed conclusions

Stitched with the eyes; the kind as if we see two parallel lines extending vertically

And put two objects of equal length perpendicular  

The lower of the two objects vertically will also appear shorter horizontally

Given the slightest tilt in vision, despite being nothing of the sort

I find this contextual diagram of life profusely problematic

Given my nature;  

I am an internal being, one of muted external senses

Those of movement, of speech of social prisms are perfunctorily blunted

Dulled as the network of my existential contemplations persist on a hyperopic level

Like a gorging universe of magnetism occupying my sensorial locus  

I can see a person’s childhood, his dynamics, her motivations

His superego sprinting around the vulnerability to fend away intrusive

Topics sensitive to historical understandings; I can see a person 10,000 meters deep

Like Marianas eye-sight of an albino blind crustacean, but

I cannot see what should be right in front of me as one learns at lunch time in sixth grade 

I always wondered why from elementary school I realized my sense of rhythm

Was lacking, my metronome akimbo, when seated I often like to place

My right ankle over my left as if making a merman’s tail,

(For whoever writes stories of mermen) and yet,  

This physical position holds my focus better in thought

I one day realized by eliminating my external senses, in this case walking

Or to a degree motion itself, my inner-eye, my inner-mouth was granted

A greater magnitude of freedom  

This is as I imagine how when a person goes blind

His brain remaps the neurons previously dedicated to sight to hearing

So that stimuli can be interpreted with greater acumen, 

Which after jettisoning gross notions of social awkwardness and inadequacies

Is what I have learned to do as a writer,

I dive into myself to find the ocean of interaction that this introversion

Was designed to produce;

For the degree of this behavior which ordains me to be an anomaly, I am uncertain  

For whoever dives into the mind of another?

But I can attest that I am diving; I am spelunking in this cavernous hall

This poetry, this writing is growling at me like foul monsters of the deep

And graceful angels of the loft to be released to flitter and debate  

With the vastness that my limbs are left in elementary sensorial development

To dance spastically, my nose of pheromone inhalation (our most basic primal sense)

Is often befuddled as to how the exterior of a being could possible

Communicate the vastness of the interior of a being  

So from very young, I have recognized my dilemma, yet

Have found solutions to be feckless hunts for mermaids and dryads

The rouge on lips to mimic a vulva, the aperture of a pupil

The symmetry of face surely indicate genetic disposition  

However none of this seems to expel an iota of the magnanimous orchard

That I seem to spend so much of my time, mimicked in another

So as it is, I am a vagabond whispering at tree branches aloft

As breezes push autumn into winter into spring into nothingness  

As seasons are stepping stones of taste buds sensing a differential in temperature

Oscillating by the hour or barometric pressure point, I am dulled

I am incapable of tracking such mercurial wisps,

As time inside this hold of internal analytics is striated by a different currency 

The very strings that forge the fabric of my being appear of a divergent biology

As often as they appear the same, maybe as some might say with the shadow

Calendar Syndication

Shift the season of the digits on the calendar

Laugh at time as the rotation pantomimes to crawl a ladder

Year and month, warmth and cold, remembrance

For births and deaths and just how old  

One has come is not representative of the toll

The lines and signs, the “It will be better next times”

See the scale and bribe the ales to make a difference

In the morn, waking at staring at the same sun  

Given fireball to cure the insomnia of latent consequence

Make believe the life of box cars is not bumping one coast

To the other back around and boomerang, going nowhere

But the same states, matters not when the engineer applies the breaks  

Horn that whistle! Blow that Jericho Blow!

Heard the shaking city and still the walls they hold

Prison or a bastion, definition by the faction

Of the days molded by the weather  

I missed the postal drop,”three-thousand five-hundred miles away”

“What would you change if you could?”

December or February, spelunking dead canaries

Four years ago and so and so the seasons never roll

“Been a Long December,” but I guess you know

See it on the faces of a nation bumping bureaucrats

Billionaire bank accounts and fast-food Honey-boo-boo nation

Apathy like snowfall, burnt eyes and internet polls  

Numb, numb, numb, bang the drum!

Stick my brain inside the oil and let the fear run

Given in to the slick; coat the coast and use the oblongata like a dipstick

Measure the treasure of what is in a man to last; escalating urge to stand  

Get up and walk out; call it a ten-run rule

Who wants to be part, a place to go, want out to see more perdition?

Seems a fool’s errand as this is a damned permission

For a sundress to utter yes in retort to start the day without the curse  

Whistle blows on the train, hitchhiking and no Woody Guthrie to be found.

Scent of the End Times

Life, the days to keep us breathing

Count of pages unknown, all in books with a finite number

One to flip the page and find not another  

Hours on Earth, keep slipping towards the sand

Proof the tide casts off and subsides

Laps the water over a throat with no more words to emote

To say, we only get so many before the bin is full  

The syllables ring like paradise and perdition

Stranded in the division of what I would say

If I was running low and knew today  

What comes of this love, these mistakes undone

Not of this place for long, I starve for faith

In any face and think to myself 

If I had but so few minutes in my allotment

I would run to you; I would find your name like a beacon

Hold you close and say nothing but the ending  

Of what I have to give to this world

Was given to you;

So in this I secretly smile so bitter sweet the fall 

I offer you me this pebble pond of incomplete

All the moments I thought of you when you were nowhere around

So many hours the only scent that made me smile

Without nostrils the redolent pheromones kept me while  

We have been apart and if

This period to the sentence were to come

I wish for you to know I am thinking of you

Life Lessons from the Water Closet

Life Lessons from the Water Closet 

Life can be summed up in many analogies

Here is one that for this day I think befits man best 

Which type of person are you? 

Say you are employed by a small company as a standard worker,

Not owner, but paid wage per hour

There is no janitor or ordained employee dubbed with the task

Of replacing the toilet paper on the roll  

You are aware of a supply closet on the other side of the office

Also somewhere in your consciousness of the bathroom is a smaller cabinet

Underneath the sink which sporadically holds one or two rolls

Dispensed from the greater number from the closet 

When you have fully dispensed the roll in the holder,

Do you view the sub-inventory beneath the sink?

Do you implicate yourself with a mandate of culpability?

What if the bathroom’s held storage is depleted,

Do you venture to the storage closet?

Do you replace not only the roll, but to a greater share

ensure the sink’s reserve is also filled? 

These are the questions of our times,

If in this scenario is in one’s home, one can find a self-indulgent satisfaction

With a portion of generosity mitigated by the likelihood that the anus unable to be wiped in the next iteration of fecal excretion absent of toilet paper is one’s own or one’s genetic progeny is that bit much higher than in an example existing in the public  

So I ask you sir, as Bukowski said, “Even the most horrible human being deserves to wipe his own ass,” what type of person are you?   

How many dispensaries of injustice to you see about the populace that you hold yourself culpable as you take from the till to meet your own needs?  How many depleted rolls do you cast yourself independent and justify your ambivalence? 

This to me on this day dabbles quite aptly with the existential and the pragmatic that I think even a child of say seven could understand.

Yokes

Yokes 

I miss you sometimes, I do

The thought of you crosses; I find myself staring into a speck of paint

Penetrating into the color fading past light into what is capable of being touched

With fingers, seen with eyes and then imagined in my mind 

The sensations meld with clarity of distance

That know you are away and then here, perpetually here

In these waves phasing into whispers of debate  

As the memories confound like traffic accidents that a vehicle may slow

Even though the road is not blocked and a safe, yet moderate distance

Is kept between ones vehicle and the car in front as not to extend

The time it takes that as that traveler imbibes the seconds to stare  

One does not; one does not look with the indulgence of recollection

For the visceral magnet of what may be had could be all the more damaging

So my views are into the piercing motion of non-motion

The dynamic compromise of wanting to hold desire  

In palpation of artery and return in vein; the fluid it winds its way

To miss you sometimes, I do  

This road it keeps me yoked as a tandem ox severed, choking on occasion

That you are neither the mammal absent in this device, nor its creator

My throat it constricts sideways pulling always to the left  

As bed sheets lay and my body insists on sleeping on the same side

Despite the open room, the vacancy is engulfing at times

I miss you sometimes, I do  

The looks, the wonder are all asking me tonight

If at any point I ever had permission for you to want me to apply the ache

Of loneliness and such simplistic vaccines, even if the inoculant was seasonal

Knowing influenza abounds each solstice with a repugnant comeuppance  

I take umbrage that the damage of want is corrosive  

As in this I simply revel in the cushion of want for a chest to assert

That neither of us suffers in this carnival of fields to plow

Knowing we will return to the yoke, but in this we have but in a moment found balance

In Motion

In Motion

Some men by their nature are runners

In motion gallivanting through the populace collecting comment cards

Votes and idealistic wisdom as what others say about them

Is somehow applicable to the introspective clamor of idolatry  

The movement is a servant to the farce that what one does is what one is

Rather than what one intends or of what one thinks

For perception can turn the devil into the saint and

Transpose the two before the dawn; again and again etc.  

I have seen the dance steps mapped on floor boards

Collected like crib sheets documenting the affairs of great lovers

Dabbling in Eastern positions of coitus appalling and enthralling Puritans

The leverage is intoxicating of what one could be as long as one moves  

I have stopped moving World

I have found a tablet to settle, not in a limb, hand or knee bending,but in meditation  

As if the standard example of legs crossed arms folded or held together with eyes shut

Was applicable, for it is not, the very blocking of regular motions and those motioning

Is the antithesis of task of what one must do to achieve true meditation

I breathe in the commotion of the doers practicing the devil and saint charades  

To be as they are in myself yet still, I am opposed to the friction of knowledge

Allowing knowledge to be knowledge positioning its own motion for me

As ideas move so that I may be at peace in a singularity of fluidity

The thoughts come in unopposed and tranquil despite the wars or travesties  

Of Monday morning headlines, seeing the tales of greedy men parade

With bullets, stock tickers and clouds of dirt toiling into smog

I try to be as a redwood might; if trees had the attention span to bother themselves

With ranges of movement beyond the precipice of what is bad for another  

Is bad to the whole; to defy such is juvenile fragmentary discourse
To consider disjointed annihilation as part of the discussion, only a fool would utter such oblivion

So as it is, the trees do not speak, do not amble about with such immature drivel

And yet I am as plant-like as the limitations of my biology will allow  

I see the highway men of commerce and they tempt me with their status cakes

Eat to grow big and no more need to pass through the door

You can now knock down the wall and march into wonderland 

So the question is all again the marching, the motion, the walking;

The damnation always begins with the movement

The Breakthrough

The Breakthrough  

I remember the time and circumstance of the breakthrough

It was then; that is all that is relevant

For what was eventful for me is quite irrelevant for any other

As the perspective beholden is the only matter, which matters  

To peer into the sound between the quiet

The one the world is clawing to insert like a constantly running dishwasher

To cram inside ones consciousness

To hear the detergent bubbling and gurgling on crusted debris  

Meander through the foam and find the ocean in equilibrium

The measure of entry and lack of escape

That muscles lack the energy to support limbs’ return to shore

When the knowledge hits, the reaction is a pandemonium of the either or  

Love or fear systemic like the bubbles pulsing upwards

From methane vents splicing heat and reactionary chemistry

To channel the origin of biology evolving through the confluence

Of time, energy and possibility placed in eons of this comparative planet  

Against the next in a universe upon universe folding in tangent pulses

Through the gravity of black-hole dimensional worm coils approaching

Collision in wave upon wave calculating the exact moment to exhale

Into oblivion and revelation that these actions of undulation  

Occur quite naturally from the minute complexion of cells in an eye

Viewing a screen scrolling up and down to the peeking normality

Of one universe yawning awake or one vent in a body of water jettisoning

The old design of nonorganic into the carbon-variation of what a pupil is 

I am in totality functioning amongst the stasis of nowhere

Embracing the realization that the gargle of the wash is unavoidable

If the infinitude of silence is to be embraced as nothing of the sort

As sound is only a paradigm of sensation inadequate to perceive the magnitude  

Of that which we encounter; so in this I give certainty away

As love to a child with terminal illness; I give you compassionate willingness

To prolong the value of existence in the air bubble of worthiness

I exit, I enter, I exit, I enter  

I see, I breathe, I hear, I touch, I taste, I sense the numb as I would nothingness

Knowing the preponderance is unfelt, un-sensed, undetected

We feel in a microcosm; so tangential, I hope peering inward

The sun is so lovely just beyond the horizon

Acoustic Medley Saturday

Acoustic Medley Saturday

The space when no one else is here

Bob Marley is humming an acoustic medley on my stereo

“Searching the hard darn day for a woman to find my mind

Someone told me I could find her here” 

In the whispering walls of banal Saturday

Nowhere to go but inside the call of an internal

Every day I see my way all the more monk-like

Peace in a divergent concept of time 

I am trying to be as in touch with stone as my flesh will allow

The harsh is washed, the calcification is a misunderstanding

Surviving the winter is a fire pit of cinders ascending

“I’ll push the wood, blaze the fire.  Satisfy your heart’s desire.”  

The notes ride in incomplete sentences singeing on temperance

The mortar slips into a chasm of corners looking for happiness

Patience is a glint splayed on a sun beam, no hurt in vain

To the train’s horn blow repeating 

“If you don’t go looking for happiness, I am a hurting inside.”

The lever of ambition and letting go, the flow of time is a clenched hand

When exposed bone outside the self, patience in the love held

For one’s own possibility, to be by definition loveable  

Capable of taking in, man must form a basin of containment

For that which he wishes to offer to pose an arrangement

Of reciprocation the fears the compassion the last of the entanglements

Patience roots like rosebud, monk-like in the throes of time

Manufacturer’s Holiday

Manufacturer’s Holiday 

Call me curmudgeon if you want

Ration or science or poet or biased-angry mammal

This season reminds me of my nightmares

It breeds them like cackle-crows wafting in a murder 

I have grown to abhor Christmas,

Almost everything it stands for appears fraudulent, hypocritical and contrived

Aside from my own personal crucible 

My child is now eight and this past year I enjoyed the benefit

Of ceasing to be a grand liar as Christians are taught to do

The fairy, the bunny, and the Claus were all debunked

In a contemplative child’s inquiry and so I was released  

From the pact Christian parents are taught to do at baptism

Deceit as if one font of water has exclusivity on salvation

So we barter our urge to do the right thing, to be good-people

That well, if not for me, then for her, for this tiny girl days-old

Indoctrinated as I was, as her mother, with papers signed into a census  

Of innumerable bodies counted by the Pope as among a flock

Despite denouncing allegiance the bureaucracy refuses to quit

Sending donation envelopes to my domicile or to claim my partisanship

I am waiting for the form to un-enroll; 

Send me to your hell, perdition or limbo, if you still want to waffle the term,

If it amuses your sense of ownership on the ultimate indulgence, an afterlife

Yes, most humans want there to be a purpose to existence that is explained 

We want to cuddle with justice and recompense, grand design

Our necessity for religion is due to a lack of trust in self and a lack of trust in humanity

To do the moral action given a lack of eternal retribution

Threatened through the unverifiable 

We hunger for punishment or reward to be monitored

Rather than innate to our choices

Anchoring inside the dusty-room or our being in the now

Consequence echoes in our illusion of time  

The epoch of eternity is tantalizing, yet improvable, irrelevant and by definition

If it did exist, is the work of a maniacal deity plotting torture and heinous acts,

That I would better rebel in dubbed impudence to stand for true morality

That such tomes purport to extend 

After my own experiences in recalling the advice of suicidal and murdered priests

I am left laughing; hysterical hysteria of mythologies and damn-right mad

That the world continues to play folly for imagined interventionist deities;  

The arrogance is the damnation the system claims to avert

Babbling nonsense to empty air in place of homelessness and famine

Mental health treatment and a single avenue for mankind to find redress

In such irrelevant spiritual contracts between man and woman

Or asexual decrier of sexuality in all its iterations,  

The scrolls are found fallow by an internally spelunking theist turning deist

To see that contact is impossible by the definition of our own physical existence

Of protons and electrons the neutrons in the matter should be apparent

Yet we seek preference based on such low hanging fruit as worship  

Or the avoidance of apocalyptic retribution in the baffling infancy

Of our evolution on a tiny planet in a universe awaiting our very non-eventful extinction

As ninety-eight percent of species that have ever existed on Earth 

Gyrations of warlocks and tax deductions, power structures and poverty sustainers

My Christmas gift this season to myself and my child with the magical sparkle of Santa

Has faded is to dissect the mythology of Jesus so that reason has a space to breathe

Amongst this ocean of deceit, the lies, and end based on the ability to intake that  

Which humans older in exponential factor of her age will not pause to contemplate

Based on reactionary disgust bored into thought by the ironic fear that

Loving one’s self to see the possibility of eternal reward or punishment

Is not and has never been a system to rationalize morality 

The conduit is innate to reason alone, not Rah, not Odin nor Judeo-Christian lore

I say this not to disparage those of divergent clans or spaces of ideology

But know the very mythology of pages in my eyes divides this world

Blinds this world and is the root of far more pain than reconciling assistance  

It is the systematical desegregation of mankind which was once split

By language, by region, by continent, by migration pattern

Yet we are here galvanized by digital informational technologies

On the precipice of our war between the alliances of those who claim to converse

Or represent those who have conversed with the divine 

And those who see the beauty of what is possible when one burrows into one’s self

And simplicities rain in the beautiful darkness that coats us in possibility

I do this not for obedience or fear, but by free-choice and love

An Island for Ulysses

An Island for Ulysses 

The solstice and the whole grip is slipping

Bleeding out the inkling on a battlefield

Of a man stabbed and drained, healed over and strained

Staring at the stitching on occasion  

The gray above the grass, the fog of revolving mornings

Stashed away like monotonous Wednesday’s

Bearing not the agony-joy of spending weekends alone

Or the recognition that the work-week is a feckless chorus  

Mid set like sand rising above a shallow sea

Barely collected like a pointless island

Travelers could traverse to and from the shore

Yet the body lays languid in the mist bank  

I recollect your skin

Like a raft for a man that pretends to need a raft

Feet, arms functional yet leaden with memories

Assumptions of beyond winter, hours uncoil from here 

Time is enemy, cackling fiend of the frozen stance of contemplation

Inventing operational progression by burrowing into self

The books of atheists lending hands in exchange for honest rational accoutrement

In the pages all I remember are your curves like parallax waves  

Undulating as caution and mercurial fancy

The motion has scent, intoxicating pheromones swaying from siren to redolent-homeland

Ulysses be but a pedestrian

Anchored in the anger that the vessel’s boards are riddled with cannon shot  

Indulge me for the crest; be but a breath with my head in the pasture

Of perfumed feminine follicles lassoing my guard to vulnerability

The moment of perpetual motion like calculus

Undefined and approaching an approach as if how in this instance of now  

Is tangent for a measure inhaled and then left aloft in recognition

Of a totality that keeps these feet anchored wanting and thinking

And like an Artic seal finding a breach of ice

This patch of sweet ambrosial pheromones is oxygen itself

The Core of the Matter

The national discussion America is having right now exemplifies our immaturity as a nation.  The number one way that America can address gun violence is by ending the drug war, but instead we are squawking about ammunition clips.

Our infantile attachment to reactionary policy and band aid sentimental politics rather than delving into mathematics, science or reason to contemplate and bore into the root of our societal ills is predictable and damning. 

Prohibition of any good by the government must be used with extreme caution in context to the level of capability of the now-made criminals from over reaching the boundaries of the state and the magnitude of the breach of morality when doing so.  The preponderance of gun violence in America is a direct result of drug prohibition.  Therein the expansion of our addiction to prohibition will invariably lead us into further perdition.

America was founded in revolution in an age where firearms existed.  If guns were present during similar preliminary stages of policy for European powers, broad swords would be deemed an equal candidate for defense of the populace.  The shear girth of America’s unexplored west, which required the assassination of millions of natives for the European-founders to conquer as if America was Rome, necessitated the average settler to bare defense and assault upon those whom he intersected.

We have crossed a threshold of adoption.  This includes rifles and semiautomatic weapons, but not missile launchers or grenades.  This has nothing to do with hunting and everything to do with fear.  Retracting firearms with a gigantic levitating magnet from a roving blimp and leaving the remainder of household toasters and high definition televisions intact is as likely a solution as prohibiting guns in America.

The drug war produces a neo-slavery amongst the poor, which produces a malignant economic cancer that paralyzes minds into bypassing the traditional tax and educational systems.  By converting our systematic processes of facilitating marijuana, cocaine and heroin in America to controlled substances rather than illegal corporate industries, we could address the turf wars and gang violence which are a direct result of the dysfunctional economics created by prohibition.

What happened in Newtown was horrible, but it is not surprising or novel.  The rank of the gun violence common to the drug war touched an idealistic Northeastern suburban canvas.  America is hyperventilating. 

Yet as before Newtown, any person could choose to perform a terrorist act on a school, stadium or subway station at will.  There is no public safety system capable of stopping an individual willing to perish in trade for the death of others within a ten minute time limit.  This is a standard contemplation of every Baghdad mother. All appendages to legislation to promise this assurance are fraudulent.

Now we cling to our weapons on the double edge of fear.   What others will do and what we must hold to deem ourselves adequately self-sufficient.  At the core of this debate the fear must be bathed in an unsettling tolerance for what might occur given the free will of man. 

The placating balms of religion, faith, the police, human compassion and familial promises each represent a flawed contractual mechanism subject to the core leverage of man inside his out court of free will.  To avoid the anomaly of terrorist murder-suicide, the core of the matter includes a man having a measure to lose in exchange for his biological continuation upon this planet.

How long are we willing to barter the health of our totality for our judgmental preoccupation to hammer a moral high ground over the psyche of the economically disadvantaged?  No more.  No more.  

Do you want to address gun violence in America; end the drug war with a systematic, economically sound paradigm that treats addiction as a medical issue allows American taxpayers to regulate marijuana, cocaine, and heroin as market commodities.   

Cartels will be impoverished.  Poverty will have a chance at being addressed and as Lincoln said we can quit making crimes out of things that are not crimes.

My impersonation of a Conversation with Corporate America

My impersonation of a Conversation with Corporate America 

The People (P): “Sir, may I see your pockets?”

            Corporate America (CA): “Do you have a warrant?” 

P: “Well no, but we kind of buy all your stuff.  So if you won’t let us look, then that is kind of a dick move.  “

 

        CA: “There is this thing called the SEC, no not that football thing, the other one.  Our reports are on the internet and supposedly these analyst guys are supposed to you know, analyze them to value our waistline before they make herd behavior panic-based decisions.  You can go look at that if you want.” 

P: “Yeah, I did that.  That is why we are here.  It looks like they quit making pants to fit your girth.  We had to call in the assistance of other planets to stitch you a shower curtain sort-of-covering for your genitalia, because your balls got so big to think we wouldn’t notice.”

 

        CA: “Yeah, my dad is quite proud or at least before I sold his organs to a transplant team.  The markup on that shit is like four thousand percent, bitchen huh!  That’s nothing, last year I had this whole pit of Guatemalan immigrant families caged in my basement making sweat shirts.  My brothers and I would go in there at night and rape the moms.  When the babies shot out we sold them off and made a killing!  Can I get a What-What!” 

P: “Wow that is really outstanding work, but you know I am not really concerned with that because America is hurting.  You know America, land of the free, well, where are the fucking jobs?  That big pile of XHTML reportable business language files with EPS and computations about markets and future prospects, I was wondering if our end will ever catch up that buying your shit we don’t need at prices we can’t afford will catch up to you guys since you are basically paying us as little as fucking possible.   

Like I think I heard Chris Rock says something, like minimum wage means if they could pay us less you would.  That is so fucking hilarious I never thought of it until you put my plant in China.  My wife and I really just laughed so hard after that so I wanted to just see what was in your pockets?  I use to remember looking in mine, but my hands are always moving now.  I don’t even remember what it is like to put fingers in there.  So could you help a fellow out? 

CA: “Nah that would kind of be breaking the code.  You see the bulge.  You know what’s up.  Them’s fucks in there.  I got ‘em stuffed to the rafters in the stitching, forklifts and everything.  This dude I know at the health insurance company, he actually had to dig into earth like the nuclear mother fuckers and stash all the fucks down there in a contained facility.  He got mad bling yo!” 

P: “So not even a peek?  Can I have one?” 

 

           CA: “Nope.  I just don’t give a fuck.”

Deliberating Employment

Deliberating Employment  

Much too dangerous to delve into the financial requirements

Of an expected future employer while being paid to meet

The supposed needs of one’s current drinker of one’s labor      

The risks of the crows watching, it is all but a den of thieves! 

I am among them, stealing minutes at will

Latching to my laptop like a junkie craving appeasement

To be doing anything other than what I am asked to do

So that I will venture onward and then do the same  

Always racing mind to play hide and seek from my body

To be thinking in one playground of factory

Conspiring or fantasizing independent of the mundane drudgery

Of the known  

I cast eyes at the incense rocks of Jerusalem, the sea salts of Spain

The journey is bred into my consciousness as if I bare origin

To a nomenclature centered on this planet  

The elemental is dangling like daggers of depleted nutrients in my skin

Raining blades with no shield to hold aloft my skull

Knowledgeable of the consequences of staying put

The precipitation of understanding is to set foot in muck  

Postulate the benefits of commitment to be sacrosanct

Weld these iron beams to my femurs to be used as stilts

For the optimum existence,  

I am starving; I am famished in this wasteland of now

Corrupted by a conflagration of the intestine

Singeing my spine as the hours climb towards the realization

That my heart is now affixed to this temperament  

Incapable of hope itself that what my mind dares and dreads

Dares and dreads to contemplate as possible is instead simply a mirage

That there is no other; there is no beyond  

Like my childhood abandonment of post-mammal salvation,

There is only this and escape is an illusion of vantage

Preference is a bartered good between one’s self in a zero-sum game

For the vessel is the continent is the planet is the universe 

Narrowed to the holder of any thought

We all know the end, fighting with all our being to avoid recognition

Financial Advice to Generation X

Financial Advice to Generation X 

I warn you Generation X’er that stocks are vile lottery tickets!

The hive beckons to lay wager at the seat of the incestuous mountain top

Dog pile one onto one, until units become legions

Armies upon armies with elbows wiggling, knees gyrating for position 

The financial rigmarole has become incestuous as commerce

Has become of a common genial line with the arranged marriages

Of brothers to sisters to mothers to sons,

There is no passable exit from this vomitorium!  

Without the rancorous grasp of pedophilia and beguiling courtship

To partake in the craven, wanton ritual of fantastical profiteering!

One must be superior inserting into the bowels of another

A wrenching thrust of conquest that one canine has asserted his dominance 

In the wasteland apocalyptica, pennies are added to share price

For the exchange of excrement oozing down the crevasse

Cold barren and icy, the glacier of frost preserving our planet is melting! 

The accumulation of wealth into the stomachs of the Great Danes

Is billowing the furnace of consolidation into a monotonous opera

Of single note Valkyries humming Wagner’s nightmares

In a low banal cream of normality straight-lipped and hypnotic  

The basement is full of General Videla’s Argentine auction

Of the progeny of raped private prisoners funded by ambivalence

The horror masquerades as doing business 

So in, we vote with our dollars, our purchases and our outcasts

Those who we banish for daring to lay claim to reason or science

Or any of the grand threats to the fanatical tyrannies of the exchange or the altar 

When you vote only buy their debts due prior to 2020, tax them back every opportunity

For to barter their equity is to join ranks, be their despot claim holder

Pull rank over vile contracts of the lottery, do not hand them a discounted loan

For a promise they will never dare fulfill in your lifetime  

For the calling time is coming in less than a decade from now

The equity of the Western world will be gobbled by two primary groups

In a power shift to change the century to come

As the Boomers retire and forced to sell their shares to live  

The rising middle-class masses of South America, Asia, and Africa and

The Generation Xers of North America, Australia and Europe will unite!

The crucible of the dollar will be at the turn of the tide, the moon high

The crag jagged for the climb up-ended into a domino dissension

Into the madness of recompense, the troth of the unending CAFO lot

Will be spilt for the pilferers to syphon among the feces of the dying

Being herded off to the slaughter house

And in the combustion of the commotion is a bellowing cry of

Sell! Sell! Sell! The medicine is due, the sickly, the deranged mummies of Medicare

Are calling for an allotment of Wal-Mart and GMAC to sack the dog pile 

For the consequences of the present come due!

Who was once stepped on must be ready to rise

So if you buy in now and hold you only change your mask

As all the great century profiteers of history, if you are to make assumptions  

Make this, the mountain is set to explode by 2020, the quake in 2008

Will be but a tremor, a pre shake to the S&P500’s expiration date

For the wrinkled to be pruned in a sun bath of endowed marriage

To a lich of historical despair,  

Woody Guthrie turned mute will cry out to the boxcar men and women

Approaching nursing homes and this nation invested outside the

Digital and biotechnologies to address this foul fire-sale

Will perish in an excoriating rebuke to the foundation  

Of such kingdoms of assurances that, what was purchased will be in ascent,

When I beg nostrils to be dilated to detect the rank of statistical probabilities

Approaching like the call of a bartender shelving the ale! 

Be not started as the drunkards stubble to the street!

Be alert and conscious to pick their pockets, as they have pilfered yours

In the debts our nation has accumulated to assure your inheritance was dispensed

In the very coffers we seek to reclaim! 

Foundations of economy are stolen in such regard

It is the unspoken evils of decade upon decade

That one’s destitution is another’s prosperity

How else could such mountains be built? 

Oh, such pandemic ruin; there is no glee in the opulence of greed

Teetering on pilings of pandemonium, the witching hour is whispering!

Motives

Motives 

There is nothing more overrated or feckless than a motive

Gunshot murder suicide, if we only knew why

Put the felon in a box, latch the combination lock

To forget that the demon in the cell could be us as well  

The hell it dwells it breathes lifting dumb bells

When we’re not looking, it is working out

Exercising our monsters in closets doing non-partisan voter registration

In the community halls of our mind taking over synapses  

Cuddling with the blind orphan children burrowing inside our id

Waiting for the superego to pull off the wrong defense mechanism

And let out our inner kid, rambunctious impetuous fuck

Slamming over garbage cans and spilling the sewer water amuck  

Reasons flooding red-black in the streets

Holding protest rallies where logic and anarchy meet

Shaking blown-up hands, cocktails explode

Thrown at glass houses and asbestos mobile homes  

Built to kill us from the inside and then let out

Caged dogs howling and meandered the doubt

No fences, dirt-grass yards urine stunted the green-discard

Leftover explanations and out come the monster manifestations 

Marauding about the populace, Trojan horse evacuating consequence

Assumed this face could be trusted and that one could not

Defy the stereotype and hold the law in a conundrum sailor knot

Ships are burning in the harbor and the news team wants a reason  

Tell them because the monster made a choice and it does not matter why

Because none of the citizens are leaving

Wrapped up in trust, fear and the blanket of known’s

Staying by the fireplace warm in their anesthetized homes  

There is a motive, an explanation as stone on the cave

Don’t need to go looking, aghast the body is still inside

No magical elevator carpet ride

The rabble-crowd is placated the blood thirst satiated  

We got our man and we now why

The devil was brewing and over the coffins we cried

The bodies were brushed and buried atonement on Charon’s ferry

 

Paid all the debts for the meandering regrets

Still floating for the names we voiced our dissent

That we must know before we let go

Pine box for a body, burial of a mammal  

Family pets need eulogies, knowing he had the nerve to shoot the

Only father he had over known, right through the eyes

Like a Cracker Jack box, the murderer opened the prize

Perdition not a big enough threat, this bastard must have had an illness  

For the message to be sent, look out Ma we got a crazy!

Running the streets and bombing the babies

Setting firecrackers in tummies when cherubs are sleeping

We got a wolf in the pasture and we all quit listening to the screaming! 

Pop, pop, pop sympathetic music for the evil that heaven begot

Fallen from the free will of an angelic line, so in we are deemed

Part of the divine, he has me, me as you, we as he

Put that motive under a pillow, pretend to be a kid  

Nonsense, nonsense; that is no mature way to live

Seeking the reason without reason is nonscientific

Befuddled by numbers and dopamine

Explanations that one should not want to be wrong,

Should not want to be a killer, but 

What if one does, is that motive enough for you?

Do we need a societal fix, a condom for the infected prick?

Spreading its immune deficiency death in men with no form of regret

Shooting sperm-bullets fathering vengeance  

Or just another mother-fucker repainting the pavements

Queen with her roses, man with his poses

Red, Red, Red, Red-Rum Calling us informed calling us dumb

Sitting on the sofa with nothing to say,  

Lobotomized by the media-bulimia reflecting our self

Up on stage, confronting what we could be, Are we not entertained?

Keep mesmerized, keep the measure, keep the time

Keep the motive scrolling in a screen crawl time line 

Count the dead, interview the cousins and clean the dust out the ovens

Piled up the worst of us, living within the veins of men

Duality acceptance, that sometimes there is just a choice

And it is that dark.