Why My Left Leg Is Longer

Rings of a faded coffee stain dream

And old men arguing in early morning cafes.

He never knew me at sixteen.

Shutting in horrors of heroic death

And letting the mother do the discipline.

He never knew his own at forty one.

Stroking soft maroon almost asleep at the wheel,

Then waking up to such delicious smells.

She barely met the better part of me.

Trying desperately to forget inequities and

Remember the hours of backyard gadgets.

He never saw me outgrow anything again.

Everyone Hates A Tourist

The very last hurdle of this dead horse race

Is set at a distance determined by hate.

Sometimes it's a fence or a winding river or

A millionaire's idea of a made up line.

It builds up devils and strengthens their cause

That thickens the mortar of a blind man's brick.

The resorts of the earth have shielded their eyes

With elaborate cocktails and a well-oiled lie.

Mothers and fathers unknowingly condone when

They call their child anything but their own.

The colorful labels we put on their sleeves

Continue to tear at the fabric of we.

But let's not forget the arbitrary gods and

Arbitrary wads of paper stuffed down their throats.

Theirs is the diet of a bitter selection that

Leaves out nutrients that make a real connection.

Burn down this building built from our flags

And rip out the tags we pinned in our ears.

The foundation of language is learning to listen,

So unplug your ears and turn the ignition.

And Down Again

I have grown up

Grown out of taking turns

Grown out of old shirts and
Into new sweaters with cigarette burns

Grown out of making movies with an
Artificial lens

Grown out of making friends

Grown into lighting candles regardless of
The scent

Grown into blocking time
And out of marking Lent

Grown out of fearing summer's end

Grown out of heart and mind

I have grown up and down again.

The Battle Of Missoula Montana

Two silent soldiers in arms and in sounds
Stood next to each other exchanging slurs
And friendly stabs to the growing gut,
But no one can tell when the other is serious.

Which one is a prophet? Which one is a fool?
If claiming the future makes you a fraud
Then they both killed for money just in
Slightly different ways, ensuring they got paid.

The one that sees himself as the flowering kind
Sits and sucks in death with a slightly bended wrist,
Pondering and laughing about how they never kissed
Until their skin had peeled back to show a foolish grin.

The other sees himself on a high and lofty cloud
In a heaven that rewards theft with eternal life.
But the cloud is tied to a blond haired, blue eyed,
Wannabe god that screams at him to come down.

Perhaps in all the battles won and lost together
They never had time to hear the truth over
The noise of an outdated melody;
The real truth is only for one to see.

Don't Be Fooled By Artificial Sweetener

The future will never taste like rotten berries,
It will perpetually die inside chemical lines
That one man hides with the grass root
Cloak of deception that everything will be fine
If we just look inward in heart and in homeland.

One white pearl in a mouth of rotten teeth
Will make chewing and swallowing unbearable
Tomorrow for both him and the starving
Children he's forgotten or chooses to ignore.
Because spending is what the refund is for.

What you spew is just multi-colored hate
Wearing a suit of faded paper prints that only
Small men cling to when the past is wearing thin.

The Sound Of Hunger

Save your singing for ears that hear deeply
For deep have hearts sunk into the dirt
To awaken with pulses the wondering worm.
No song is too low for those with no home.

Melody misses those far above the blade
That sees itself in different forms and
Offers itself to ancient storms to shield the
Living and the dead that freely allow them to grow.

Liberate the earth!
Liberate the soul!

The dough so sweet with a man's skin
Turned to a working class race that
Knows no race, but the taste of sweat
Strikes my bones on the loudest drum.

Burn down nations to an old bitter clay
And build up an oven with the fire of life.
Starve yourselves of everything but common things
And common men will come to know the world.

A Pathetic Right Of Passage

Two righteous men of God mock with all
Their might at one asserting himself
For the first and very last time of his life.
All men become fools in junior high locker rooms,
Especially those who think the Lord's on their side
In a basketball game, too young to realize
he doesn't really give a shit.

Brotherly love becomes a brotherly shove
And a slow but solid fist to the face.
He was the one to turn the other cheek
Without crying foul but still crying out,
Bleeding from front to back on his knees.
The keys to the kingdom were lost that day
When the janitor swept up what doesn't exist.

A Town Called Sarcasm

White words fade quickly on a white screen
In a ever-shrinking white world where
Incestuous ink will soon be unseen.

Hell must be such a pale place,
Void of real life and real wonderful death
That moves to the visual rhythm of time.

No wonder the suburbs are such an empty place.
Creativity was killed and left to bleed out while
The murderers fled and encircled themselves.

The only sound you hear is  blind children
Screaming for their never-ending meals of
Hard-headed beasts and sauteed veal.

And when I have no choice but to pass through the fire,
Holding my breath to avoid deadly fumes, I think
Of the real color of a real open wound.

Mr. Professional

Why waste good curse words on any old boy
When they make a bigger impact thrown at a son?

Hell hath no fury like a man gone mad
With middle age and a useless back.
So just spit rage with plastic and metal
And mourn your disappointing offspring
With loud harsh words and a boot to the groin.

What good is a salary to play a frozen game
When dead pathetic silence is the ultimate cost?

All those anonymous parents nodding their heads
Convincing themselves what's good in the end is a
Sociopath teaching their children with rubber bullets.
But before you know it he'll have the bruises to show it
And you'll feel like a pimp with the money you raised.

Why waste your time sharing your thoughts when
He became everything you wanted but lost?

This third hand smoke from celebrity cancer
Is not gonna spread in the way that you want,
And all the protection that he says is weak will
Only prolong your sense of defeat.
So go on, enjoy it; the cycle's complete.

Just Before I Wrote A Letter

Half naked on the shag carpet steps and begging
For a man's ear to hear one last plea of
Youth for youth's sake then the door
Swings shut and we go off to the races.
Hands pulling up the center of the square
And lacing fingers between each thread
As if to pull the hair off a young mother's head.

Trying so hard to be the younger brother you
Never wanted made it easy for you to put
The garbage outside well before the ride
I would take into a living episode of a
Yearlong marathon of Who's The Boss.
Our friendship died a little that day but
I never saw poker in quite the same way.

The Man Who Never Moves

We are hard-headed
Soft-blooded
Creatures of optimum opium.
Fixing and burning
Twisting and turning
For a new kind of get thick quick scheme.

We have killer instincts
Living insects
With growing limbs to stay alive.
Dead pan expressions
Taking collections
That build up a plywood lie.

We want tighter skin
American gin
Mixed with the right kind of guy.
Fucking excuses
For all of the bruises
That show us the truth in his eye.

We are craving the stage
Disguising a rave
To convince all the doctors they're wrong.
Give it a shot
Right through the brain
Showing them where they belong.

The Aquatic Revolution

Sitting in this sweat brine two fresh fish
Touch flesh and share salt to give the blood
A little more taste. The aquatic revolution
is far from being bland, in fact it could do
With a little watering down from the high
Pressure seasons. We've only begun to scale
This flat black wall that makes the sea
Seem like a containable thing in our palms.

There's a mid-day, mid-life point of no return
Where up and down have abandoned their
Logic and flat is as meaningless as any other word.
Deeper is only the pressure of things that
Cannot surround you if they're already in you,
But what is a skull in a place with no air.

Spit An Image

Spit an image out your well-rounded mouth
And ponder its meaning and colorful purpose.
Does it show a landscape sick with green
Measles or a light pale sweat of feverish hills?

Picture this future with fervent conviction
That no matter how hard you try the hell-infested
Air will fill your lungs to make party shaped
Balloons that get thrown in a corner to slowly deflate.

Spit an image out before it's too late.

There will be no age on the digital screen or
Counting the lines of a fading oak tree.
We remember moments as single bits of make-believe
Space, ever-expanding the heaven of waste.

Mercy comes from a clean brain scan that's
Proof to the doubters who couldn't make a choice.
I wish I knew more of the medical field;
Spit an image out to see what's revealed.

The Quiet Ones

It's time to put on your game face
Your happy face
Your if you weren't just who you are
I'd tear out your beady eyeballs face,
'Cause it won't be my face covered in mace.

It's time to use your indoor voice
Your quiet voice
Your what the hell was your mother thinking
Why didn't she just abort you voice,
'Cause I'd give my voice to give her the choice.

And after all the work is done
The quiet ones have all the fun.

What Moves The Rolling Stone

The dark waves so hard and unrelenting
Move with this bow-less ship and
Somehow seem worse for the wear after
Men have reaped their fortunes and
Left their brides so bare and alone.
The widows paint their faces with the
Colors of fog and rain in winter
And come summer they will tell of the pain
That comes with the changing tides and
Changing lines that men decide to draw on maps.
How sweet the virgin with shapes springing
Forth and a color so deep beyond all eternity.
If left untouched men cannot live, but
The worst of things we do to ourselves.

The Ferry To Holyhead

We never took the ferry to Holyhead,
Though perhaps we did in an alternate universe.
But medieval cities are often the same
So let's focus on the gold rush instead.

We never met the captain upon an English river,
Though his ship doesn't sink, even when it's destroyed.
He's only one of many noble men that
Will still require warmth come december.

We never chased our Russian gods,
Though I have drastically waned in worship.
But over and under in under an hour,
Another kind of Mecca awaits the odds.

We never let a French breeze into our bed,
Though the scent of the sea is remarkably sweet,
And as I breathe it in I cannot regret
That we never took the ferry to Holyhead.

Eleven Ways To End A Man's Life

There are eleven ways to end a man's life.

One is through more conventional means than
Robot bombs from hovering drones.

Two is making him operate the controls.

Three is giving him limitless options
As long as his body is painted in red.

Four is the bullshit you fill in his head.

Five is teaching him how to read words
And telling him that they were written in gold.

Six is the fountain pen getting sold.

Seven is moving him out of harm's way,
Sheltering him from the noblest truth.

Eight is tying the knot of the noose.

Nine is giving him more than he needs
And telling him work can cure his disease.

Ten is letting him soften his knees.

Eleven is letting him make up his mind
And drowning the flower that someone could find.

The Subhuman Equation

Pull back at last seconds to stop motion from
Becoming emotions that could split stone
And wood alike, much like how I say I want
But I really don't want anything but a
Chance to be something whole and unbroken.
Enough is never enough for the barbaric,
Instinctive creatures of the earth that love
And hate and crush and make, all because
Of some ill-informed objective that never
Really existed anywhere but in their heads.
The finches were a fluke as far as my actions
Are concerned; ignite this fat and lazy slob
We call time because patience is not a virtue
If we are dragging animals around by the tail.

A One Size Fits All Future

Shed that dignity like the over worn suit
You throw in three different directions before
The sea of hurried hormones carries you
Into more arms than you have legs to stand.

Perpetual existence is stretching skin tight
The compulsion towards decision and whether
Or not you're ready for it, the fistful of long
Lost dollars will find your awe-dropped jaw.

Disappointing sons will squander your hard earned
Ethics with liquid assets of their own, but
We all end up becoming our parents whether
We bite the bullet or kiss the stone.

Blind men all pretend to sound the same, so
Embarrassingly innocent and paper frail that
You can hardly stand the guilt of sight so you
Pluck out your eyes, just like they wanted.

Soon they'll be so many new shapes you'll have
To rethink the square; geometry is the future
That you willingly failed so now you'll
Have to go back to make a new one.

If only there were a one size fits all that's
Not so dull, because it's really the only
Way to clothe each other in the cold dead
Space that our dimensions inhabit.

No More Make Believe

A rude comparison to man's best friend comes to mind
Like the song everyone has stuck in their heads
But wouldn't dare to sing out loud.
If words become scattered as they escape
My lips how does she expect me to show
Anything but the same range of motion that's
Part of their limited range of vision?
There's no changing the fact that I would cry
Infinitely more at the loss of a pet,
But maybe admitting it makes up for the
Causal nature of our final and lasting separation.
So let's not pretend there's any tea in those cups
That daughters set out to impress their fake friends;
Call it what it is and just let it end.

The River State Sideshow

Sick the dogs on those dirty sinners!
No mercy for the law if the law is mercy,
But what you sing isn't a song it's a
Hellish roar in the face of those
Who were once the precious thing
That you want so badly to call life.

Your absurdity turns the world into mimes,
Somehow laughing and crying at the same time
At your angry clowning of the truth.
With a suicide bomber disguised as a
Proposition, your best attempt yet was met
With a counter attack of a compassionate reality.

And for once I'm proud to know that voices can
Be heard over the loud droning of ignorant slurs.

Roger Had It Right

How far do we scale back the model before
We can't even see the things that used to
Tower over us like glass giants with
Steel skeletons and revolving shoes?

Even the sizably extreme could use a little
Perspective, but my fear is as cars become
Earthworms I'll be the bait that lures in
The future that's hungry for an afternoon snack.

While I was sailing over cardboard painted blue
I knew there was a limited supply and
We all know architects pretend to have more
Than what was given to them to use.

I'd much rather have what children create in
Their hearts but when their parents take over
They ruin the dream because they think the
Imagination isn't all it's cracked up to be.

So what if there aren't any flying fish?
What forces us all to be more or less stiff
In a world thats lucid and fluid and rich?
Just because it's not real doesn't mean it can't exist.

Knowledge Is Power To Destroy Or Create

Men make certainty their deadliest weapon;
Nowhere are trenches filled because of
A mind that was open to the endless
Starlit sky of possibilities.
If it were so perhaps the voiceless could
Empty their arms and throw them up to
Defend only life as it is on a day
To ever-changing and growing day basis.
Imagine the melodies that might have been
Sung if water was the knowledge to
Not make up your mind and bread
Gave us eyes to see through ourselves.
Rain could fall from all kinds of heavens
To wash clean the decisions that destroy us all.

Midnight Fever Run

The moon stays steady and swift along side you

As it traces its fingers in and out and around

The perfect grid-like lines of corn.

The rolling hand swims with the hills like

Some men who have to live on the road do at night.

Surely we've shared this midnight fever run,

In different places, in different times and 

Frames of mind. It's hard to get upset

When traffic slows because somehow it

Knows what to do before you do.

Conversation can't help but lean on the 

Heart of things that plead to be spoken.

The harmonic hum can come from nothing

But the beautiful eye that gives us the night.

I'll Be Bald Next Time You See Me

Old friends gather in familiar places with
Faces not yet too weary from the harsh
Winter of age, but I have left that
Place and many others and wouldn't
Recognize their voices if they spoke my name.

There can be no more talks of lunchroom legs
Or untapped ideals, no more naive solos
Or gawking at stringed idols; the session
Was stopped so abruptly by an
Immeasurable yet measurable thing.

Our once wide river has split into
Thin vein lives that carry different
Colored cells to very different organs.
One is spitting fire and skinning his dinner,
The other blowing smoke and contemplating winter.

We've come full circle on a half circle moon,
With the sun setting quickly but waiting
To return on a whim or a dare.
We might split hairs for the rest of our lives,
Wrestling with the idea of whether or not to care.

There's More Than Empathy Around the Corner

The cheering crowds won't sound so loud
When no one knows what to say.

Around the corner the very thing you hate
Is taking place under your awkward hairy nose.
But I suppose it's easier for all of us to
Let real life keep rolling down the
Hills that burned clean, wiping away any
Evidence of a suffering-free reality.
How is it that we're all afraid of doing
Something that no one can stop with tear gas
Or guns? Everyone and everything will go on
Living or not living when the signs are in storage.

But of course my ass is getting sore now,
So I'll go inside and make myself bored.

Putting Up With My Shit

The heart-breaking buoyancy of all this
Dead skin and liquid I shed from
My mind smells like a cross between
Bonfire and a bowel movement, and like
The latter it's a regular thing, a part of life
That's unpleasant but seems to be necessary.

Only there's no jokes or funny sounding words
Concerning my daily removal of a thin
Layer of confidence that's replaced by
A hard-to-crack shell that lets in only
Slim amounts of light and happiness.

I know the hammer I left for you to swing
Is unspeakably heavy and a burden to bear,
But when I see you raise it up it's easier
For me to let love split it and start to break free.

Paranormal Exploration

I've never seen a ghost.
Some people have; they seem to think so.
They feel it straight down to their de-evolving bones.

I've never seen a sign.
Some people dream and see prophets come alive.
They change themselves to become what they sleep.

I've never heard a voice.
Some people hear Jesus in garage door openers.
They change the words to be less than common sense.

I've never seen a man die.
Some people let it go and think nothing more.
Others keep it with them to shape who they become.

The Only Kind of Balance

False claims of beauty can never be made
For the tree grows which ever way it
Chooses and even the smuggest of
Overgrown apes cannot tell which branch
Will explode and lend us its greatness.
I found an apple on it's end and assumed
It was unclean; how more wrong could I be?
Nature reaches out to us beyond
Its roots that we must respect but
Not regret, believing in a peaceful co-existence
Of our minds to their minds and our thoughts
To their thoughts. We use pigments to
Vainly portray what they put together
And what we fight to keep apart.

Yes You Are Slutty, But Not Willy Wonka

It's like selling the spaniard's ear in an online auction

Or making fake arms cause you care for her plight

Or making the trumpet sound like a loon

Or giving it lyrics cause it sounds out of tune.

Or burning the wax cause it's taking up space

Or making a door at the top of the stairs

Or shouting out loud when nobody's there.

Or tearing the page cause there's too many "thou's"

Or dragging it out to be more than it is

Or turning it off cause there's words on the screen

Or casting it out if it might not have been.

Or burning the man cause it's not on the page

Or repeating empty words to sound like a mantra

Yes you are slutty, but not Willy Wonka.

Waking Up In Waseca

Cold brass slips and drops the weight
Of a ten ton pendulum that
Swings so gently with it's deadly
Precision. The left peak is heaven
And the right one is a fiery hell.

Without it's indecision the arms and legs
Cannot move a shriveled muscle, even
To wake the dying town that sleeps
Below it. What good would pointing
And blaming your uncle do anyway?

In the middle there is no voice,
No way to shout familiar phrases and
Belt out songs that we can hear in our
Head without even thinking. But old
Melodies were always the sweetest to you.

Shop class was much too distracting anyway,
What with all the noise and the dust and
The breasts and the death. It couldn't replace
What was already ticking and swinging
And trying to tell me what I needed to know.

Everywhere it goes the wallpaper knows
That it's only showing spaces in between
The highest of highs and the lowest of lows.
But when it lets go and comes crashing down,
The pendulum starts digging into the ground.

No More Borders Or Lines

My heart shifts quick in an undying light,
Never uncovering what should be left bare.
What would be left if dying is right?

Break yourself open to end the soul's night,
To leave it locked up just wouldn't be fair,
As your heart shifts quick in an undying light.

Peacekeepers would bleed to end this long fight,
Testing their strength with an impossible dare,
For what would be left if dying is right?

Blood flows slow in a space so tight
But I cut it open just to show that I care
And my heart shifts quick in this undying light.

How do we fix this stale and cyclical rite?
Does the unknown really make you that scared?
What would be left if dying is right?

The ground is soaked and painted with stripes,
Feeding the soil and killing the air
As my heart shifts quick in an undying light,
What would be left if dying is right?

What A Miserable Meal

Nearly half a decade of pretending not to
Cry and making up lies about why
I missed hockey practice have been
A precise and pin-pricking waste of time.
Snot mixes well with mashed potatoes,
And no one will notice if I add a
Little salt, except for the waitress
Who does nothing to sooth my torture
Except for walking away just before
I can shower her with a light drizzle
Of love and affection. Slicing through
The dead bull and into the plate I'm
Not even allowed to enjoy what I hate.
What cartilage bends, the bone cannot break.

Quincy Street Fight

Waiting with legs set and locked in
Position to strike I finally heard
Those pistol-shot words that somehow
Gave me permission to lay waste and
Put all my weight down on that
Poor boy's face. Not even his starved
And showing bones or his father's
Pending suicide could persuade me
To do otherwise; just one turn of phrase
Can haunt you in gruesome, never-ending ways.
I'd trade places in hell if it meant relief
For that poor boy's beaten soul, so he
Can quit reading my mind to punish himself
And find some relief from empty regret.

Just Take The Next Exit

My heavy foot accelerates with the rest
Of me and hurls us both into an unknown
Danger with speed but not accuracy.

We tighten our grips and twist at each other
But I've got my arms extended past
The rational road and you've tried to grab hold.

For a minute or two there's nothing below us
But space to die in a moment that we would
Both regret even if we were dead.

Even my lack of control is losing control
Like a bindingless book with the pages
Mixed up by a ceaseless and envious wind.

But your patience and beauty can overcome
Even nature itself to collect those
Unreadable scribbles I call my scattered mind.

Even if nothing else works at least I have cruise control
To help contain and cover the edges that
Are a little too sharp to be so overexposed.

At Least It's Protein

Friendly bums who share with each other
Somehow seem less threatening, like just
Out of uniform post-garbage men
Who need to work to get by just like
Everybody else. Then you see him sink
His teeth into a quarter of fruit that's
More maggots than apple and this
Happens to be a better meal than most.
Your overstuffed with cornbread gut
Starts to act as that part of your brain
That turns guilt into tangible pain and
Spreads it through your body in an instant current.
How hard could it be to walk twenty feet to
Get him a loaf that will only grow mold on the shelf?

Just Short of North

Like the beheaded pine, the veins and lines
Of my strength are chopped into blocks
To be used for deadly fuel.
It's true I was not growing; I had
Stopped halfway, thinking I was through
With the hardest part of aging, but
A usually bitter friend turned to ice
So hard it scorched my tips to
A crisp golden brown. Where is
My barber who so often trimmed my
Shape and made even the most dead
Things grow again? Make sure they
Pick up all the pieces of prickly skin
To make a bed for a thinning, ancient man.

Overflowing The Square

What spring rises from the dry and
Unworthy soil, wedged between a
Skin-scraping surface and a desperate plea
For a true and gritty, unkempt earth?
The paling purple eyes all but hide
Themselves from the barren critics of
Stucco and stone, but if they could
Truly see her they would cower in fear
Of her triumphant feats, blurring
The lines between what always is and
What really should be. She calls on
Us all to do more than admire her
Seemingly deadly edges; She wants us
To pluck her and pull her apart.

Don't Mention The Drag

Don't mention the drag in front of the
Young ones, God forbid you should
Let them think for themselves and
Live to die for causes other than yours.

Don't mention the drag to your mother
Who's sick from all the dead food you
Fed her, not knowing that what you
Hastily consume will matter in the end.

Don't mention the drag to the budding little star,
Who's campaign is funded to limitless
Ends, even though she'd rather be playing with
Friends than cleaning the car you wish you had.

Don't mention the drag to the ones who want rights
But don't like to think about anyone's choice
Or how life can change in a split-bone second
And make you beg for what you hated before.

Don't mention the drag to the hospital bed
Who will carry us all if the bank account's full;
No matter how slow our blood might become,
For every poor one that dies, a rich one is born.

So Many Hills To Climb

I am broken, stagnant, stiff and alone.
Without ignition I am a lifeless fire that's
Stuck in a hallow skull; the worst part
Is that the wrong kind of match could
Set me off and cause damage beyond
What most would be able to recognize.

It's almost like time has shifted our
Bodies into alternate dimensions where
Darkness is heat and daylight is a
Cold hard reminder of the emptiness of things.
My colorless, paper-thin skin is the
Enemy of my environment, but I suppose
I could try to shed it again for both our sakes.

Even The Doctors Can't Decide

Tomorrow will come and go quickly between
Breaths that I take and give into a
Machine that's supposed to train me
To feel less afraid, but I don't.
Such passive knowledge only comes in
Handy to impress cute nurses at
Cocktail parties, or the girl in the office
When she squeals from a paper cut.
We will more than certainly fail the
Test of courage when everything spills out,
Guts and all. It's not that no one cares,
It's just that we'd rather be somewhere
Else besides the dead center
Of life itself.

That Wasn't An Answer

Sitting here so blank on an open step
With God gleeking all over me makes
It hard to find shapes to form to
Express a state between a square
And a less than perfect circle.

It's less of the addiction and more of
The combination of a thankless
Aesthetic and a part of myself that
I cannot find, let alone show. So forget
What your grandmother thinks that you know.

I wonder if those cats on the signs are
Shocked by the lack of monetary value
Their owners place on them, or maybe their
Just glad to finally be free, unable to
Tell the cat lady how overbearing she is.

What was intended to be a response was
Just useless repetition, learning nothing
From each other except how strange we seem.
So don't say good even if it might be true,
You could be killing off your hopeless inhibitions.

Strange Figures In Dreams

I had a vision of the future in a brisk
Night sweat, so contrastingly cold was
The world where men weighed the
Worth of green scraps before the health
Of a man. Strange figures on screens
Controlled vast nations and nothing was
Left for what came out of the earth.
Half empty boxes stretched straight for
The sky while what was regarded as
Ants moved ten times their weight so
A few drunken queens are sure they get paid.
What made so many unaware of their state?
They showed me a sign with a picture of fear
And I closed my eyes and prayed I would wake.

An Illustration of Humanity

Some men sweat into eggshells and throw living

Toys to prove to the other boys they're good enough,

And other men play in the dirt so long their

Hands swell up into cooked Christmas hams to be had.

Some men read lies on wax paper and talk to a box

That looks like a bottle but sounds like a till,

And other men glisten and gleam in the sun for 

Everyone to see but not speak a word to for fear of infection.

Some men carry nothing and bring it nowhere but strain

Through the skin as if their muscles were bare,

And other men carry their own cures to others who

Devour and admire the so little flesh on their bones.

Some men suck whiskey and sit in the dark, feeding

Their children with bottles of ink,

And other men die without reading a word, and right

Now I'd give anything to know what they think. 

Destroying The Evidence

Watching silence shift through aching trees
I thought I might see Sunday again
In it's radiant age of wear and tear.
Holding back that which brings us closer
To the end will give me time to gather
The tears in bunches to burn.

I becoming living camouflage in child's play,
Except my fake guns were pointed at
An altogether different enemy today.
Right before I get a shot I'm forced
To dodge the silver bullets from the sky.


This time fire gets to serve its first
And last purpose as the ashes draw
Pictures of smoke in the air to show
Us how much we've lost our way.

Why The Rich Get Ugly

How hard is it to see yourself as

The human-hating, ketchup-eating,

Wannabe celebrity that you really are?

Put away your two-toned cars and

Never ending washing machines and try to

See life as it really should be for all.

Euthanized women scream your name but

I know you tremble in fear when 

The president calls you for another photo-op

And even though the end is near you just

Can't stop; You laid down trump for the

Very last time and even he is going to die.

So many corporate sponsors for so many

Confused children that think they're

Seeing ghosts described on the news.

It was all to save that poor penthouse

Where you go to be alone and give someone else

The bill. The devil's calling you so pick up the phone.

Like Striking a Match

The intensity and steel bending heart weight
Came on so suddenly like a canon shot
Through a paper-mache me. Usually it
Moves so gradually like a forest fire lit
By your last cigarette, but
Smoky the bear was fucking kidding himself
If he thought he could see this one coming.
It was just a few faint words that
Sent a shock through the earth and
Burned everything above the knees.

The pillow must have tasted like
Over-seasoned chicken soup, acting as
Earmuffs for a devastated, overstimulated crowd.
There's nothing less haunting than the here and the now.

Onwards and Upwards

Why do we build big things to move
Things that we cannot move so
Men can open their insides in
Much higher places? Yet so many
Are so low beneath an artificial
Ground that we make from our
Pyramid egos, and we keep raising
It up with strings that disappear
In the thick, wet cloth air.
We don't dig because we're afraid
of the rock hard hell we know
Is already there. No deal was made;
We did this on our own and
Eden is the lowest place we can go.

On The Floor In The Hallway

Why didn't you defend yourself?
Though he was a thick stock boy
You could have kicked or pushed him
Out of the way to make a point.
Instead you all but gave in and
Fell to the floor as an amputee,
Showing me your willingness to love me
No matter how red the blue eyes
Burned with rage so unaware.
No recollection kills me more than
The image of your words through tears
That spoke of fear but somewhere
Inside they were feeding a desire to
Begin the best of what I have become.

Outside The Dells

Haunting images that may or may have not

Been there surround the thoughts and 

Feelings of a fading line of history.

Losing the road while looking at road

that blends into eye and mind makes the 

Smoke from spinning wheels mine as well.

For seconds that the devil stretched into

Centuries, the earth shifts on it's axis

And it's almost like walking on the ceiling.

Grandpa's hard work has let itself

Fall into pieces, sharing stories in low

Places with a reverent collection of roadkill.

And there you are, the man that never changes,

Hovering above so desperately clinging to

Melting ice and leather for your life.

Boredom breeds fear outside the dells.

Windows may not shatter, but inside your skull

They're searing a brand to carry you home.

American Excess

Our pleasure is at the whim of weaker men.
Men who crumble at a scent in the
Air, or abandon that pregnant
Pause of gentle contemplation to
Suck on fire like a newborn to
The breast. Even those children of
Bad genes born know how to savor
The flavor and wait for the rest.
The masses turn Chopin into show tunes
And Magritte into street signs to
Be disobeyed and knocked down.
So I will sip slowly and hold in
The drag to protect myself and learn to
Enjoy what so many manage to destroy.

This One's Not A Metaphor

Train your children to trust in that
Oh-so magical elixir and soon they'll
Be funneling it into places you wouldn't
Dare speak of, let alone drink from.

By now it's plain and clear how things
We hear don't mean as much compared
To they way our bodies move, but those
Men who reach out hands have given up power

To receive power unattainable to the
Red wax figurines who dream of
Sainthood when they're alone in the bath.
Deep down they know they're not up to the task.

Whether they're on tv or in foreign countries
They are all alike, collecting spikes to nail
Their profits to the walls, but real
Men know riches will only make them poor.

California Cold Smoked

Filet my empty gut and slow cook
My insides to put in a sandwich
Or with scrambled eggs; I am
No different from those flat-faced,
Thick pink muscled fish that I eat.

I cut myself gils and swim upstream
Against the current along with them,
But even though I have a brainstem
It doesn't make a difference. I am
Out of control and under their control.

I envy with anger their brain dead
Unawareness of their fate or actions.
I tried to return to where I was spawned
And almost lost my mate along the way.

If I Were Lewis I Would Have Killed Clark

Before the map is drawn I know where
I want it to lead me and if
Something goes wrong, I will raise
Hell and Magellan will surely pay.

I will eat through and past to the
Bone if bone is in mind, and how
I get through is more of a nuisance
Than a way of enjoying the flavor.

What weatherman would have me waiting,
Eyes burning through his skull for truth
Or with a hatred for those who tell what
Can't be told? I am old amongst the youth.

Almost everyday I come to that dead white
Place that acts as heaven in movies, but
For me it grips and stretches my muscles and
Tendons with all my blood cells rushing my brain.

There's no twelve step anonymous program,
Just strange looks in Vietnamese restaurants
And an overwhelming fear of an exit ramp.
I'll kill anyone else who tries to write the map.

A Brief Botany Lesson

Even slight power will poison the plants

That you buried in good faith to

Grow into something you could prove
Yourself with. We are the ones

That water the soil and you have 

Tainted us beyond anything normal

On the ph scale; Growing is

Making room for others to rise.

The Unpredictable Companion

Today I saw an old friend from a place

I used to love, and perhaps love still.

The friend was mostly a pain in the ass,

The kind of guy that will shit in your

Yard to help you fertilize the grass.

The rare bright mornings he wasn't around

Were like striking a fresh match or a

New first kiss compared to when he

Was usually found spitting on the lawn

And talking to himself, complaining about

Not having what was there all along.

But it only took a few short weeks of

Not seeing his face to quickly rush back

The pain and pleasure of that deadly place.

The Unworthy Son

What parent do we hold responsible for
Losing that fat fickle child we call empathy?
Father was always drunk on the whiskey
He drank so proudly at the end of each
Day of pretending to sweat out his living,
When really it was just borrowed from
Those who couldn't afford a good skunk.
He never once turned around for any child's hand.

Mother watched but never listened and even
When her ears were open and her eyes
Looked to the sky, the mind-numbing
Moving portraits would twist her
Neck back down. If only they
Learned to talk less about themselves.

I was her brother and damn if I
Don't try, but so often evil
Catches my eye and sinks its swollen
Fangs made of glass into my neck
Injecting venom that goes straight
To my so often unused conscience.
I inject ink as antidote and
Pray for her forgiveness.

Not Such A Toad Boy

I am nothing if not a mammal,
So un-amphibious it's increasingly unfunny.
I get hypothermia from this alien air
That comes and goes with the haunting
Smell of uncertainty.

Forget those fucking climate cliches!
What harm is there in sweating a little?

Even a toad will dive in head first
For a second to get a feel for where
His body should be, so what's keeping
Me from losing these clothes that
Keep my warm blood boiling at every
Minor adjustment on the stove? But
New creatures never eat something so unfamiliar.

The Origin of Thought

One night I saw a man made meteor shower
Light up the sky and give me a show.
Lazy men who think they're gods finally made
Themselves useful in their forgetfulness.
What they left became flashing yellow suns
That synchronized in a perfect chorus
With the lamenting instruments on my radio.

I dream of this moment inside every moment.
So much desolate moving over time like the
Suicidal bucks that my uncle kills as
they sit down to breakfast, it will murder
Your chance at hope or reflection
Before you could even raise your head
And run and save your worthless life.

Let's bottle up the infinite life in our minds
And sell it at the farmer's market to
Share some part of ourselves that will
Eventually separate and go painfully wrong
If we leave it where it is. The truly
Organic and pesticide free are the ones who
Never shared it with me or even themselves.

An Inch Or A Mile

I can conquer my worst fears if I'm sealed

Inside a sweaty steel tube with fake air

Filling my lungs with chemicals that gently

Reassure, but real air between my feet and

My fate will turn my heart fast into a

Slow and steady ring in my ears that

Soaks and spreads to my muscles, the way

The letters run together when you write

Your name in the snow. No high or

Low can ease the ache that body 

Brings before the mind. It could be

Colorblind and not even know it, by

Then it has lost all control. The best

Thing to do is box me up and ship me

Where I want to go. As long as 

The label is legible, so I will know.

I am Buster, but not funny, barely able

To stand after the fall that never landed.

Reverse Migration

Noise travels easily over rolling hills

In such amplifying heat; no one

Is alone unless they plug their ears

With their freezing, white-knuckle hands.

Sacred solitude in winter's blanket is

Warmth beyond warmth, with distance

Shrinking the overgrown spaces and

Keeping people uncured but unfrozen for now.

Streams run quickly underneath ice and skin,

Multiplying and dividing into vast numbers

Of lines that hold life itself in the balance.

Those who went left have lost this game.

Such a persistent, untamed devil could

Only rule his own hill in a place like this.

If nothing dies than nothing is born, leaving

Would-be angels to fly somewhere less benign.

What cursed sense of irony makes

Me long for such a pregnant place.

I am barren of any desire to freeze and

Thaw and accept this ever-increasing volume.

Pointing At Stars

My severed third hand is buried under ground
Just below the line of penetrable light and
Just above the very peaks of hell itself.
It was the limb that no one needs but
Always needs, a constellation of connections
From mind to soul and soul to hand;
Without it I am grabbing at air with
Every whipped horse nerve running an
Endless derby of fear and confusion.
The great big cup in the sky is cheap,
Falling apart from lack of purpose.
The god of direction has given up and
If there's no north, there's no moving on.

There's No Land of the Living

Soon I'll go full speed spinning and screeching
Only to stop dead, no further along than I was.
Everyone else hears the music of the deaf
But every slight turn we take I'll feel
Straight down to my ever-shrinking bones.

Some will join me to come up for air,
Breaking free from the commuters coffin
But there's no land of the living where we're going,
Only films that teach things barely less than obvious
And talk to you from some ungodly ancient time.

Everyone's making their own brand of coffee
From shit flavored beans and purposely spilling it
On their shirts for some excuse to be alone.
Because the robot ants that are marching in
Around us are enough to make anyone crazy.

No one cares that they're a Pete Seeger song
And even those who said they'd overcome have
Now decided to join in on the fun, 'cause if
You can't be strong you'll only get weaker;
The joke's on those who can't sing along.

Such a Tired Metaphor

Where are those dark Sundays where the skin
Of those giants fade into a rustic hue from
The summer sun? Their sister in this
Place must feel so stagnant and sick
In such a desperate tropical hospital.
In the middle they die from middle to end.
It's something to aspire to, being so comfortable
With crumbling egos and knowing too well
The silver edges turning skin to mulch.
Boys and girls will play with their body parts
Until fathers set fire, giving off a scent to
Remember them by. Some will go to hell
Before they can die, while those that were
Patient will find the new life they have won.

Beach Party Bonfire

My mind is de-evolving like the wooden fence
In your backyard that's trying so hard
To turn green and back into and tree.
Soon we'll all be firewood and lose
Ourselves in heat; I just hope that I can
Spread far and wide and do some real damage.

Why fight such a radiant and natural destruction?
With a mind full of ashes, even the strongest
Of things will reach that breaking point of light
And spark either life or death, it all
Depends on fuel that you use.
So let's breathe it in and take a chance.

What we build is not separation between spaces
But more of a wall to hide from ourselves.
And when some kind of devil or god tries to
Bring it down with rot, we curse their
Unknown name and build it up again.
Let's burn ourselves and let it fall.

Geography

The strange sounding woman that's high on lies
Cannot save you, and sadly, neither can I.
We are burning while burning each other.

Like the pack of wolves on the prey
We race for the red-eyed, right-minded kill.
When we find it picked clean we'll turn on each other.

My kitchen smells of half-eaten meals
And such large pieces of uneaten meat, but
When one stomach is full there's always the other.

Some people must learn to drive with their toes,
When the one that went to market even has his own,
And if you've got eight seats there's no room for another.

We're addicted to shouting from such safe distances
While the dry desert eyes shrivel in the heat.
Only the lost seem to live for each other.

The Real Reason I Was Afraid of the Deep End

I am so slowly living and burning
Fully formed, so totally engulfed in
Blood red flame that feeds on the air I breathe.
I'm so jealous of that giant flesh switch.
Hanging from that branch with ten thousand feet
Below makes your fate concrete and hard to avoid.
We all know too well we won't grow wings
And even if we do what good would
They do in this ocean filled with weights
For fishline and chemical waste.

So take me out of this bucket and
Hit me with a spoon to keep me still.
You may not know it but I chose to take the bait,
Welcoming fate and forgetting free will.

A Winter Exercise

This sticky wax I put in my hair smells like
Alcohol and your grandma's perfume as it
Drips down and mixes with beads of sweat.

I'm so fucking sick of running in place.

A sharp pain seems to split things open
From my ankle to knee because everyone
Forgot to tell me what shoes I should wear.

I always lose the bet on a one horse race.

That's why I always liked ice skates, because
They make me feel taller and thinner and somehow
I felt more stable on two thin blades of steel.

And even though it could get unbearably cold,
It was the only time I didn't fall flat on my face.

Sunday Strangers

The running mouths that hum indistinctly are
Pulsing between the sound of an engineer
Trying to get noticed and turn all our heads
As the man with no legs walks by us again.

The pinstripe snow pants and virgin-white hat
Make a man doing business look like he's reading a tract
And contemplating his fate for the rest of the week,
But at least he's not wearing tube socks with shorts.

The reincarnated Minneapolis man must be
Running for office by the look of his mustache
And how he shakes hands with the motorcycle gangs
And lazy cooks who wander around and pretend to look busy.

Perched on the corner of a dead flower box is a
Baseball cap with a sound on its brim, trying to
Blend in with the dry, cracking paint, but if
I wait until tomorrow it might be too late.

The wind makes it difficult to start up this habit
And breaks it for some who can't be around the smell
Of a gun that's been fired up into the air,
Dismissing the clouds and inviting the sun.

A man who sounds like a preacher is giving his pitch
And speaking above them to seem more convincing.
His gesturing hands are seen in reflections
That add even more nothing to meaningless words.

The last half inch of what keeps me awake
Has now gone cold but I'll take it anyway.
As I start to get looks from a large, jealous ape,
I'll smile at the film star who's scared to get old.

Parallel Lines

A kind of red ink fills the lines of my fingertips

As my hand seeps into a foreign flesh surface,

Acting as eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

I envy the wine that you so gently sip.

As you spill yourself out onto the white paper lace,

A kind of red ink fills the lines of your fingertips.

Inside your skin you seem so well equipped,

Just barely covered by your knifelike dress

That's plucking out my eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

The well-guarded hole in my shirt is beginning to rip

And tear open to show such a large lack of grace

As a kind of red ink fills the lines of my fingertips.

I try to hold in my insides, tightening my grip

But without even a word, you clean up the mess,

Opening the eyes for these blind and wandering lips.

And as we enter the night of this full body trip

I yearn for the beautiful change in your face,

As a kind of red ink fills the lines of our fingertips

Acting as eyes for our blind and wandering lips. 

I Was Just Obeying Orders

So where is the captain of this half-eaten ship?
The great envy that swallowed all those down
Below contempt with a few frail men being left,
He knew all along that I didn't build it to last.

What hate could have driven him from bread to the
Bone that holds up the flesh of weak dreams and
Trembling knees of men who couldn't have lived on their own?
But if it tastes good, I guess I too would indulge.

The most terrifying thing is that it won't even sink.
The sea is a dry stew made of artichoke hearts
And the liquid that drips from a life that's too ripe,
Or not ripe enough, it's just too late to tell.

Whoever gave the order to unfurl the sails
Was either below deck or was already dead
From eating a compass the size of his neck and
The whole crew went blind the minute we left.

So the only way he could have walked to the shore
Was on the backs of those floating there, barely alive.
And if I could gather my strength and rise from my knees,
I would follow that shadow out into the deep.

Blame It On The Genes

There's always some kind of pathetic pressure.
Like the current in this sickly river
You walk past everyday, it pushes steady and
Hard and destroys your senses one by one.
It's a shock from a cascading current of fear
Or a curiosity that pulls you like you used to make
Your mother do in such painfully public places.
But I have to press the button and put the finger
Down my throat and there are things that
I could do that are much worse I suppose.
In my head they're not even words but to her
They are two ton bricks bearing her down
And shattering bones, so I'll build a dam and
Staple it shut, powering down and building her up.

Why I Need to Start Wearing a Watch

The fake bells from this corporate clock
Won't have any competition where I'm going.
The silent skies will let the day pass unnoticed
And unwanted by the ever-dying monks.

The only vows they make now are to an
Hourly wage that comes straight from the coffer.
I'd prefer it if just one gave freely
Of his time to give me some of my own.

His and my daily routine has now become
Strange and undesirably new, like a pair
Of old shoes that you haven't put on for years,
But what's not here is killing me too.

I celebrate the hateful rain that falls like
A dead wet reminder of all the things
We love to complain about but easily forget,
But returning, means more than most of the rest.

This rotting wooden bench just drinks it in
And breathes it out like all of these changes
Never really happened and never really will,
As the sun beats down and dries out his bones.

It'll Cost You Five Dollars To Kill Yourself

The wind on this bridge pulls me
Left and I just might let it.
If I can hop the concrete fence
And find there floating some brief control,
Then maybe the toll was worth it.

It's not the auto dive or the
Sinking steel that I really care about,
And I don't want anything to end quite yet,
As long as it's my nails digging into
Rubber wheels, letting go and letting be.

All this space between surfaces seems
Meant for something other than bored
Naval officers putting on a show.
Maybe I can upstage them and
Put your hard earned money to good use.

But then I realize that fighting the wind
Is actually fun and much less
Predictable than the self-loathing SUV's
That bring friends to their knees in marvelous tears.
What happens to me is so damn unknown.

Abort The Mission

The worthless wallet sized speeches they call salvation
Are the niave astronaut dreams of a balding young boy
Who never realized the binding would break if you
Hit the nail with the end of the book. Stop the presses
Permanently and fire those writers who've never seen
Real death; they are the descendants of thieves
Who built empty nation upon empty nation by picking
Rocks from the ocean and pretending they're pearls.
I say we drown them now in their own ink and
Pull out the pages they glued back in so
There can be no nation without action of hand.
If art is imitation then we must keep painting
With brand new colors, to brighten the eyes
Of that beautiful girl.

A Never-Ending Ode

What could I write but a never-ending ode
To sing my ever-growing love.
Up end the oak and watch the vines
Wrap us up from head to toe.

Never wash your heart stained skin
Or take the earth out of your eyes,
And let the night fall down again;
Such a sweet scent to be conquered in!

My fingers walk on desert dunes
To find some perfect symmetry
And memorize the entire map,
To every sacred inch consume.

So happily I lay the road
And make cement from sweat and tears,
For as the new horizon comes
I'll write this never-ending ode.

Interview With An Insect

If you look closer at the ant you burn
Through glass, you might see some frail form
Of yourself slowly dying in the heat that
Came from a matchbox marked by the past.

Did you speak to it there on the slab of cement?
Adding interrogation to outright torture,
Forcing the mirror of fear to show the
Parts that can be so easily plucked.

All the hard and heavy lifting has been done
And now Marcus must find some place
To be safe, but first he must prove he is
Who he says he is, or at least who he wishes to be.
But there's a long line of others waiting downhill,
Begging for burns with chattering teeth.

The Frankenstein Oak

The trees bleed from orange to brown
While the other arm shows bone
And leaves the half full fools to fight
For something that they don't even want.

They'll eventually fall to the fake ground
And wonder if this newfound hell is
Being run over by round white angels who
Come and go quickly, just to torment you.

Those who stretched out when color was there
Might just get lucky if a passing storm
Or a gust of air can set them in soil,
Surrounded by those young and greedy admirers.

Just pray you don't find yourself floating
In the backbreaking ocean where life itself
Has frozen in heat and becomes sectioned off into
Those that are worthwhile and those that are not.

Then here comes the bright young man
With his flourishing shape and fresh pale skin,
Who'd rather not see his future unfold,
Pushing out further and ignoring what's left.

Sell Your House Or Kill Your Neighbors

Are we so brave to find ourselves
Laughing and mocking with skin connecting
Us in places with such terrible weight?

I found out too late that I'd lost
The bet I put down on reason, and a
Kind of virginity would be payment of debt.

Are we so empty to glorify phrases that
Give value to mere words and then
Turn to fight for men without blood?

I went to a doctor to get my life straight
But he said I was crooked for a noble cause
And what was better than being a doll?

Are we so tall that we tower like a
Braindead Goliath that won't look down or
Left or right to heal a man with burning skin?

I shed a tear to welcome in some strange
Men who should resent but don't pretend.
Because who could fear a dying star?

Dead Dimension

There is a dead dimension where I sometimes go
That's inside walls and wooden holes.
My oversize head just won't fit so
It feels like a melon turning in a vice grip.
Everything around you takes a different shape
And no matter how hard you reach it's two feet away.
The constant brightness blinds your eyes like
A non-stop stab of lightning on moonless night,
And the persistent shrieking of a half-dead bird
Will give no comfort in pattern or tone.
There's no telling the difference between drowning or drought
If you can't even tell your toe from your mouth.
But don't try to reach for anything solid,
Because what's in the air will keep you away.

The Hardest Thing For Me

So much white noise can make you feel
Sick or stuck inside a tractor tire that
Won't stop rolling, even when it
Reaches the bottom of the hill.

But nothing is worse because it pulses
And strains and stretches the night
So every small crack is easy to see.
That's why the holy ghost is afraid of the deaf.

It feels so unnatural, like we're plugging in
Valium or shooting up summer so
A machine can bring us down to rest
Inside a place that no one's ever won.

That was my excuse for always wanting
To leave and never stop, chasing a
Claim that was like a golden wristwatch
To a woman wearing long sleeves.

But fortunately for me, you tore apart
The kiln, and together, with burning hands
We pressed down hard on each other, ready
To make new shapes, each and every day.

A Sound From The Cottage Basement

The saw sinks deep and sets the grain

Apart from its brother inside of the womb,

And the only one shrieking in spite of the pain

Is a well-oiled surgeon without any gloves.

Who knows how many brothers inside of the womb,

Stuck between horses, shedding their skin,

Saw the well-oiled surgeon without any gloves,

Sharpening shark teeth and making them numb?

While stuck between horses, shedding their skin,

A dry, dead snow is starting to fall.

They're sharpening shark teeth and making them numb,

Like a doctor gassing his open right palm.

The dry, dead snow is piling up high

While they use the ground to make him feel nice,

And when the doctor's done gassing his open right palm

The saw sinks deep, in spite of the pain.

The No Shoes Blues

We are shattered and broken bottles
Of whiskey and gin lying still
And barely breathing after spitting
Out all we had and killing the grass.

There's no doubt they'll melt down
And stain us but let's pray we
Don't end up trying to look famous.
We all know the virgin was never that tall.

Or maybe we'll be like some carnival ride,
In a fake empty town with cotton-faced kids
Marveling at men who are moving hot sticks,
Admiring a trade that's so easy to forget.

So let's just lay here in pieces and wait until
We can make someone feel and know who we are.

Picture a Fly in a Business Suit

Hard hands hold small things
In their power just for power.
While something keeps their necks stiff
Enough to be held above, to give
Them what they need to survive.

Perhaps we should pity them now,
They show us their child-like tears
And fear in such thundering ways.
The whispering spirits will soon become silent
Now knowing the strength they have gained.

But when man makes a weapon
Straight out of the mountain
He doesn't owe anything back to a fly.

Worn down souls prefer wooden holes
Because they can't see the stains
From their unholy war and they
Need to hear buzzing to brighten their
Eyes and coax them back to the firing lines.

No longer can trail guides pretend to be
Nature or airline pilots proclaim they are
Sky. The middleman may make all
The money but we want the poor
To power our lives.

How To Put Out a Fire

I never knew this is what swallowing
Hot coals felt like. But then, of course,
If you promise to eat it,
You just have to eat it.
And while it may have been easier
To keep the peat burning,
Someone was hurting and it's
Your job to save them.

And as the hot pain seems to
Simmer down into your lungs you
Start to see everyone leaving.
Either that or you're going blind.
But no one needs to feel sorry because
It was you who invited them all to the party.

Seasonal Despair

Curse this hard and scorching light,
Burning bare the red-faced rock;
That I was born to lose this fight,
Curse this hard and scorching light!
Those gentle covered creatures might
Be rooted in some stronger stock,
So curse this hard and scorching light
Burning bare the red-faced rock.

What If He Was Awake?

My head feels like a half-empty helium balloon,
Bloated and floating so slowly to the ground
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

My bed is the centerpiece of the room
And because such silence is terrible sound,
My head feels like a half-empty helium balloon.

No one can enter or leave here too soon,
So one-eyed women just linger around
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

In here there's no difference between midnight or noon
So we all drink whiskey like we're trying to drown,
Now my head feels like a half-empty helium balloon.

A newly single black swan is beginning to swoon,
Wondering down feeling quite well endowed,
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

Now children are stamping and licking their spoons,
While men who were martyrs are not to be found.
And my head feels like a half-empty helium balloon,
Falling like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

A Brief Family History

A man that some call Joe the Rat
Writes letters under acronyms and
Distorts facts just to change his name.

And on fake city streets he paints
Pictures of insects the size of a whale, while
Preaching to choirs that silence themselves.

Poor uncle Leo is mad from the war
Of words that he fought, so now
He's a miner dug deep in the dark.

Old grandpa John, who's long dead and gone,
Was moderately sane, but now from his grave
He moans out in pain for what has gone wrong.

We could follow this predictable horizontal line
And find each end burned to stop us
From fraying or trying to bend,
But let's light it again with our cigarette butts.

Down Near the Private Dock

Rotten dead roots are forced to bear all
Like the time you jumped in too soon
Because no one had seen you shirtless,
Helpless, or so vulnerable before.

And sitting there with weight bending branches
You relive that rush of chlorine up your nose
That connects you to the moment like a
Bungee cord on some broken down thing.

We came to these places to pretend that
God is listening, and common spaces are
Untouched except for our footprints
That somehow created the trail that was there.

And secrecy sheds it's leaves in the fall to
Force us to bear all the weight on our own.

It's Called Rush Hour for a Reason

People come around the corner trying not
To notice the lump of living death
That's laying among the collected
And disregarded pieces of trash.

What's passed out and pale is easier
For all of us to ignore and try
To implore him through shaking
Our heads and muttering shame.

Then close all the doors to the bus
Or the Benz to travel outside
Of those comfortable lines, loosening
The grip inside pocket or purse.

A sheet metal house for the holy
Is filled to the brim with selective
Solicitors and particular pricks, numbing
Their senses by picking up sticks.

There's no liberation in balancing budgets
Or lowering rates when the bet was
Laid by the beggars and thieves who
Need nothing compared to those who escape.

Heaven's a junkie with both legs broken
And skin stretched tight over varicose veins.
It's the same as the black plastic bed
That you saw him enjoy.

We all admire what we think we despise
And run wild when faced with the truth
At our door. So next time he asks,
You tell him what for.

Everyone Looks Up

The thick scent of incense overtakes and ages
Me in seconds like a time machine to
Constantine, or a pair of size 11 shoes to
A new born child.

And as I look up on these artificial stars,
The man made constellations try to
Convince me of their prophecy for the
Future that is already unfolding.

Most of those around me wear glasses
That hide the spectacle, like the beauty
Of a new fallen snow making a mountain
Out of a dug up mound.

Where they see sparkle I see mournful eyes,
Who paid for names and made up games
And smiled through the pain of a mother
Kissing their skinned up knees.

While men with celebrity dreams move
Furniture for fun and make small
Holes in boxes with their ever-watchful
Eyes that wander to your thighs.

So when everyone looks up,
Someone must look down.

Anticipation is Fun

At each end of this ten month long tether
Is a universal, impersonal place where
Nothing can stop to hesitate or enjoy the view.

People stop and stand still, but keep moving
In reflections of windows to shops
That satisfy vices in outrageous quantities.

Colorful animals stuff themselves and scatter
Into corners and crevices, some empty and old
Or covered in dust because of the cold.

Others see it as a glorified garbage bin
To discard and abandon living trash,
Never staying long and never looking back.

But now, once again, as often before,
I use it to open the proverbial door,
And feed that starving part of my soul.

The Sound From Behind

The wailing human siren's shrill call still pulses

And bends your heart's pumping to its will.

For him it's an automatic alarm, subtly replacing

Words you might use and abuse and shout

To hit the snooze button.

The skin tight box he's locked inside is

Never opened for air or light or any

Favorite things, like those barrel-chested

Bear hugs your father used to give.

When he asks for a milkshake, he's given a pill.

When he leans in to hug you, he's told to sit still.

Then tell the nurse when your fingers burn 

From all the pointing at pictures with words 

And remember to read them out loud in your head.

Don't Trust Your Instincts

As you come around the corner
Guns drawn, playing God for the
Men with children who may or
May not become bastards for your
Right to feel secure, you find
The courage to hold steady and pure.

For what honor is there in the blind
Cock fight, the animal scrapping
And pulling out pride, feather by feather?

Strength has worn down and withered away
In the guise of protection and selfish ambition,
To outlast all other species of bird.
So bring your shame to the ignorant circle,
And pray for the pitiful, heartbreaking past.

Pour Out The Past

Hold tight and fast to what is born,
For the emptiness, it cannot last
And while others wait to see what comes
You fill their heads with rotten milk.

The silk that made your mother's garter
Will be used to barter for filth
That should have been cherished like
The aging pages you no longer read.

You just bleed dried blood from empty veins
And stain your off-white night dress
Because sleeping naked would feel too good.
It's no surprise you're so depressed.

The sour smell stars to overpower
And overtake all of us except for you
Who tastes sweetness at the slightest touch,
But it's not the Lord who longs for you.

What's half empty should be all the way gone,
Ready to welcome the whiskey and water
Or red and white wine, but nothing beyond.
Now pour out the past and sing a new song.

So play the pipe organ to accompany fate
And wait there for years just to hear
A tired melody that longs to retire.
Even the words are aware of their place.

So pour out the past and sing a new song
And empty those bones that are soaked
In the mucus of musical death.
The right to compose is all we have left.

The Red River Flood

So quietly Moses murdered their sons
By bringing a plague protected by blood.
Now those same ones, the enemy's kin
Are a dying mother and her unborn child
Stuck in checkpoint traffic, being searched
For bombs or IEDs by paranoid men
Protecting their land.

What was covered in stone is now
Covered in dust and the river of blood
Is no longer the Nile.
Slowly it spread underneath the
Boughs and onto the banks of the
Mississippi and the Liffey to be
Quenched by those who'd rather be alone.

Now rabid men push fire in the streets
And throw their homes for some
Covenantal cause they read in a book.
Freedom, for now, is the right to be dead
Or the right to be loud, but not to be heard.
So stand on the banks and the acres of blood
And pray to a God who's too scared to look.

Going 75 on 94

I smile at the smell of chicken shit
And hear him say 'we're almost home'
As I fight the force and weight of day.
A single streak of golden ink has
Seen us all in some strange evolution
Of blue and red and two kinds of silver,
While whitewashed walls just over the ditch
Have somehow contained a creature
So easily stirred by the pitch
Of horns and humming wheels.

Pull out this piece of mundane earth
And call it constant, unmoving while
I have moved, too busy to notice it,
Most likely going over the speed limit.

The Bat Mobile

The Bat Mobile was a mid-80's Mazda
That was white enough to showcase rust
Like a spaghetti sauce stain
On a starched white shirt.

And while we waited for the daily defrost
I'd watch you blow your smoke-like breath
Into our gloves to warm them up.

Your sidekick always sat shotgun
To watch you shift and pretend
We were chasing the Joker, or the Penguin,
Or some evil villain that wouldn't escape.

We never installed that ejector seat
So now it's buried in some garbage heap.
Where rust is just rust, and a car is just a car.

Everyday at 9 and 1

When you wipe someone's ass
Because they can't stand up
There's a strange sense of power
Over all the fault and frailty
That's found in man's demise.

And when you watch the winter fade
Into the brown, dead and empty ground,
There's still a parasitic hope
That might be found in broken veins
That shed before the virus came.

So all that comes with spring emerged
Into a life that found its place
Among nature's bright and colorful wings,
But things will change for all of this
Will seem as though we don't exist.

No one makes plans and detailed maps
To bring the wild bird to bear
Its shattered wings and try to fly
From empty tree to empty tree.
We cannot know it longs to fall.

Now twice a day for many years
Some will hear a piercing sound
That makes them hesitate in fear
Of dodging all the flying fists
And looking sickness in the eye.

An Empty Riot, An Empty Seat

On innocent streets the pavement bears
The helpless weight of children
Dressed in golden pride, not yet
Faded by the rigors of a real winter.

So march young man.

Then follow footsteps that inevitably lead
To an ancient teat that's been sucked dry
By generations who jump in and drown,
Waiting for you to pull them out.

So march young man.

Make your sign and get in line.
For the right of every man is no longer
Strength but peace of mind, while freedom
Begs but is denied by itself.

So march young man.

Shout at the boarded up windows and doors.
Scream at the ones who can't be ignored.

March young man, then fall on your sword.

An Expatriate's Prayer

God bless the old oak alone among the pines.

Whose bitter sap poisons those who try

To bury seeds but bleed into soil

Bitter, dead and dry.

God bless the lonely weed springing through the cracks.

Barely living between the lines

Of shapes that make a worn out path

To how we are defined.

God bless the hollow shell buried in the sand,

Waiting for the tide to take in all

The life that dives inside to

Keep himself awake.

And God bless the broken man swallowing his pride.

He might as well be deaf and dumb

To some of those that claim to feel

But always have been numb.

No More Closed Doors

I'm not surprised you hide in there
For fear of finding truth
Inside of doubt.

Will you come out to face the sun?

One hundred years have now been won
And will be fought for more to come.
There are open doors that close
On those who shut them first.

Will you come out to break the curse?

To show them that the worst
Is over when books are closed
And opened fast and read beyond
The broken past.

Come out for all to see at last.

Human Nature

Your face turns a deathly pale
As winter bleeds through
Your fingernails and toes.

The bodies that were drowned before
Have lost their color, soaked in
All that couldn't last

But even they do not look back.

The ones that see the tops of trees
Leaving what they know as home
To dodge the deadliest attack

But never once do they look back.

Some of them strip themselves to bone
And risk the snapping sounds of death
For just the chance to live again.

While others dig their graves for warmth,
Waiting inside a starving hole
For the future coming fast

And even then they don't look back.

But you and I and all we are,
With arrogance of mind and heart
Will stab each other from behind.

On a Hill Behind Our House

Once in the winter I hid in the shed.
The one that dad turned into a playhouse
And put up on pallets
When the ground would get cold.

I wrapped up in a quilt your grandmother made
And pretended the wooden bench
Was a bed I'd sleep on for days.

My plexi-glass breath helped pass the time
Which felt like forever
But I knew it was minutes.
I only was sure that I suffered alone
And what could you know?

The fox we had seen the autumn before
Drew a map in the snow
And asked me to follow him
Into the woods, to where we had laughed
So hard we were sore.

It was only a look that split me apart
As I struggled to breathe and
He fell to his knees.

I wasn't afraid of freezing to death.
I'd die there of hunger just not to forget.

The Bones of a Bird

The holy ghost is out on loan
Inside of what it couldn't break,
More than just the marrow's bone.

A check-out card that's carved in stone
So red birds know they'll never take
For the holy ghost is out on loan.

A pleading voice comes through the phone
And begs and begs for him to make
Her more than just the marrow's bone.

The answer rings in darkest tone
Startling all around to wake
'The holy ghost is out on loan'.

For what could he have to atone?
Filling the empty shelves with snakes
And more than just the marrow's bone.

We are alive but much alone
But written there just for our sake,
The holy ghost is out on loan
With more than just the marrow's bone.

Carlos State Park in the Spring

Inside the wet rotting wood
Slowly aging and breaking apart
The insects infect and destroy
What was art.

My foot is the future
The pressure is now
That the forest is full and grows
To be all that it knows
Is the nature of things.

The trail must be cleared.

For all that endears is not
On the ground buried under
What fell and needs to be found.

The nail isn't here.

Stop looking for lies in the dust
And the dirt. The word is not wood
For the good of the eye.
What was composed makes nature alive

Not dead.

The Road to Riverside

Rage looks strange so close to your face
And inside this Buick you look sick
With red fever. Your eyes still echo
In my ears and tell lies that
You will take back later.

The chorus behind us, mouths open
Singing nothing we could hear
Or hate to be near. While passing eyes
Turn and turn back
Nearly breaking their necks.

When the chamber was empty the silence
Bled out on the seats, and out
On the streets when we opened the door.
But I didn't look
And you didn't look

So that car never drove quite the same anymore.

A Time Capsule

Humming and moving but not moving
A steady whisper, a lullaby
Takes you and I into the future

Your face glows a bright green
And seems to speak of all
That means everything to me

My sanctuary moves us now
From square to square
But I don't dare to ask you how

Inside the pause we stop to smell
What propels and makes us move
As we march under the moon

And now I wonder what he thought
As he became what I was not

Bring Down the Days

A gentle sleeping giant
Dreams in black and white and red
And feels dead inside the sun
Like some that wait for turns
To tell the world what no one
Wants to hear

So bring down the days of open books

Colorless men close doors to those
Creatures who ache to be seen
And scream in torture for terrible things
Will only end when the river runs
Clear and clean

So bring down the days of broken glass

Silent sparrows that look like loons
Are doomed to wait on those
Dead ducks that dive and bury
What's left in the depths of despair.
They care even less then
You are aware

So bring down the days of empty chairs

Dry blades of grass in the call
Of the wind will bend
But not break
And when it's the end
It's the end

So bring down the days of marking grades

The thinker is posed
Positioned for prank by a horse
On his trail. The equestrian saint
Is pulled by his reins
But knows not his name
Unwilling to fail

So bring down the days of ending games

My Mother The Quarterback

The broken bastard boy, stirred by sirens
Half awake all night but half asleep
For most of his life is
Sleeping on a concrete stagecoach
Counting the sound of the crowd
As they make their way
To the show.

They huddled around her like a football team
Waiting to hear her call the play
And tell the team
Or at least tell me.

No one knew he could run so fast
Or even thought he could last
As long as he did.

A Flock, A Herd, A Broken Word

Enter the man in the dressing gown
Showered in bright white shawls
Marked like the stain of a butcher
With hooves for hands

He speaks of the call of the wild
The animalistic act
Guided by pleasureless purpose
Like nature, we are

Clouded is mothers milk
As clear as the scientific truth
Uttering confusion
Turning boys into beasts

Only those with souls are sacred
And the way of life
Is the way of the knife
No difference, except difference

Mate for life, not love
Like the ones that graze
For the end of their days
Inside of a delicate box

He calls it a glorious gift
With no receipt to return
Then takes his broken arm
To a doctor with none

And far away in the field
Nature is truly revealed

Somewhere Near Sentinel Butte

Riding on rust and waves of road
We go west under blankets
Of not quite white or black
At this hour dakota is dead
Even the man who sits in his chair
Somewhere near Sentinel Butte

We'd slept in seats some nights before
But something led me to the door

A pair of legs reclined but not relaxed
Rigid under an orange hue
Spoke to me so high and shrill
No movement meant nothing for him
If he was even really there
The reality was only me

The Cardinal

In a place where the cold
Is desert dry with
Sheets of blinding light
Mostly abandoned
Except for some who cling
To thin coats
And desperately dig for diamonds
Deep in a bed of
Cold concrete

While the Cardinal sings a lonely song
For those like him who don't belong

Hungry giants with one hundred arms
Starve themselves
Their dry skin cracks and breaks
While they shake off the white shame
They carried the ones they loved
But now they're gone
Left to fight for another life

While the Cardinal confused and left alone
Lies upon his bed of stone

The father and creator of day
Is hiding behind a blanket of grey
And when he peers over the edge
A blinding reflection
Sends him away to die again

While the Cardinal sings the funeral march
Perching there upon the larch

We all wear denial on our sleeves
And bravely battle
In a war that was over before it was won
Like creatures of habit
With wool for a gun
And apathy as ammunition
As the pacifists fly westward
And head for the pacific

And when the sun begins to shine for some
The Cardinal knows his time has come

Seperation

A policeman told me
To change my name
And drain my blood
To dry my veins

I stared at him
And then refused
His neck turned black
And white from blue

I saw his gun
Turn into words
That spoke of nature
but went unheard

Then from his tongue
The bullets flew
A soothing sound
Of the morning dew

Outdated

A fear of fashion
Breeds boredom
Leaves you stuck
Apathetic and unaware

His holiness
Wears a corset
Hides and denies
A figure that's fake

Static super-models
On a gothic catwalk
And salmon bishops
In a river of mud

This is beyond retro
Or vintage vicars
It's the dementia
Of medieval trendsetters

Grace is covered
In red robes
Like the spawn in the river
Are destined to die

The suit of armor
Replaced by a collar
But the sword's still there
Inside of his head

The Celtic Tiger Ate My Dreams

The celtic tiger ate my dreams
Swallowed them whole
Just before it was killed
By what looked like an elephant
The fat white beast
Saw me with swollen eyes
Tried to apologize
But spoke only in riddles

What he couldn't give you
I now take away
Mine to create
And mine to betray

Then they faded away
Leaving me in the middle

The Bird of the Lord

On the roof
One day
A pigeon spoke
And told me to do
Unspeakable things

I questioned him
He pecked me
In the eye
'Til I couldn't blink
And told me not to think

The pigeon read
My thoughts and fears
I fell
To my knees
In a terror of worship

He called himself
The Bird of the Lord
And said his wings
Would carry the truth
To the world

I believe in God
I cried out in tears
I serve him
In love
But he wouldn't hear

Your feeble mind
And fallible will
Cannot comprehend
So listen
I won't say it again

He gave me
His orders
Such terrible deeds
But before he took flight
I asked him his name

He swore me
To secrecy
Then perched on my ear
And whispered something
That sounded like hope

Where Are You From?

Once on a plane
Going somewhere
Some might consider exotic
A man asked me question
I'd heard once before

I didn't answer
He said that he knew
Like a snake he smiled
And began to describe
A picture of life he thought was mine

With one ear I listened
The other explored
The sounds that surrounded
Few words were familiar
But could not be ignored

I imagined their meaning
And pondered their place
As the man kept on talking
Deciding my fate
Describing my dreams with passionate hate

Then around me the words
I couldn't make clear
Came into focus
But were not what I knew
Imagination became my own indignation

With tears in my eyes
I turned to the man
I could still hear him talking
Inside of my head
Foretelling with detail my life and my death

But before I could look
I already knew
His voice it had vanished
And shriveled away
Along with my knowledge of anyone here

Benny and John

A long time ago
When I was young
My father and I would sit
Silent at the table
Staring out the window

Every half hour
Two fat and fuzzy squirrels
Like clockwork would come
To eat the birdseed hanging
From the aged, old oak

When they would reach
The top of the tree
Dad would pound on the glass
Scaring the shit
Right out of those squirrels

They came again
And again I laughed
Each time as hard as the last
I loved those stupid squirrels
I named them Benny and John

Once in a while
My father would wait
And let them eat a bit
Then the thud on the glass
Sent them scurrying away

After a time my father
Stood up from his seat
And gazed through the glass
Breathing heavy and slow
I'll never forget what he said

 "Time, like the seasons
  Is changing the world
  And we must change with it
  Or end up like the squirrels"