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.