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.