April 29th stream of images

In short bursts of rain
I left my last passions
to soak,
to shake well into infinity.
with dull eyes
I looked up and the sidewalk
was trembling and tearing itself apart and the pedestians never questioned a thing. I think it was night. Let's say it was night when I sat down in the shadows to melt pennies down in my hand just to be a little more worthless. The moisture was soaking through me. I was washing away. A grateful, weak smile. I had run it through my head over and over again, coming each time to a definite singularity. I had touched all points of perspective without washing my hands once. It was filthy. Armchair armageddon(sprinkle me some cyanide, make your mouth a rusty blade and sing to my heart)like the breathing of a blood-thirsty gorilla in a play pen. At a point of time when the Confederacy was running out of bullets(And coffee). Some said the end was near. Snake-handlers and preachers dancing the life out of the cause.

I looked up to say, "let it rain", I was trying to be brave but I was still trembling harder than the ground beneath my feet. I wanted my old world gods back. I wanted to bite down on lightening bolts and give Thor the finger. I wanted to cause treachery to each of Poseidon's seas. I wanted to shrug Atlas and slap Ayn Rand in the face in a single, fluid motion. For no reason. There was no destiny at work here, and I knew it. There was a future rife with the possibility of paper cuts. The jagged edge of time's inertia wracking itself against my skin. The labored breathing of a blood-crazed gorilla in a broken play pen.

They said he didn't wash his hands. They formed bi-partisan committees to commiserate on the causes of such a catastrophe. They wore suits made of paper and took turns screaming about nothing. And the blood dripped from the ear. And the head echoed with the sound. And the heart-beat was the pattern of a nothing intrinsic to the echo. Birds fell from the sky, tear drops slid up cheeks to the eye, the rumpled steel of bumpers smoothed itself and withdrew from a point of impact.

Standing on a New Testament battleground and watching the sun set for a final time over the silhouettes of four riders on the horizon I said, "Yeah Nasty, 'It's like that'" and beat the piss out of Willy Wonka and all those fucking Oompa Loompas, wondering all the while 'who will be there to remember the end of time?'.

4/23/07

He had a method
like vice-grips.
He had a process
like a mile high stack of dirty mugs.
He was a fretboard,
and every note was based on tension.
He was the breeze
through the bar-room door,
he was the hope hollering
in a vacuum.

As suns sank low
over the tops of trees
in towns like these,
there came the persuasion
of dreamers and derelict prophets,
carried on the strongest(strangest?) of terrestrial breezes.

Among a populace straying
over sidewalks
and each other.

Among a populace stranded
in a paradaigm
fat with the myth of paradise.

The cause of chaos and
the cost of consumption
are always,
two different things.

He was the shoe-shine on the glass,
and class distinction
among the depraved.
He was brave,

Home-grown and whole hearted.
He was rotten to the core.

Prayer for the entrenched and generally wretched.

Presumptuously unadorned,
storms & tea kettles,
clouds screaming,
Happy meals singeing
the body electic.
Clusters of
stars and people repeating,
drifting.

Listening to the freeway
and classic rock.
Listening to the ruckus
of old drunks
and the dreams
of charlie brown.
Listening to clicks
of lonely pinball machines.
Listening
to the resigned silence of millions of them.
Don't tell me you're not one.
Somewhere behind your guts there are men with translucent green visors & money belts
tallying your transactions meticulously.

Somewhere behind your eyes there are wizards with machines processing the constant input of light and filtering,
filtering everything you see.

Pay no attention to the man
with the knife at your back.

Know only the whisper.
Hear only the words,
testing the air quietly, assuredly.

There are the things in there
that want to get you.

Lets talk about an alien invasion
because, it's comforting to believe
your enemies are otherworldly.

Pure Shame Manifesto in HD

Was it a catalyst for
the manufacture?
Was it that your eyes
were dripping--
dripping onto the windowsill,
as I nudged slugs closer
to an ever certain reckoning.

Was it harmless
or prostitution and shame?
Was it the shape of a gullet
built to swallow anything
or simply the coincidence
within the configuration
of a standard, modern keyboard?

Too many numbers jostling themselves.
Too many words screaming to scramble themselves into existence.
Too many politics to fashion a functional rhetoric,
something that sounds
and acts as if it is sane.

an oligarchy characterized by witty t-shirts
built a house of sandwiches
shifting restlessly
in the scenic of the sand.

And the poets congratulate themselves,
like dogs licking their balls.
And the poets shake hands
with the rocks they've collected,
whispering truculent secrets
to varying wavelengths of light.

There was a dawn once,
and now the static on the television
rings in our ears.
shimmying restlessly like a bum,
(on the edge of the vision)
there were parentheses and hills,
shambling and staggered
like tear drops dripping,
dripping onto the windowsill.

Was it just the catalyst
for the manufacture of a theme?

Truncated resolution
and thoughts strung like straw dummies
across the horizon.
And there were harvest songs
And there were stories told.
Forever afterwards (happily ever after),
and the all the jargon
that seethes in the fairytales.

And then synthesizers and shotguns
were ringing in the future
And the hairy arms of man
entangled themselves
in an overwhelming cascade of technology.
(they had created things for themselves)

They wore skin tight leather suits
and were told to be fabulous
so they were fabulous
and wore skin tight leather suits.

They used words like
'truculent' and 'oligarchy'
they drank whiskey
and molested taste into extinction.

Whiskey

Will work it for whiskey,
maybe just a jigger--
Do your shot like you shoot a gun,
just pull the trigger.
And yeah I met Mephistopheles,
but I've grown much bigger.
Slap his ass just to save some caps,
a devil disfigured.

A procession of days
a calvalcade of bartenders.
What have I becom
(in the interim)
my ears were not on
my heart was lonely drum.
Eyes staring backwards eternally.
Drop me on the sidewalk
leave me gagging,
just like your favorite guitar hero.
(I was stumbling, I said "don't touch me".
and what I meant
was something to be found
only between the strings
I pulled to created my theory
of what this life really is.)
Just like Hawking,
But not a genius,
and not a wheelchair,
but a backwards grin
leaving me crippled and
my voice was always just a machine anyway.