"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait" -Longfellow

Monday, April 24, 2017

Current Events

Bemoaned deranged
Weeds grow
All the same
An orchestra climbing to
Crescendo's windows
Flowering in jagged

Breaths of
An imperial brigade
All tooth in the limp afternoon

Dug ground
Mother of all bombs
Like a summer's cyclone
But innocent
Of chaos
Buried into intent and
Temporal cock

Chocolate cake
Chinese to make the
Hands look big
Power to
Part the desert and

Warnings onto

Child slate

So tall now

Aren't we
Big boy

Can you tell me what exactly
It means to write poetry
Right in the fuckin' face of ww3
And nothing left?

It means zero
As per
Slaughter of amnesia and decay
In the dry spots or wet

But that's what I'm prepared
And peering down
I can't believe you
Won't see
The joyful open
There plain
As final day

Wouldn't we need
To stack emerald mysticism
Across from calculated
To befuddle
At least?

Shrieks of
That are imaginary
Insult reality
For compassion's sake

Like stargazer lilies
Blind and unconscious
Mock themselves

But the oranges
And particular pinks
Versus gray
Have always enchanted

A frontal assault on the
Void vacuum
Mere death

Are we writing for
Our children's children after all
To explode now

Tomorrow never
Gave the treasures
It promised yesterday

And the
Robot I was meant to be
Will understand
If our minds weren't ever
To last entirely

Through our genius
Asserting ourselves
Via jizz

Like molecular hope
Set forth
From an exploding

Can you hear
Radio plea
From so long

Friday, September 11, 2015

Poetry for Today's Nowhere

Art by Bruno 9li (LINK)
I don't write about these things, but I'm scared.
I haven't even considered what I'll seem like
from the standpoint of the Ultimate Observer.

I really don't write about these things, but I'm glad
We made a baby and
named her the silver name of electricity as it flows.
and we named her for the Sage from Concord.

I never write about these things, but
what the fuck:
I'm afraid of the police,
I don't wanna have to kill my brother even if he wants to kill me,
I love me some football
and I have more faith in Rap Music than in the Democratic Party.
I distrust America, boasting its pride itself
as Cardinal Virtue,
dreaming asleep in the poppies,
mindscaping in chalks and frustrated machines
who only eat data and never
the moon.

I can't write about these things,
I don't believe in truth. it slips
and shudders, approaching the udder of the Source. it shrinks,
it blinks at the farther flinching sweetness of the Human Urge.

I don't usually write about the going of the night,
but I think Existentialism is a Bullshit, crafted by enraptured and trapped
hippocratic masters
who still can't help thinking Dynamic Beings would ever need
healing and progress
to believe.

why would I write about my love?
that which yields in chasing proves finite in inspection
as that which shields dying respects living less.

I don't typically expound upon these things,
but I like looking into peoples' houses when I go on walks.
I can't escape that the sum and ghost of reality is recreated
in each one
each day.

it's a maddening obsession,
considering the truest nature of diversity is
confronting the absoluteness of infinite uniqueness
and Permanent Death.

I don't write like this,
but I'm hyper for the shrill pitch of the Internet:
this massive amassing of masses' mementos from all moments
and a cornucopia of breathless angles. it's
the essence of hope
in the face of the blossoming darkness
that dangles like a chandelier into
every Living Room.

I won't write about this. but
I can't vibe to consumerism's high.
and I'd try,
I would.

but there can't be a meaning in owning
what's made out of wind.

I wouldn't usually write like this, but I've just rechecked the fridge
for accidental beers to disappear the fears that come
packaged in sinewy now -- tone deaf night.

in the right frame of sublime, you can Rimbaud
the senses silent
and be only strings of energy
that also might not exist.
you can mock your own concern even for anarchy.
even for exploding.

I wouldn't consider writing about these things,
but it's after the End of the World after all. and Emerson still
cheers loudly at the arrival of each New Day.

so I bring up the edge of Oblivion, to worship proper in the sparks
of the vanishing second.

what meaning?

and not writing about it. and not reshaping the obscurity of horizon.
and not painting with this blood.
I couldn't forgive myself.
a coward.

refusing to remark when Smallness comes to claim
and question
and stay.

I am writing about things,
like I have since the gold/blue anxiety of my adolescence. but
new wears, wares, and nowheres. and new awareness
never final.

I just can't write about nothing

because it might be too real.

there's a pressure neath ceilings molded
and bejeweled with fluorescent lights.
my dusty boots always twitch
with my soul's itch for low down freedom,
and my hands shake knowing that the
Great West Coast quake could happen
while I'm trapped in someone else's fantasy
of accomplishment.

since they buried my dad,
that cold grandma-cry day back in November,
I don't really feel any different.
all I know is that I'm supposed to.

And I oughtta be looking for him
in morning fogs,
expecting his footsteps in the mud,
and hearing his mesquite voice, in organic cadence,
over my shoulder when shit gets real.

I find myself listening for pre-birth silence instead.

I hang my happy purgatory
in that inverted city,
where the buzzing walls are inescapable
and the only light is the zeal of ancient birdcalls.

if I stay real still,
I can at least pretend to understand
my salvation in voiceless infinity.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Short Time = Short Work

Our bus is a photo.
A moment brimming with love.
We sleep and we go.

The bus moves through town;
A gentle animal awake
With destination.

Temper is a ploy
For arresting the sane.
The river is wide.

At night the rains come.
Drops of confusion and wish,
Wild and magic and sad.

Darwin's savage spring-
From the living muck of chance
Feet, fur and fins bloom.

The orchid has no
Thoughts. But the new it seeks makes
Empires from ether.

Old ladies chat on
The bench. Death sits too, but can't
Swallow simple joy.

6 Words on Books
Just in case you wanna build.

6 Words on Bars
Fuzzy equality: the bedrock of compassion.

6 Words on Relationships
Everything is big. Everything is small.

6 Words on The Election
The soul needs sky, not earth.

6 Words on The Bus
Going places together is truly human.

6 Words on Truth
Don't splash after the beach ball.

6 Words on Death
Patience only struggles when tomorrow promises.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Five Poems

Pink Angels - Willem de Kooning, 1945.

I like to cry at hypothetical situations
and freeze up on abject life - object life,
the final commodity, a kind of veil
over the eternal flames.

I wanted to give you a father full of day
but my dusky memories keep me
searching for a glowing grail

in the cavernous darkness of our ancestors.

Other Than
Other than another man
I'm no one else but this.
Other than this other hand
I've only this one fist.
Other than this sleeping day
I wake unto another.
Other than her here now her
there's another her above her.
Other than confusing fruits
we're joyless as machines.
Other than these dusty boots
we wear our trustless leans.
Other than escapist pudding
let's eat forever gone pie.
Other than our honorable death
we've other deaths to die.
Other than falling falling
and refusing the scale of the rise.
Other than keeps wasting me
while the other me never dies.

Your Farther Eyes
Your farther eyes of tomorrow
wake triple in waking fully once.
Anonymity in the highest
sings down faith,
anonymity in the lowest
sings down one death and
readies the billions.

I see you already falling in love with your torturers
efficient hands
and the long loneliness in their manliest stare.

Like Foucault in a tutu
bleeding from his cosmic ass
and dying taut as human passion, as a rock,
shut and shut upon itself - aching in 50 days of sun.

You're not in hate with life
just drawn to the sweaty-lipped exasperation
of unpacking your pain

until there's none left.
Then, freedom.

Backfacing Gaze
No memory save shallow flames' symmetry unburdened and unfolded sailing through smalls installed as holy cows handshaking glasses and calculators earthquaking pouring over tepid time in measured rhyme and false sublime.

When stands one stands others and still others further frustrations in flour casing lacing domes into carpooled cathedrals capsizing.

Brown sugar knows where the sap of Jazz goes when on eagle wings of condensed singing and bells of daily din ring just for ringing.

I hope offense is like defense like cleaning more like chewing than really seeing more like believing than taking or like faking for awakening.

Slow slow now manufactured from fast still bleating charms for darkness to enflesh needing immense clowns to move kings from altars drowning at funerals appointmented in offices ornamented with orifices shining in emptiness and for emptiness - like stars pretending to dance even after dying.

Halting Thought Doodles
It's a live neon wire shaving as a man plastered on the morning glass
and alas, I guess, alas.
But our numbers are a matter of little courtesy, 
dangling between death,
and the bright plastic boot ain't gonna lick the bullshit off itself.
Gotta weigh
gotta gotta Christ and hoax other-self saucers
gotta weep enough to wipe out weeping and sway,
tough as braille,
for the ubiquitous fingers to read forward
approaching zero.
Gotta get to have the you to give away
to the you you've suffered the others, 
sisters and brothers,
to become.

And against that aghast glass the camera glare of our next face
devours the mystical meat of vapor-selves
as bonafide as a Spring day is wide.
Sharp breaths and mantras of forgiveness,
Spoken from nowhen and everyone.

Gotta impale
gotta gotta pay price
gotta pay price = loving self through item,
to demise within item/not mattering
like you've meant to matter,
faceless in orgy heat, mere matter.
Gotta talk-sing and walk-run
fall for to become.
Gotta stay from insane
draping this humble
miracle over hope
found between void and void
between animal and God-dead

between the universe considering being the universe
all the time.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Favorite Albums of 2013

15. Volcano Choir - Repave 
14. Justin Timberlake - The 20/20 Experience pt 1
13. Deerhunter - Monomania
12. Salvia Plath - The Bardo Story
11. Mazzy Star - Seasons of Your Day 
10. Forest Swords - Engravings
8. Danny Brown - Old 
7. Blouse - Imperium 
6. White Denim - Corsican Lemonade 
5. Courtney Barnett - The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas 
4. Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City
3. Kanye West - Yeezus
2. Arcade Fire - Reflektor
1. Earl Sweatshirt - Doris

Monday, January 13, 2014

Thought Tantrums OR The Tragedy of Missing the Fucking Point

(Note: This poem was composed at a recent lecture by Reverend Spitzer. In the lecture he referred frequently to the above debate. Thus, the poem was composed without full knowledge of the debate and thus the line "a debate i never saw." My sentiments are unchanged by having actually watched the debate.)

trying to understand and to remain ignorant at once
i sit imagining a debate i never saw.
(spitzer v. hawking)
a god so frightened as to need vehement verbal defense
and a science so small, reduced to bullying
the childlike empire of faith, engorged with the vapid numbers
of the pragmatic imagination.

are you ready to choose between the vibrating
potential energy of no-bullshit-nothingness
and the bland call to love an entity
of which you are already a manifestation?

all this and the dishes still need doing.
all this and the hordes of the hungry.
all this and 7am demanding obedience for life.
all this and the machine guns that howl and sharpen their lightning
against the olive-blue sky.

Friday, September 13, 2013

After All This

image by John Carling

it's just a sleeve tug, just a rumor of shocking purple spirits up in the cobwebs
to intrude on your dreams of ordered sterility.
and those dancing projections came from her eyes, not from the moon
or the moon's sisters weeping for the barren fields.

torpid and tattered, the flag of dispositions past
can't re-position this fast as we outlast our bravest
and divest skin from skin, scents of banana trees from the mild throat
of morning with her gumption.

from the mouths of real fucking wolves 
we dangle over the fires
of the great cities grown tired. you can only, lonely,
cultivate your garden
and massage your fondness for the accepting of Uruk
teeming with the speed of noise
hollow in the paper light,
a city of blind unbound love and wise naivete.

the symbolic mirror is a mirror of imitations,
self of self,
other of other,
this of this is this as this,
that masquerading as that.
nothing grows in the forlorn darkness between darkness. 
even the roses in the closet you've imagined
are far from far from far:
removed in form and smudged against the actual substitute
for the actual.

who is that sitting at your feet?

vomit pretending vomit in molecule and meaning.
a song of mantles and dismantling,
of fences sad as portraits and ghosts twice dead.
the you from forever, here,
to sit in protest of a drowning.

Monday, August 19, 2013


how far orange is the walk to a flower's operatic heart?
how many purple Nerudas defend the philosopher's pomp of question?
how does the vamp follow the vamp's ascent, tail to tail?

aren't we all waking up to the springtime of our lives in eyes unknowing?
what magnitudes for prayer and peace-making?
is the mote of dust a crystal pattern of the epic return of famous boots?

if birth is a beginning, then how come it lasts forever?
where are the darkmatter hands that will remake this flesh from the compassionate ether?
how many warm faces must a father have to save his daughter from the one coldest visage?

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Sky Blue

Dive bars for churches.
Inseparability, entanglement,
theories of cowabunga and conjectures of gonzo.

Bottle caps and musks of old wood
and old man wood too.
Loneliness as triumph, smoke as possession,
as the thin touch of connection to now, as a damn good Bloody Mary recipe, 
as morning confusing night for brother,
As peaceful turmoil on the rocks
because: easy come, easy go.
I think of Jerry Jeff and Dad.
I think of addictions conquered and torture borrowed,
liquor bravado become meek smiles — drooping like the reddest roses burned by the Texas sun.

There aren't blue jeans big enough for this package, this existential ass
Smoothed by hill country dirt and made shiny by imagination's tendency 
to flirt with truth and loosen her...
Oh what we owe the beery humidity trapped in the distance between ears!
Here's not dysfunction, because there's no such thing. 
Here's not a breaking heart, because our hearts are already broken:

sky blue. run through.

Monday, April 29, 2013

Ourselves and Each Other / The Art of Science

Ourselves and Each Other
Riding the fog through a waking city, I endure the clammy clench and release of returning to that which truly matters, rudely courteous to the feigned reign of machine and warty madness. Maybe this means I'm finished paying respects to dead gods and washing my mystical hand in the spittle of paid dues, at the point of refusing to carve my heart out for the implacable behemoth of pragmatism. I won't continue erecting this defense against boyhood and blind joy, when all that's offered is mired expiring manhood and blind faith in safety in numbers. I'm exhausted and I haven't even begun to live, I've only carried a sad flag in a pointless and never-ending parade which must be the nightmare's way of proudly observing its own power through merciless intimations of unmastered malady. It's ok family. It's ok to sit close to me on this bus, to save up for a life you never get to live and plan a lasting love to begin after eternity. It's ok to be afraid with blood on your mouth and tears calming the ulcers in your stomach. It's ok too, to rage and consume, to work and sleep and dream of something more gigantic than work and sleep. It's ok if you forgot your favorite song, lost it in the hum of fluorescents or the din of need. It's ok because the utterances of desire checked at the imaginary gate of your misfortune are fresh and possessed of the glory of your pleasant wholeness. Watching you - my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers - bent with a shallow purpose, I feel like screaming songs I knew before computer and waving a body I had before kingdoms and super sales, like standing on platforms crying and begging hugs, like going home to her clothed in a further nudity than nakedness and remembering how perfect everything already was before we got it in our restless heads to codify the tiny ecstatic logic of our love for ourselves and each other.

The Art of Science
The art of science is crush and pull. The art of science is distill and break down and purify into pragmatic nuggets. The art of science is not soul or glow but body and the hollow luminescence of a studied sun, figured to pointless supernova. The art of science is a pipette dream of a single perspective and a measured guard against the delight of significance. It's the myth of control and the pathetic arrogance of domination, the tired apparatus of progress slamming keyboards – examining probability in a beaker while life goes unchanced.

It's a never-ending argument for the excruciating necessity of war. It's a microscope when you wanted a moist eyeball. It's a cold vice grip while you're longing for the touch of warm hands. It's forward always, even when right here feels so right. It’s philosophy’s bastard child, come to take revenge against infinity’s elegant dance of endless possibility. It’s a master’s degree in place of self-mastery. It’s the pompous irrationality of rationality for your humble imagination and a blockade of prescriptions when you’re struggling for genuine wellness. It's a line for your squiggly visions and a defined spectrum for your wonder. It's the dry taste of "exactly" when you’re not permitted to feel "close enough."

The art of science is desolation named diversity and silence called the many voices. The art of science is the pressure of self-denial and the pleasure of disrobing Aphrodite to revel her plainness. The art of science is retreating into machines because being a human being just costs too damn much. It's refusal and a neutered song of intention, chasing chaos through the heavens, smoothing the perfectly imperfect eternal surface.

Images by Sara K. Byrne. Found at Escape Into Life.