And This is How I'll End

So the question remains
Like a tuneless melody
Two bars of a dull refrain
Echo over the brazen
Toy soldier that is my life.

I can't feel pain
No, no.
I can't feel love
I only know
Godless,
Soulless,
Heartless,
Indecision.

God why does this happen to me?
Freedom.
My claim becomes my claimant,
Binding me with
Shackles of virtue.

"Do these things"
So I take my medicine,
Down goes the dose
To join the rest of my stomach in
Unsettled anticipation.

I keep waiting for life to happen
And it keeps passing me by
I know I'll only live once
But I'm too scared to die

And I can't rewind the movie
This reel goes only one way
What a horrible box to be shoved into
My cell of cardboard feelings.

So yeah,

Happy birthday anyway.

Steadfast
I'm quicker
Than when I run.

When I have
Height advantage
I blot out the sun.

And when I
Instigate the dialogue
There is no stopping the discussion.

Smells Like Coke

She lies,

Crushed, but not fragile
A vessel for
Sweet life
Like a knife through my stomach
And a needle to my mind
She tears my eyelids open

To devour

My thoughts.

Sure she shows
My wake, in throes
Of what I chose
Don't

Even think about it.

I'm not paranoid
Just trying to
Fill the void
Stave the crave
And stop my inner infant
From squirming
While I tighten the noose.

Morbid, right?
Relax.

I've got my fix.
It's only three licks
To the center of this tootsie-pop.
And no, I won't stop.

Your intervention clashes
With my dissension.
So bugger off will you?

It's two-fifty for a two-liter
And a heck of a lot cheaper than blow.

A true friend is someone around whom you can be yourself, primarily because they can't think any less of you than they already do.

Maybe it's not who we are or what we do that defines us. Maybe it's just that we are.

If you don't fail, you will never truly succeed.

Growing Into Older Eyes, Learning Bigger, Greater Lies

Stings and soothes when in the hand
And bittersweet, when tasted
'Naught so hollow then as now
The thought of life yet wasted.

It follows then that none will know
My thoughts so slowly scavenged
That I in ignorance would share
To teach, to learn, to challenge.

Twas also love that I adored
And lusted for in silence
Sadly, no form of love yet shown
Has hidden all its violence.

To learn of life and death in full
This is the greatest bounty
But there is none that I hate more
Than mythical maturity.

Like so, it stings and burns when held
And poisonous, when tasted
Ne'er so hollow as twill be now
To see my life was wasted.

Resume

"Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live."

- Dorothy Parker

The Crypt and Keeper

I am eternal,
I am intellectual,
I see the bad ones
From a mile away.

Me? I'm nobody
I say what's on my mind
But I throw myself into
What I do, every day.

You fool, you don't know
What sorrow you sow
The hurt you ignore
Will be yours tomorrow.

Dude, your ego's showing
Besides, I've got passion
I'm nobody's cleric
But I can go with the flow.

Though my mind sees it all
My heart is so blind
I wish just for once
To feel something inside.

I'm tired of hurt
I see only today
And I'm tired, so tired
Of showing when I cry

Please show me your love

Please show me who

I'll love you if you'll

Do the same for me too.

The anticipatin'
Is intoxicatin'
What do I have to do to win, huh?

I'm still waiting for
The sky to burn with fire
From within my eyes
When the whole world will be engulfed in
Furious passion

Effervescent,
Joyous,
Passion.

The Manic Mathematic

It's odd -
When a variable,
Unknown
Is assigned
To it's own
Integer or meaning
It ceases, comes undone

Perhaps I'm insane
Trying to determine
What is beyond my reach
But I believe that

Random
Is
Quantum.

The truest way to determine the nature of another man's heart is by the color of their lightsaber.

Depression: A Cocktail Best Served Bold

It makes me wonder:

What?
The crossweave of misery and mystery
Like Prozac and
Trans-Atlantic flights to
Skydive into the Olympics.
Or the urge to castrate my dreams with a cubicle
Chemical ends.

Luckily I can now see
What the emo kids must be
When they say to themselves:
"I think I may be in over my life."

Triptych.
Bright hair,
Red lipstick.
Fall gently through my fingers.

Maybe the third time really is the charm.

Dear Diary (Love Dan)

So it is the winsome siren
That conquers my heart.

Even if for a moment,
This joy springs mellifluous
If not to others, than to me
I won't miss a beat,
I won't just play the cues,

I'll take the reins,
Take the stand.
You can have my hand,
And maybe, just maybe
My heart.

The mature, when defeated, are overjoyed.

In Difference

I raised my head. Her posture and expression made it clear to me that she had grown tired of being the anterior of my witticisms. So I smirked.

"There's only the feeble gray of civilization. The most intense, whether dark or light, are thrown out, above and below respectively."

"True, but the sand on the seashore does not favor those who are drowned most regularly by the tide." My eyebrows met, discussed her proposition, and promptly dismissed it.

"Segregation occurs by bits, by leaps, by the nation. There is no time or calculation, it is over before you can even consider its existence. It is" I emphasized, "completely natural."

Clearly she was fed up.

What Is the Depth of Desperation?

It's the thrill of the cautious defeat,
Painfully taken,
Like blood.

One moment of pain,
For the chance of new life.

Because it is risk
That brings the twist
Of changing fortunes,
Changing winds,
Those breezes brisk.
That bite through boredom
Like a needle pierces the skin.

I'm Back (Deep with Desparation)

Trying to resurrect
I pull myself, frail,
Root by root
Up the canyon wall

But I suspect
That I am vain
And the driver's side reflection
Does my pain
No justice.

So my heel grinds the dirt to powder
And the tremor, the clamor,
Is louder,
Now
It crushes me
And hope seems hardly a happy compromise
I'd rather a solution
Or a shovel . . .

"The American Republic will endure until the day Congress discovers that it can bribe the public with the public's money. "

- Alexis de Tocqueville

Ambivalence in Poetic Form

In an imperfect world I have no say in
Who lives or dies,
Who sinks or flies
But who rocks the skies?

Who throws the stars?
Like the shadow mars
My empty heart.

There is no perfect hope,
Only the hopeless are worthy.

Yeah I'm scared!
I've got a right to be!
You're so afraid of me
That you can't see what's inside of me.
So let me walk through your heart
Give me the tour,
Once and for all
And quit your stalling
I'm only calling out to you
'Cause I need to know

Is it true?
Can it be done?
Can two separate people
Truly become one?

There is no cruel hate
Only the violent procreate.

So pardon my ferociousness
And I'll throw an anorexic twist
Into the heady readiness
That belies your unsteadiness.

If you'll change your stance
Catch your balance and your breath
Stay focused, think ahead
'Cause I'm high on death

There is no perfect lover,
Only love itself is perfect.

"You're just too good to be true.
Can't take my eyes off you.
You'd be like Heaven to touch.
I wanna' hold you so much.
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I'm alive.
You're just too good to be true.
Can't take my eyes off you.

Pardon the way that I stare.
There's nothing else to compare.
The sight of you leaves me weak.
There are no words left to speak,
But if you feel like I feel,
Please let me know that it's real.
You're just too good to be true.
Can't take my eyes off you.

I love you, baby,
And if it's quite alright,
I need you, baby,
To warm the lonely night.
I love you, baby.
Trust in me when I say:
Oh, pretty baby,
Don't bring me down, I pray.
Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay
And let me love you, baby.
Let me love you."

- Bob Crewe

Hey Baby

Don't ask me to address
The nature of my direction.

If only all my stress
Would evaporate with affection.

But instead I take this test
Constant rules like an infection.

Maybe it would be best
To cease my relational dissection.

I don't want to lose,
I just want to love:
But to choose to refuse
Seems the obvious plan
But without love I see
Only pain where I stand.

Please,
Hold my hand.

So Follows the Farewell Ferry

And there's the call,
For the final fall,
A twist, a wrench
A foul stench,
And then the curtain call.

And there's the mission bell,
Heralding the start of hell,
They are too dear
To keep me near
So I carefully choose where I dwell.

And then the crying lamb
That bleats through bleakness grand,
What horror throws
Its painful lows
Until you cannot stand?

It is the teary face
That ends the human race
What games we play
So we might stay
In our feigned creator's grace.

It's hypocrisy
For you and me:
But you and I
Can't explain why,
We show but cannot see.

Sisyphus' Treadmill

I feel like I've run a marathon,
At one-hundred miles an hour.

No rests,
No breaks,
Just twists and loops
On roads like snakes.

Yet at the end of the day,
When I sing my swan song,
To conclude the race,
My triumph in the throng
I don't know how fast,
Or how far,
Or how long.

"A Goodbye and Celebration of What Might Have Been" or "Regret"

How heavy is the kiss goodbye,
For the distant friend,
To usher in the end.

A friend that could have been,
One step closer,
A quaint composer.

Perhaps in her stead,
I'll find solace here,
In the depths of my head,
With my memories dear,

And in fantasies sleep,
Through dreams without end,
That the friend I can't keep,
Is not
On whom
I depend.

Don't jump until I've put out my hand.
Don't cry until I've made you hurt.
Don't dance until your innocence has ended.

And don't forget who I am,
Or what I've done for you.

I'll cry myself to sleep so you won't have to.

"I have nothing to say." She stared back at me, her eyes folding back over to the glazed expression she wore so often, the thin patina of disinterest. God, she knew just how to get under my skin.

"Well there's nothing more to talk about then is there?"

"Not really."

"Can you even call this a conversation?" I said nothing. The wine had turned sour in taste and stodgy in texture.

Triangle Triage

Darkest flesh of
The cold as we struggled through
The rain, meekest we
Searched for the warm breast
The flash of chest that meant
Life,
In the best of that sense.

Ostrich Head

Child,

Be grateful for
Your family,
Your fate is not starvation.
Don't be

Foolish,

Your love is
Juvenile,
Puerile, and infantile,
But you've got style
That's for

Sure,

You can run away
Still weigh
The options as you

Flee.

Water Waka

Draw closer to the
Water's clear fulmination.

Dread not its passage.
Though the moon glares greedily.

Instead make love to
The calm beauty of the lake.

She rises, she stands
Only when her father turns,
For he, the moon, is jealous.

My Romantic Nature

Please,

Let me see
That face,
So free.
That grows towards the breeze.

Like flowers to the sun,
Warm,
Fun.
But no daffodil or daisy may
Like you can,
Make me crazy.

And it's hazy
How only you can exist
And yet your presence,
Makes me twist
With effervesence.

My innards swarm,
They are a hive where
Dread insects thrive
On convolution.

Fully Appalled by the Reticent Toot

Nothing turns the mind a bit
Like the sound
Of the unwound
When lit.

And no-one reads the earth so profoundly,
Like one who walks its circumference,
Then exhausted sleeps,
So soundly.

And when there is silence,
And the countdown begins,
I choke on my laughter -
For her awkward sin.

She weaves to and fro,
Then, like the clouds, breaks wind.

"Being powerful is like being a lady: if you have to tell people you are, you aren't."

- Margaret Thatcher

Until you find reason to ponder all things, you will find the intellectual in nothing.

Dali Dolly

The room wasn't nearly as spartan as I had expected. Punctuated by fine carpets and vivacious plant life there was a sink, dressers, a bed, and even a drum set in the far corner. No sticks though. I imagined that the Ghosts didn't appreciate loud noises.

When She entered the room I was surprised by Her appearance. Her face was covered by a white mask, eyeholes cut almost crudely in a piece of bleached cloth that hung with ragged edges, as if torn from its home. The rest of Her pale body was, barring a brief loincloth, completely naked and resembled a man's entirely. If I hadn't known better I would have thought She was a man, but when She spoke I recognized the silky-smoothness of Her voice.

"They said that you wished to become a Ghost." I ignored Her for a moment, still wondering at her transformation. Even Her body was an unusual color, and when she turned in the light shed by the window it became even more pronounced. It was like a marble statue, or bones scarred white by the sun's rays. She stared, unblinking, from behind Her mask.

"Is this true, or are you just trying to get closer to the Door?" This time I responded.

"You know me well."

"It is impossible for a man to enter The Door without a key." I snorted with derision.

"The Door is not an entrance, but an exit."

"Who would want to leave this place?" She gestured, presumably referring to the tennis or basketball courts, the opulent swimming pools shrouded by magnificent waterfalls, and the other Ghosts who frequented those places. I stared at Her and refused Her advance - She hated this the most. With reluctance in Her eyes, She spoke.

"Well, They have decided to give you a chance. Tomorrow." She turned and appeared to float out the door, shutting it firmly behind her until the lock clicked. I returned to a prone position on the bed, begging the fates for a confirmation of my righteousness. I heard only silence.

So the object of
The rejection is to
Find someone who
Binds themselves to
A list of rules that are
Copacetic with what
My thick brain has
Sluggishly conjured
To bring itself pleasure,

But

Perhaps the outside of the box
Is why it stocks
Empty memories
And silly thoughts.

Oh how I long to hold,
Protect,
Yet still keep my morality intact.

In fact,
The desire to be on fire
Seems bred in!

But maybe I'm just
Inbred.

Wrong and right,
And black and white,
Why do we stop loving when we fight?

Should not we
Disagree,
In an order that borders on
Civility?

But perhaps ardor,
And grandeur
Accompany one another,
And perhaps weakness,
And meekness,
Cannot be second guessed.

Ipsos factos,
Give up the ghost,
And so I set these things to rest.

Why do we refrain from swearing around small children?

Maybe the process of finding solutions and failing to traverse shortcuts is . . .

Clown Shoes

Don't be alarmed by my pace
I've changed for the day - no disgrace!
I'm trying new prose
Like a new set of hose
That I might be comfortably laced.

I have trouble writing the trite
Although many would (many might)
Consider the jocular
From afar, though binocular,
To be distasteful in any light.

Still I say it's completely fallacious,
To ignore one's humor, so gracious,
That, when we stumble,
Shows us how we're humble,
Which in turn can make us less voracious.

So I guess what I'm saying is this:
In the grossest of ironic twists,
The lesser you've palled
To the name you've been called
The better you'll feel in the midst.

Tinted Glass Makes Greener Grass

Tonight, the sun sets
On naked trees

With animosity I see
That no-one is truly free
Oh how they try to be

They use
As tools
Faith and free will and
Rules and change and
Death and life everlasting.

Bound to their fate
They can appreciate
All else but their current state.

The Future Responds

Hey man, relax.

You've got it all wrong, but I can't tell you what you've got wrong - you'll figure that out on your own. Just hang in there.

I wish I could say it gets better, but it really doesn't. There'll be plenty of peaks and valleys. That's the point - not all this "having" crap. You don't own anything in life: life owns you. You're born and you die, everything in between is parenthetical.

Don't get all upset about it though. Life is still precious, and you probably don't realize how much of it you're going to miss out on. You never cried enough, never loved enough, never bothered to be vulnerable because you were afraid. Let me tell you, fear is way worse than pain. Pain ends, but fear builds on itself until it has constructed an awesome clockwork apparition that knows no empathy. Pain simply is, but fear is malicious. Don't let it infect you, or you'll lose so much in life that you might as well not have lived at all.

Texting the Future

Hey.

I guess I think that you know what you're doing, where you're going. Maybe you already know and you just refuse to tell me. That's fine. It would be hard anyway.

I don't expect much I guess. Security. Love. Pain. Heartbreak. It's all the same to me. I guess I kind of do know the future already. I just wish I could know exactly what I need to do to get there.

I know what you're thinking. "You don't have to do anything to get to the future, it plods steadily towards you regardless of your attempts to thwart or hasten it." You're only half right. Maybe what the future looks like to you is different. After all, you're already there. Me, I'm still stuck in the past, trying to push through the muck to get to where you are.

I'm so envious of you. You've got everything that I want and don't know how to get. I dunno, maybe that's the point. Maybe I won't ever have everything I want, so I've got to grab what I can get. Maybe having isn't as important as trying.

A Series of Questions Regarding Love and Sex

What is romantic love?

What is the difference between romantic and platonic love?

Does love connect or separate us as individuals?

Is there really a single person with whom you are destined to share the closest bonds of both platonic and romantic love?

Teacher the Talented

Children are amazing!

They are the
Boundless energy of the
Soulless indignity of the
Mindless calamity that we
See.

So forgive not
What will not be forgiven
In you.

Forget not
The important lessons taught
To you.

Winsome Drifter

Jump from topic to topic
Repeat yourself to make it stick

Don't buy your love
From the thrifter
'Cause love will make you
A winsome drifter

Ever lonely, always ceding
Pleasant eyes, always pleading
"Take me away"

And yes, you'll pray,
But never leave the
Hollow home you've
Worked and weaved

As a nest
As a bed
As a rest
For your head

Not the living
Instead
For trouble
For the dead.

In the Spirit of Loneliness

In what do the tasteless dip
To cleanse the endless tip of
Their mindless instant rewind
Would you fall for less than duress
When you undress and steel yourself for
Pain unimaginable?

Stop Laughing (Am I Too Serious?)

Please don't deride my frown
Because I woke up
Upside-down.

And please don't mock my hate
Because I'd rather
Inculcate.

So please refrain from laughter delirious
Because the matter is
Somewhat serious.

Sometimes clarity is a greater curse than confusion.

Secret Moon

I must confess
Even though I love
To talk

After you leave
I still feel an ache
In my chest.

I won't depress
Because I know
You're happy

But you should know
I love the way
You dress.

So I won't wane
Like the tide
Ebb

But wax philosophical
You make me happy
Insane!

I feel (so) good (but) when (you're) gone.

"The brain

A caustic lump
Of chemicals dumped
Into a sack of fat
In the head," I spat

"I prefer the mind
See,
To unwind it is
Much harder than
The brain

To find the mind
Is to lean on air
Take that dare
And show me your role
The mind is the soul"

But inside I cried
Because sometimes my brain
Interferes with my mind.

Ignorance and fear:
If imbibed as sustenance,
A bitter poison.

Renaissance Man

Samson was a man of mead,
Muscle, and dread,
In word and deed
Who would open his mouth
And fill a need.

Coarse like the hair
That grew on his arms
Fire and grace
Magnificent charm
And above all
Would do no harm.

His wisdom was free
Like his cleverness, compelled
By the fools who would challenge
Expecting him felled

How amusing
By his choosing
His words
Were his conquerers
Made appear
Absurd.

The Science of Sex

Love and sex.

Let me talk about the Heisenberg uncertainty principle for a moment.

Heh, not.

Love and sex.

Sure, you can separate the two. Love without sex is platonic – sex without love is demonic, and if you’re really desperate you’ll end up histrionic. Heh.

Love and sex.

They belong with each other. They resonate on the same frequency. Sure you can pull them apart, like turning water into hydrogen and oxygen. Just don’t light a match in blind passion, because if you do...

The whole thing will blow up in your face.

Sound Familiar?

“In the Kali Yuga people achieve noble rank in society based on the amount of money and property they own rather than their moral virtue. The quality of virtue is measured only in terms of material wealth. Sexual passion alone binds husband and wife together in marriage. People become successful in life through a succession of lies, and their only source of enjoyment is sex. They live with continuous fear of hunger, disease, and death.”

- Donna Rosenburg, World Mythology

What Lie?

In jest do I rest
But even with the best
Intentions

I suffer the calamitous
Misinterpretous
Truss?

Ugh,
What a strange sense of humor.

Criticality Continued

“I find it interesting that you have not discussed the [subject] of the critique. You argue that criticality is a tool; however, the tool is useless if that which it endeavors to act upon will not render itself to improvements. If not willing or desirous of improvement, pointing out flaws has the potential to harm rather than help.”
- Alex

You have anticipated the essential, sequential argument that I too had planned to address, although you summarized it more eloquently than I had been able to on my own. Truly you are correct in asserting the uselessness of a tool that is used without effect. Consider the basic example of a penknife being used to cut down a tree. Although the blade pierces the bark, it is hardly effective, and will break before it has had any noticeable effect.

One must then consider whether or not a critique may be grouped into categories based on intent. Surely there are those who engage in constructive criticism such as teachers, artists, and the like – these take advantage of criticism, applying it in order to be useful or creative. In contrast there are those who seek to tear down or destroy with their critique. These individuals are usually baser in intellect, and frequently do not possess the abilities that they so often find themselves criticizing. Still, our discussion of intent addresses only half of the issue.

As you have pointed out, we must paint into this picture the other half of the mask, that faceless void of reception. Understand that I feel that this is a murky place, lacking absolutes and ultimately lying in the realm of the indefinable. Nevertheless, the way one’s criticism is received is more important than the critique itself, at least in the context of so-called ‘usefulness.’ If the chisel cannot chip away at the rock, then the sculptor labors in vain.

What then are we to do? May we engage in criticism without bothering to test the waters first? Should we wholeheartedly jump in, or refrain entirely? Perhaps a well-intentioned preface or a warm smile may cause our subject to become more pliable - perhaps not. We can only control our actions; thus, we face a dilemma of epic proportions, one which must be determined according to context, one which lacks absolute definition, one that it is critical that we address lest we stub our toes in the dark.

If one is to be truly effective, knowledge of the subject and context is key. Blind painters are rare, as are deaf musicians – we can only know what we sense. If we do not open ourselves to learning, we may never teach others, and we will never know if our canvas is ready for paint to be applied. Therefore, train yourself to feel what others feel, to think what others think, to resonate with every human being you meet. If you do this thing with love and passion no-one will be able to ignore your impact.

Kawaii!

When features
So tightly composed
Compress cuteness

I can’t hear the din
Over the copious volume
Of serotonin.

And one’s eyes
Large and round
Swollen with plastic tears
Only draw attention to
The physical lie.

So I squeal
Kawaii!

Criticality Analyzed

Caiphus: Is criticality inherently negative?

Moralam: Criticality is a tool. Consider the case of the artist; is not her critical eye a vehicle through which beauty is reached?

Caiphus: You are arguing then that the ends justify the means?

Moralam: Naturally not. Let us pursue this matter further. First, what is your definition of criticality?

Caiphus: To be critical is to notice what flaws make themselves apparent in a given context, is it not?

Moralam: Would you say that one must actively seek out those flaws before one may be considered "critical?"

Caiphus: No. All people notice those things which are incongruent to some extent. In this way, all people are critical; however, might I posit that the degree to which they seek out these discrepancies should have an effect on the way we perceive their analysis?

Moralam: Do not confuse criticality and analysis. Although the two words are functionally identical, it is criticality that we discuss, primarily for its negative connotations.

Caiphus: Nevertheless, is the search for flaws relevant, or merely incidental to the greater picture?

Moralam: If we postulate that searching for flaws in certain contexts is immoral or unwise, then we must assume not only that it is possible to deaden oneself to flaws, but that it is admirable to do so. I find this thought apalling on multiple levels.

Caiphus: Is it not admirable to examine oneself for flaws, but to ignore the flaws of others? Should we not seek to remove the plank from our own eye before removing the speck in our brother's?

Moralam: You have moved from the realm of the internal to the realm of the external far too hastily. What actions we take based on our critique should be the topic of another discussion.

Caiphus: Very well, we must then turn to intent - is motive relevant, or is it too simply an adjective tacked onto the greater subject?

Moralam: Intentions are the status of the heart quantified. A man scarcely has control of his actions if he does not reign over his intentions as he should. It is intentions that drive men to both evil and good, and it is immoral intentions that beget immoral behavior - the tools by which they accomplish this are incidental.

Caiphus: Critiques then should be reserved for the intellectual or the loving.

Moralam: If truly done for the sake of love, no action can be truly evil.

Depressed by synonyms,
Writing suffers.

Who can write without repeating
Who can speak without insinuating
Words?
Thoughts?
Ideas?

Foolishness.

Inspiration Is No More

My apologies for my leave uncouth
For my intent is not to forsake
But, in veritas and truth
I needed a creative break.

Because art flows in and art flows out
Of the heart, does its part
But like fire requires
A spark,
So desire,
Incentive, will start.

Even though glossy eyes
Read tangible prayers
That even the Lord finds ungrammatical
I will press on
'Till the sun brings the dawn
And thus, I end my sabbatical.

Once, I Knew Myself

Twist and try
I hold the sky when I
Run
And fly to the sun
It's so hard
When part of my heart
Says "stay grounded"
But
Pounding my chest
Isn't exactly
The best
Way to address the problem.

Digging to the source
Of the course
Of the stream
I can't scream in remorse
Only sob in,
Gentle
Internal
Discourse.
Yes, that's what I mean
Because dust
Has no sheen
And I must lie fallow
Rust forms a crust
Over what's green.

So I tried
In beautiful, awful
Suicide of the wide-open
Mind
To embrace the side
Which is kind
But I lied when I turned
My face,
Said "I died"
But I yearned for
A peaceful space.

Sleep comes slowly for the weak.

Revolve your ear
To pick up the signal.

Is it a cry for help?
Is it a lover's laughter?
Is it a sonnet, a prose?
Is it a glorious opera?
Is it a breeze rustling the trees' leaves?

Does it bite?
Does it sting?
Does it fight?
Does it ring?
Does it call?
Does it sing?

No matter,
It is now yours
Now and forever.

For music is but one language with many dialects.

Brandish not your mind as a weapon; it will then no longer function as a tool.

Trust My Baby

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She's crying for
The land she's lost
By trust.

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She's crying for
A mother's love
A mother gone
For serving the man.

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She weeps for
Hope crushed by
Her own red-faced contrition

Brings swift opposition.

What does a glass priest do?
He composes an ode to fragility.

What does an iron soldier do?
He learns to love with his weapon.

And what will become of me?
For I am a glass heart trapped in an iron body . . .

Pipeline

Do the do the do the
Do.

The pipeline for the for the
Do.

You want to go to go to
Go.

But the man will kill will kill will
Go.

So don't you run away away
Away.

Stop crying,
Mimicking
My emotion

A feeling robot
Has no friends.

Inoculation,
I have taken the disease
I'll live forever . . .

Learn and Learn and Learn Again

How many times
Have I seen it
In my head reels
Spin over while eyes
Burn bright
And encapsulated in the corrugated
Neurons show
What I’ve hated
Displayed in
High def, sharp breath
Robs my chest
So don’t test my smile
When I jump the turnstile

Because I learned,
And saw,
And learned again
I learned with foes
Families, and friends
I culled and cried
Until their end.
And watched my closest
Dearest, descend.

So pull my sleeve
And watch, bereaved
When the fray
Claws its way
Through the fabric
And stick
Your hand
In the alkaline sand
To hear every grain
In pain, demand.

Because it’s one of those things that you learn,
And learn,
And learn
Again.
And each new instance
Is born of closeness
But reeks of distance
And each new light
Pierces, brighter
Lighter, and louder,
Than the last.

At First

Naught weighs me down but
Way down, I feel a light thread.

Dragging on the ground,
Such a katamari grows.

My encounters are
Rolled into a single thread

The end may finally fray
When I am afraid.

Countdown to Suicide

I hate attention
That’s why I shine
In the space where no-one is looking.

I hate pity
That’s why I cry
In the space where no-one is looking.

I hate to live
So I’ll die
In the space where no-one is looking.

Predilection and Prediction

Gentle vibrations
May conduct the striations
To the cruelest of
These cold destinations

For while fate has a heart
It has no mind to cart
Us to where
We wished at the start

Indeed, she's robotic
And though it's quixotic
I learn to predict her
And she makes me neurotic

No caution may keep
Life's tragedies asleep
And fortune knows best
When to rest.

The Prince and Pauper both
May live
The other’s life
When darkness gives

The glory gift
Of dreams unwanted
That slowly become
Dreams, undaunted.

Listen.

I love you,
So relax!

You're so caught
Up in what
We haven't wrought
That even your thoughts
Are aligned
With keeping or having the good time
And benign they are not.

Of course the part
Of me that's hoarse
From screaming
At the sunset
Is upset at the force
Our lack of discourse
That's discouraged
Our mutual appeal.

I feel confident
But maybe I'm just dumb.

I'm feeling it come on
Incapacitation
By way of frustration.

Bang Bang (Open Wound)

Close the door
Shut my eyes
They'll never hear my lonesome cries.

In the wake
Of sorrow flows
The agony of those who chose.

Don't you dare
Perpetuate
This tirade with your endless hate.

I've had enough
Of your lies,
So shut your eyes.

"[This] situation may be expressed by an image: science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind."

- Albert Einstein

“Not only is songwriting a bitch, but then it goes and has puppies.”

- Steven Tyler

Friends, Quiet in the Corner

I dreamt of a land
That flowed sky to sea
With other dreamers
Just like me.

We slid through channels
Plotting cautious course
Eyes full of chaos
And remorse.

What silence we shared
Quietude given
To one another
Eternal.

Some fools want only words
But the quiescent are fulfilled in one another
For noise does naught for none.

A Fantastic Reason to Bugger Off

It downright
Pisses me off!

That I can laugh
At the ignorant
In a throng
Of intellectuals
But a single word can put me on their level.

Who dares presume to know me?

Only the most foolish
Know before
They learn
Before
They experience
Before
They believe.

For from belief comes all things.

Caiphus: Logic is the epitome of humanity’s intellectual ability.

Moralam: That is incorrect. That which you refer to is faith.

Caiphus: This is impossible – logic and faith are polar opposites!

Moralam: Again, you are incorrect. Without faith, logic would not exist.

Caiphus: You will have to go to great lengths to convince me of the accuracy of this foolish statement.

Moralam: Reason is based off of an inherent faith in both the absoluteness of logic and the supremacy thereof; therefore, faith is the basis of logic.

Caiphus: But by your own reasoning your argument, and therefore your conclusion, could be flawed!

Moralam: This is the paradox of human existence. Nevertheless, I have faith in mankind.

Pyramid of Good Intentions

“Every time an earth mother smiles over the birth of a child, a spirit mother weeps over the loss of a child.”

- Ashanti proverb

"Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon."

- Susan Ertz, Anger in the Sky

Obeu

Yeah I'm a man.
Call me a chauvinist,
But I don't think it's wrong
To take the passenger seat
And my feet
Can't find a place
But I'm carefully watching your face.

Well maybe it’s wrong to feel weak
So I try not to let my emotions leak
But it’s been so long since I’ve cried
That sometimes I wonder . . .

So how can I expect you to love me now?
How can I expect you . . .
With offhanded smile
And casual assurances
To accept my façade?

Do you think I don't notice?
I can’t stand it when you look away
Because I’m not the reason you stay
I’m just another loser friend
A testament to your
Dead-end life.

You’ll never realize how close we came
To making it, to winning this game
Because you're too wrapped up
In the perfect body, perfect smile, perfect life,
To tear your way out.

I don't doubt.

Emotional Control or Confusion

Okay.

If I see you and we talk, but I go away feeling disheartened because our conversation isn’t quite what I expected, who is in the wrong? Are my standards too high? Are my parameters too narrow? Perhaps my preconceptions aren’t as perceptive as they are pricey. Maybe the cost of fitting into my mold is uniqueness in any form other than the brand that I’ve created.

Here’s a better question: how do I relax? How do I convince myself that this life is but a dream when its concerns shine with a patina of importance? It’s a lot harder to think rationally when your stomach is all tied up in knots, or when your heart is palpitating, or when your every sense is trained on one thing around all which all else revolves. At what point will I become capable of feeling at ease in my ignorance?

When the most basic tenets of your ego’s dogma fold in on themselves as stubborn petals and refuse to show their true colors, what do you rely on? If not others, for others are as fickle as you, then who? What is the consistency of life? Where does ultimate truth lie? I long for an idea that possesses such gravity that I am, willing or not, drawn into its orbit.

Must the initial implementation always be awkward?

Freedom Asphyxia

Where would you go
If the earth and your feet
At your command only would meet
And struggle,
One with another
Like sister and brother?

And when would you wake
If your smile was fake
When your loves were at stake
And easy to break?

Would you fall on your knees
And beg from your friends
The mercy to bring
My debt to an end?

For in your malodorous monologue
Every breath is death
In the form of
Freedom asphyxia.

D347|-|

Part I: Violent End
The inevitable closure of an ongoing process - this is the cruelty of death. Even the most wretched of lives may fail to embrace death. Why? Because they still believe that life is hope. How foolish to think that one moment could forever alter their presence on this earth.

Part II: Awkward Change
The absence of life is the nature of death. Who among us does not forget that absence and believe in the presence of the dead? Even if only for a moment, we are prone to forgetfulness, especially in regard to those to whom we were close. This is the real power of death: that it can deceive us into believing in life.

Part III: Artistic Device
Death makes us think. What we think is really irrelevant to the nature of our introspection. Whether we chuckle or weep, we have reacted; thus, our pondering has led to some conclusion.

Part IV: Idea
Death represents ____.

Never What?

I looked to the sky
For signs of the weather

And saw that today
I wouldn't have it together

And maybe you won't
Be with me forever

But does that really mean,
That we should never?

Pleasure is naught but the meaningless excess of enterprise.

When creating imagery, it is important not to restrict the other's imagination.

Coaching bringing,
To the front of the line,
Running singing,
She'll be much better now.

So I think he,
Will be fine as well,
They'll be good free,
Free from their old lifestyle.

And I'll be here,
Urging them forwardly,
Trying to keep them orderly.

Go on, go on.

In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man Is Crazy

“Poor child.” The words echoed, dusty, resurrected from distant memory. “Born with hypersensitivia. How sad that we have discovered only now, when it is too late to really treat.”

“Now now” a calm male voice chimed in. “He can still live a normal, active life, as long as his hallucinations do not interfere with his ability to think and reason. For now, have him take these.”

“Will they prevent the hallucinations entirely?”

“I cannot make any guarantees; however, they should keep him from slipping too deep.” A brief pause. “Let me know if his condition worsens after puberty. For now, this is all we can do.”

Adam remembered the first time they appeared. At first it was subtle. Suddenly, heavy and light textures would mix into his perception, as if his very brain was betraying him. The experience was indescribable – like the warm touch of carpet, with different striations and details that would slowly become more and more apparent. They seemed friendly and inviting, but he was told not to embrace the hallucinations. Your eyes, they said – there is something wrong with your eyes.

It didn’t feel wrong, Adam thought. But then, it never did. Insanity, that is. They say that those who are insane can never admit it. That’s why he took the pills. They kept the visions away. His hands moved to the bottle in his hand, thumb roving over the patterns engraved in the side. Still, that was before, when he was a child. Today he was alone. Today he would not take them. He had to know.

Had to know if he was crazy.

First there were the withdrawals. He tossed and turned in bed, the covers thrown back with the force of his gestures. His hand hit the nightstand, and he cried out in pain. It was many hours before he could sleep, and even then it was a cold, nightmarish sleep, full of strange dreams. He dreamt of cold concrete, of a ramp that he could never quite reach the top of. In his dream, he felt the hallucinations begin to come, and the top of the ramp was suddenly perceivable, almost as if he could feel it before he was there. He woke with a fury, sitting upright with such vigor that his heart pounded with adrenaline.

What had woken him was incredible. The strange feelings that he had once experienced as a child had returned, strong as ever. It was as if he had suddenly sprouted thousands of extra hands, and they were all roving over every object in the room simultaneously. Still, the sensation was nothing like touch. He couldn’t tell the temperature of the nightstand, nor the texture of the walls, but he knew they were there. He knew where everything was. He took a step forward, cane in hand. Then another, and another. He marched through the doorway out into the kitchen, still invigorated with his experience. Wishing to try this new ability, he kicked the doorpedal and, surprised by the sudden intensity of the day, screamed.

Even as the heat from the day flooded in, Adam’s whole body shuddered with fear. The hallucinations had suddenly ten thousand times more vivid, and he felt as though his mind was being inundated by a smooth, constant stream of sound, like a high note on a clarinet being played for an impossibly long time. The strange feeling did not subside, but slowly he felt the notes disassemble themselves. Like the harmonies of some great magnum opus, different parts of the sensation separated and made plain their differences. He knocked against the door, and obediently it swung open further, granting him a plane of vision that was totally incomprehensible.

It was reckless, he knew, but Adam detached the cane from his wrist entirely and threw it aside. Somehow, he thought, I don’t think I’ll need it. It was with a great, joyous cry that he flew down the ramp into the street, probing in any and every direction with his newfound sense. No one was around, and who could blame them? Only the bravest of athletes would get up this early in the day cycle, when the heat was at its strongest. With the ululation of a madman, Adam shuffled back and forth, picking his feet up more than he had ever dared before. Recklessly he began to walk. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, eventually moving so fast that only one foot was on the ground at a time. With the wind rushing past his ears, he cried out one last time.

“I CAN SEE!”

The ego thrives on delusion; because, without hallucinating its own importance, it cannot survive.

Pluck!

From there!
The sound emerges.
A pinpoint, no, a cave,
A wave that echoes as it surges
Through the echoes
Of my imagination
What configuration will it show?
When into my ear it flows . . .

WAIT!
The throes of death!
I, in horror, fascinated
Cold mounds of sweat
That channel my curious anxiety,

For the sound does not live past today,
Not even this moment may contain it,
It is eternal, but manifest only momentarily,
In memory it may emerge again
But for now, it rests.

Objective achieved.

Brick Lobe

Your words are foul pellets
Like rubber bullets
You throw syllables at my ears
But they only bounce off
A brick lobe.

Mispronunciated

Circumlocution means
Paying homage to
Dielectric execution
So, when next you suffocate
Don't forget to hate
Roget.

What is the difference between the student and the teacher?

Both must occupy the same space, at the same time. While the teacher grades the students, the students work for the teacher. In other words, both must put effort into the relationship. Both, optimally, are focused on self-education. In short, the defining lines that distinguish the difference between the teacher and the student are blurry and vague, unclear social guidelines for academia. In truth, a student is a teacher, and a teacher a student, for both ought to further themselves in this regard. Truly the sharing of knowledge knows no superior, for all who seek it will find it within their grasp, and in this way be filled with the never-ending hunger to know more.

Jerk

Yes, there are stupid questions
Like the one you ask me all the time.
"Where are we going?"
I don't know, idiot.
Don't ask me that.

When you ask me something I don't know,
It makes me look stupid
So don't do that . . .
Jerk.

Wonderful World

Well you see friends shakin’ hands,
But I demand that you point them out.
Sure, my friends shake,
Right before they grind up real close
To get a better idea of what they’re missing.
Maybe now the chemical cocktail will take them
One step closer to nirvana
Like it did the first time.

My soft drinks are green, red, and yeah, blue,
And it’s the soft hands that drive a hard bargain
With a hard needle that pierces invisible flesh,
So now my head’s up in the clouds,
But it’s like eternal rain,
As little droplets run down my face,
With the pit-pat of moist feet.

Always with the lies . . .
Maybe it used to be that way buddy,
But don’t gimme crap about lighting up
It’s the only light I’ve got.

Why do we deify ancient philosophers, when they were merely men with ideas?

The more truth there is to a statement, the more likely it is to offend.

Intellectual success is frequently hidden by a veil of economic failure.

$epulcher

I cannot bear to suffer this question anymore. My life rotates and simultaneously revolves frenetically around a single point: money. This is, in a word, ridiculous. Let me put forth some of those things which plague me most frequently:

May I have an education?
Money.

May I focus on furthering my artistic ability?
Money.

May I travel where I wish?
Money.

May I devote my time to ministering to others?
Money.

There is no bitterness, there is no hate, there is no pride, there is no willful ignorance, there is no tyrant that avoids money - all these things embrace it; indeed, these things are only a small sample, for money permeates our culture as a cloud of dust permeates the asthmatic's lungs. It stifles creativity, rewards the vapid, and promotes laziness in the well-to-do. What lazy man is motivated to work because of money? No one fails to nap for want of money, for laziness cannot be cured by any external medicine, only by a change of heart.

Still, the world would not survive without money, for humankind is greedy, and loves to possess without standards. Truly, what is possessed is not as important to the greedy as the quantity and quality of one's possessions.

I curse money and all that it stands for, for though money has done me many a favor, it has done me disservice many times over.

Another dreary day to add to my cyclical life; even so, life itself only a part of many larger cycles. Why is it that the stars can always be seen, but never touched? Must I really become an astronaut to live in the space that I can picture so vividly? What are the circumstances that would end my affliction? How hard must I yearn before I have the will to succeed? I must take initiative!

Nevermind.

Antipathy/Empathy

Look into the stars,
Seize the thread that you seek,
The colour and shape,
Of victory.

Reach into the earth,
Make your feet dance,
The wicked tango,
Of deceit.

Pull flesh from bone,
Within your heart, live,
Pulse with the awareness,
Of love.

In frictionless heat,
Is the change of heart,
Exploding with the coldest,
Of fusion.

Still water and sky,
May speak 'neath the sun,
As its rays connect those who ne'er mingle,
One to another.

When senses fall short,
The mind assumes their burden,
Crush the mind and win.