Archive for April, 2016


April 30, 2016

If you place
your ear to my ear
as to a shell
holding the roar of the sea
then you will hear the rain
the screeching violins
and the sound of the blade
punching death’s timecard


Too Much Travelled By

April 27, 2016

Delusions of fame
distort and bloat
the paranoiac ego
ever certain
in its small appeal
of the total
adoration of the people
believing that everyone
who passes by
does so
due to love and respect
a desire to be near
such a remarkable talent

Maybe this is so
or maybe it ain’t so much
but as I walk through
yet another shoot
at the intersection of Fig & 56
the most overly shot
location in all of Los Angeles
I overhear the star’s
distinct Jersey by way of Boston
nasal honk loudly say,
“For the second time today!”
and I wonder
is it me
I am going past
“for the 2nd time today”
not out of design
once going home from coffee
next going out to a movie
but surely
it’s coincidental timing
certainly, he doesn’t keep tally
like some bureaucratic bird of prey
keenly observing
each little mouse
who scurries along the street
and how many times by they go
that would be crazy, right?

Or is it me
does it speak
to the sorry state of my mental health
to harbor such screwy suspicions
am I the paranoiac ego
and not Marc Maron afterall?

Is this how John Hinckley Jr. got his start?

Perhaps I am in need
of paying greater heed
to down which roads I travel

America 2016

April 25, 2016

Family values
your family’s values
written in the blood
encoded, innate
blut und boden
not of the other
outside values
corruption of the auslander
but internal, settled, historic
tied to the land
your family
your white family
your white neighbors
your values
their values
united by the land
the values of the land
polluted by foreigner
lascivious outsiders
libido-driven, hot-blooded
muddied feverish reason
perversion of establishment
the long established
cool, regulated values
family values
assailed by strangers
foul, duplicitous, untrustworthy
not family, not blood
not of the land
your land, your family’s land
your neighbor’s land
from which now
as the banner is raised
the hour has come
the final solution
to cleanse the land
is to cleanse the blood
is to secure the family
and keep steadfast
its values

Finding Myself

April 21, 2016

I don’t want to be stolen
myself doesn’t feel like me
my arms do not hang like this
elbows bent at angles foreign
somehow I am not me
sometimes I must be somebody else
how else to explain
the army of neo-hippie chicks
who all seem to know me
yet I don’t know them
and therefore I must be
someone other than me
it’s almost a certainty
I’ve been stolen
I am somebody who’s not me
and that clears a lot of things up
I’ve always known
deep inside, at least when I am
the me that is me
that I am better than I am
now I know
it is not me
who is this horrible person
I seem to be
but it is the thief of me
my burglar, my grand theft abductor
hijacker of my soul
this is so relieving to finally realize
the worst in me is someone other than me
it was not me in that drunken rage
who punched my wife
into unconsciousness
nor I who left welts and lacerations
across my sons back
and all down my teenaged daughter’s legs
and bare ass
also crucially true
it has never been me
who’s forgotten where I placed the car keys
my relief at this revelation
is enormous
the suicidal impulses
I fought off daily
have evaporated like morning dew
from a butterflies wings
have faded like the bruises
from so many past lovers’ faces
now instead I strive
to get this joy-riding
son of a bitch under control
but if I can’t
oh well and se la vie
for I am exonerated
and doesn’t my thief
doesn’t he deserve his fun too
maybe, just maybe
this body-purloining defalcator
is me
and I am the aberrant intruder
perhaps it is time
I relinquish control
hand this vehicles keys and pink slip over
and finally be all that I can be

Neoarchaean Accretion, I

April 19, 2016

Hidden under the skin
are unseen lines that divide
pressurized sections full of tension
that strain and pull taut
buckle and suddenly slip
trembling eruptions
exposing the instability of the stasis
the total illusion of security
nothing will ever be okay
nothing will ever be fine
nothing will ever get better
not with this truth
lurking beneath the surface of self
ready to shake the foundations
of the world, of life
without so much as
a wail of warning
knowledge of this system
of faults
does no good
it only makes it worse
the anticipation, the anxiety
the stress that delivers the snap
violent seizures of doubt
forever and ever
leaving nothing
but burning ruins

Amputee Patriot

April 15, 2016

To preserve the integrity of the 2nd
amendment, allowing felons
the right to bear arms,
domestic abusers and their sort,
it would be prudent,
since we cannot,
as a society,
deny them the sacred gun,
but we can and should,
as it is often said,
“guns don’t kill people
people do,”
follow this…
a gun is an object held
in the hand of which
the finger pulls the trigger
the hand, however, is
at arm’s end,
but all of it
is controlled by the mind
of the person
who kills people
thus, to protect ourselves,
and our holy, blessed, divine arms,
as in armaments,
we should saw off the arms,
as in appendages of flesh and bone,
of felons,
domestic abusers and their sort,
followed up by a quick
and painless lobotomy
there then, you see
problem solved
all glory be unto Gun

The Legacy

April 12, 2016

I am the anti-Buddha
the prince who clings to possessions
as grimly as a demon once inside
I am my things
a living, breathing human midden
animated upon birth
the moment in the bassinet
when presented with my first “Mine”
an orange-eyed, blue-hide bear
from then the pile
of my identity amassed
tangible objects
ownership becomes the owner
tastes, opinions, beliefs
projected upon property
my personal belongings
and a longing for them
to build a better person
items of mass production
producing an itemized man
a life to take stock of
count inventory
the sum of all I am
all I own
all I may hope to
by the end
written in the will
my will imposed
upon the lucky recipients
of what only death
could free from me
could free me from

Reports of My Death Are Right on the Money

April 11, 2016

Questions my son asks about the past
prefaced by the words
“Dad, when you were alive…”
he’s a smart boy
to hold such complicated knowledge
fully aware I am dead
it doesn’t matter
that words still find their way
onto paper
or I take the stage
vent all my love and rage
drink until dizzy
hold court
and pontificate loudly
as pro as a pope
because he can witness all this
call it life
but he knows the deductions to make
it’s simple subtraction is all it is
take away what’s already been lived
and that living’s been stopped
leaving death
thus, he has it
the only appropriate way to inquire
“When you were alive
did flights of birds cross the clear summer skies?”
“They did.”
“When you were alive
did those skies hum the song of humankind’s collected brilliance?”
“They did not.”
this is the afterlife
and we’re already in it

I Refuse to Play

April 8, 2016

The coffee here
comes with a free
Biscoff brand cookie
it is
according to the package
Europe’s favorite
cookie with coffee
and I assess that assertion
slowly lowered into the oily black brew
I watch as the liquid
is absorbed
drawn up the biscuit’s length
against gravity
espresso and hot water climbs
creeping like a rot
of rising damp
infecting studs
undermining the integrity
the security of the home
my treat now soaked
up along half
its one inch span
rises form the dark depths
vertically it ascends
above the ceramic rim
the cookie performed the penetration
but it is it
that is impregnated
both with coffee and the possibility
cookie’s and coffee’s combination promises
I rotate the sweet
to the horizon
advance it toward my parting lips
when the wet weight
weakens the structure
the front end breaks away
but “break” is incorrect
it sloughs off
plops to the table
a splattery brown befoulment
and as I wipe up
the dun dung-like mess
of the baked goods I’ve been denied
I think to myself
observing what
the white paper serviette holds
that a Biscoff brand cookie
thoroughly java-saturated
would make the most perfectly
ghastly smear
inside a diaper
for that disgusting game
enjoyed at baby showers
where party guests attempt
to identify
what loads the soiled nappy