Month: October 2013

Like This

It’s like this.

The day one of it is heavy
with the love of studying
for a hanging tree to hide
in and it is a for sure
not going further than for
a coffee without getting winded
with anxiety and brows beaten with sweat
and then it is escaped,
by a margin,
the ability to sleep is
what saves you on day one
from doing anything rash
that can’t be undone.

Day two is pretty much more
of the same, with new added memories
from the last time you committed suicide
to the first time you punched something.

Day three is pretty much all about the crying,
and more of the same tree hunting,
rope is now even considered.

There are a few interesting moments
where you try to climb out of the cave
and you get all the way out in the middle
of your day only to have it come crashing,
some sudden hunger pang misread by the mind
as more come down gut rot and now the trees again,

and the rope, whether it would make that movie noise
and whether your mother will die from it,
and how hard it will be for everyone to get off work
and come see you off and whether everyone will hate you,
how they’ll tell those who haven’t yet heard, in significant phrases.

How they will find the body, discover it.
As though you were just a lost island until now.
People say it is selfish but you spend an awful lot of time
thinking of how others will cope, in the throes of its ride.

After that it just sits for a long while on your stomach and back.
You will ponder whether any little mundane act, cutting nails, making food,
is even worth it if you aren’t going to live it through.
Why bother smiling at that girl. It has no bearing on your death march.
Who cares if the coffee has anything in it, just drink it!
You’ll be fucking dead before it rots your guts you cowardly little whelp.

A week will go by hiding in old sitcoms from your youth, and you’ll sink
deep into a hell that awaits the living dead, those who tried but couldn’t get out.

You’ll have to make your way up off the dirt floor and back in a chair and
you can always have flu or worse to cover the tracks but you yourself
you begin to notice the difference in each returnee self. It’s like a copy, of a
copy.

It’s like this.

And after awhile you lose the ability to even lie to yourself about changing.

It’s like this.

And that’s that.

Suicide by Asshole

I feel like the story was too good for me.
Like a great tale of return to society after
a great fall and a great tumble,
is just not my destiny.

Which really just leaves dying in silence,
or imparting a message of warning.

You really cannot struggle out from under
the narrative snow angel
your twitchy soul’s body

has left on frosty earthen lakes
and the fire will get you
no matter how retardant your beliefs.

So I don’t see why you smirk father,
your religion is your prison,
mine at least feels like a proud Saturday night.
You live in a humble, bitter Sunday morning.

And the greatest tragedy of the people who see
the nothing of the cloud above, is being robbed of the chance
to see the look on your faith-withered face, as it burns,
as it explodes with frustrated, wasted focus, on a fiction.

I would still rather swim, just the once,
in this absolute, than drown in hope.

I would go out like that forever, over
your ridiculous pose hung as savior.

You’re a Reason to Forget

Today is easier than the others
for some reason the ropes are
always quiet of the same challenge
leading up to your hitting them.

One of the local homeless died last night,
she was remembered fondly as some
kind of character, a haggard queen of the street
dressed like a hooker stained by the elements.
I thought about doing that once.
Being a local character.
What was the harm I thought,
life is bullshit anyway.

Owning things and getting
owned by them, over and
over until the whole fucking
thing goes up in fermented
flesh and burial, of the body
or the waste kind, it all ends there.

I used to write things in chalk with a lover.
We would leave each other
messages across the cities walls.

I bet a few are faded into
the brick now, and will be there
even after we have both been
driven mad with this life.

Our legacy, some cheap sidewalk chalk.

She speaks to herself in coded languages now.

I’ve given up having designs
of being some local character.
I’ve taken to the pages easy slumber
and I have no use for my middle finger.

Life has way too many fuck off’s
and fuck you’s set up in it’s very design,
we don’t need to make more trouble for ourselves.

We will do just fine on our own.
Tomorrow is the promise of new agitations,
and the feast of memory on your time.
I will forget you tonight.
The quickest way possible.

Cold beer and green smoke.

Easy

Easier became hardest.
I lost my view, in lieu
of the forest’s
frozen, in arrest…
you can hardly

ever hope
to testify to the good
you’ve gotten stuck in.

It’s a miracle you aren’t
dead by now,
so scream loud.

Might be your only,
might be your last.

Easiest becomes hardest,
you’ll never know another
pair like them,

and open the door
and let the demon
into you now,

because it is harder
not to.

The Unwritten Rules of Robert Stack’s Unsolved Mysteries

Anyone ship wrecked is not coming back.

It’s always the family member who repeats
their innocence as a mantra whose guilty.

Mysterious looking military suicides never get solved,
and are most likely not voluntary.

People whose alias’ are just variations of their first name with
not even clever last names, always get caught.

Femme fatales always have their story told to smutty music.

9 times out of 10 when a warden or prison guards body is not found
after a breakout, she’s absconded with the convict willingly.

When someone posts bail and they are guilty,
they flee the state.

An old man and his garden and his missing wife are often
completely connected, and not in a good way.

Sometimes, it’s just a creaky floorboard ridden house with
attention hungry, in the financial pit, owners.

Sometimes even Robert Stack can’t keep a straight face.

Dungeons and Dragons ends up getting you sucked into
satanic murder cults.

Women: don’t hitch-hike!

If no other possible hypothesis suits the case, it’s Satanism!

Chupacabra is out there!
Big foot is underfoot!
Loch Ness no longer lost!

Within an hour of this broadcast,
someone somewhere will recognize
their co-worker at the gas station of K-Mart
and the universal conclusion will be,

“They were the Last One you would suspect.”

“Where is the feast we were promised?” – J.M.

We Call It Art

We call it all art nowadays.

Plato and Aristotle would have no part of it.
Miley Cyrus is like a Chair on a stage, just twittering on hind legs,
marionette to popular trend and marketing ploys of men in sweaty,
bulging suits, in dark towers somewhere.
But we call it art and it is shit and we put it up on the shelf
next to beautiful music and the very rot of it carries. It does.

We expect kids to grow up and think and reason,
when the bleached sugar cane that is shoddy, thoughtless,
base exhibitionism and objectification is fed to them, from day one,
long before they can possibly develop taste, we dis-place their buds.

We expect a plant to grow when we urinate on it daily,
starve it from any sense of contrast between homogenized sales
and what a million real musicians etc work toward;
to be taken for the merits of their craft. Not their looks, or sexuality.

And we put right next to all of those hard won records,
any old thing doing any old thing. It can be total cultural appropriation,
stifled and quick edited for MTV-teat-weaned expectations,
and we will fight for the merit of it,
while gigging, serious artists, are struggling everywhere.

Gaggling around a teen who can barely keep her shit in the public eye,
like vampire photo hungry zombies, and then calling it her right.
What a fucking joke. That’s like fighting for a slaves right to more slavery.
Arcade Fire. That is music. That is at least something you can get behind and support.

We give kids the fast food of a thing, then wonder why culture is so bankrupt of
any kind of mature, decent mainstream art.
We poke at a fire and wonder why we sleep with burnt feet.

It is ridiculous. It is absolutely a clogging of the arteries of culture and media.
And it is just sort of sad, too. It’s not maybe immediately tragic the way a riot or
an assassination is. But it festers. It is like saying: here-
here is a million dollars for your exhaustive “art” and,

and then we will pay women in strip clubs a fraction of that,
and they will basically do the same thing,
and we will call one art and one indentured servitude to patriarchy.

And tell that to our sons and daughters.
By creating a mass media that shouldn’t be learned from.

And social malaises which should.

And expect them, in their first scenes, to discern between them.
And the real, real. That although it’s every person’s right Not to be denigrated by proxy
of ridiculous objectifications, or thought of as only flesh. Chatelaine magazine is no less culpable.
Nor any slew of advertisers. Because now you’re fucking with art.

This is where youths should be able to go when they have shitty parents.
When they have no parents. When they’re young parents. Anything.
And they should have the chance to bring themselves into a higher state of consciousness,
a better self-theory. Something. Not to associate art with wholesale pop porn.
This is not a good thing. We cannot seriously undertake altering
the male, neo-liberal underpinning, if we are still letting our vital source
become tainted at the mouth, alarm yourselves. Be angry it has gotten this bad.

Artists deserve better, kids, people in broadcasting deserve to make a better product.
And Miley Cyrus deserves better. Get her to Julliard or something. And fuck Nickelback.
Fuck senseless art. It ruins our chances at bettering our chances, and our future.
Those we are entrusted to watch over.
To aim, like Gibran says- and not bother to try and control.

America has always had this fascination with anybody getting to the top,
and it is the best thing sometimes about her.
In this case the most valuable artist would be a beacon of skill,
but also cultural consciousness. Someone like Bjork. Patti Smith.
If our greatest were truly our brightest, if by our tact and nature
we were only allowed to be judged, this would never be a problem.

The entitlement of fame and the American Dream of capitalism
which freebases the drug of fame, then pumps it unflinchingly,
into the crucial, unforgiving veins of creativity itself.

If art were still held separate from the greedy spying eye of those suits,
then we might not have this problem,
and artists could better channel assistance, effect social change.

This superstar thing makes music ugly.
Julliard should operate like some kind of work camp for privilege to check itself.
They should run a detox privilege program.
Courses might explore the nuances of appropriation.

How you are actually insulting sex workers world wide
by imitating what they are forced to do for pocket change.

Like some over-paid, under fought boxer
who gets outrageously enumerated
whether he tries, or says fuck it.

Art should be better than this.

Into This

My Life
(as a Late Night Talk Show)
Sinister, move over, me and Conan have this one.
I have guests show up all the time,
nick named these two

‘Dep and Den’
(formerly Depravity and Denigration)
The last time we had them on
they left everyone’s mouths agape
like cheap creaky coffins.

My laugh
(as an other-worldy cackle)
that scales the backs
of the wicked and the political
scathing them with red chalk board scribbles,
and praying that their God will take them quick,
they will see my ugly face like a blimp,
empty of empathy because
nobody gives a shit about rich white suits,
least of all a manic, destitute poet.

My smite
(as an unending self-played joke)
the product of which is chopped up into dime bags,
given to street-wise hipsters in lieu of
real truth, my hackneyed projections like
low housing sand castles that all smell of burned smoke.

My music
(as war call anthem for revolutions without a cause)
that lures the ugly and wicked into taking
back the dance floors and public spaces like book stores
believing they have something, finally to fucking fight for,
and pirouette into innuendo for days on the high of not giving a shit.

My idea
(of a good time)
is breaking everything sacred into sacrament
and leaving the rest for the next hungry word saint.

What are you into?

Zero Hour

Zero

Getting rid of a
virgin desperation
is like getting rid of
your blank credit score.

You need some to get rid
of having had none
but if you have not had any
then you can’t get any

because you smell
like you haven’t,
and nobody wants to
give any
to anyone
whose never had it.

You’re a zero
in a roomful
of skinny ones.

And contrary to the
optimistic economist
it isn’t getting any easier.

You look a bit disturbed,
here,
maybe some pliers?

Try and loosen the tie
around that thing there.
Well, I suppose it might
be said to resemble
a kind of strait-jacket

I always find what helps is
a long walk with as much drinking in you
(as much in you as you can handle)
and the next day your ears
will only hurt,

if your ear buds
were on blast
and your feet
if you danced enough
will swell in even a loose shoe.

Well yes, technically you
do just have the two,
but no need to dwell on it.

We all start at zero dear.
It’s the equation you liven up the
pages with,
that fucking counts.

We are zeroes desperate
in seeking any kind of
addition through it all.

Some of us though,
secretly preferring

to be a lone
one.

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

Desperate Times

Film-Speak

 

(Poem for Kiddo)

 

They need a word for

that moment where

you have a Saturday with

nothing left to re-watch

but “A Return to Salem’s Lot”

and, like, fuckin’,

The Stepfather,

and you can’t bring yourself

to watch Michael  Moriarty

single handedly hold it together

like Marlowe with an ex wife.

 

And another for that

moment when Willis re: 12 Monkeys,

where he’s bleeding out

in front of his child self

who also is Jim Morrison in The Doors

and Garrison’s kid in JFK, incidentally.