Blog Archives

Dust

…other people.
They are
The city.

The city is
A person forest.

The city park
Bench
Marks
A person for est.

The city is
An (est)imation
Of
A nation.

People concentrate hard
When not
At parks.

The city washes blood
Red hands of
White collar crimes on
Blue collar backs.

The city
Evokes in me
The cliché,
Which is itself
A cliché
Now
To call
Something a
Cliché.

The city is
The common man –
Home from work,
Covered in filth,
Pours a drink,
Sits down to unwind:
Wound up
From drinking
At the filth
Of Work.
Work.
Work.*
Work.
Work. [1]

(*Driving to Wednesday work
Following a marineairforcearmynavy
Semper fidelis veteran:

I hate his truck,
And bumper labels
(adhesive fables),
And I think all American veterans
Are pathetic,
Because any child
Born under the sun
With a magnifying glass
Can burn ants.

I hate him as he
Leaves, turning
Left under
Leaves that
Left tombstones shadowed.

Living domestic partnerships
With drugstore flags,
The tombstones told tales
Of domestic abuse.

Realization shot,
And now
I hate myself
For hating him.

I hate people
That I barely know.

I hate myself
For writing poetry,
And for thinking
Poetry is art,
And for thinking I’m an artist
Because I say Poetry
Isn’t art,
And for thinking I’m making
An artistic statement
By saying I hate myself
For thinking I’m an artist
Based on my realization
Of thinking I’m an artist
For claiming poetry
Is not art
Ironically
In a poem,
And so on.

But I don’t hate hate.

Love
Is the (square) root
Of all hate.
Hate
Is the product of multiplying
Love against itself,
And fear is a factorial!)

1. Sometimes I happen upon ideas within my head that I think are marvelous, and I instantly sit down to work these ideas out into art, or craftsmanship, or utility, or for no reason but compulsion. But as I get through the work, I realize that the whole idea was fleeting and broken into pieces not fully materialized.

The meat of the work comes out instantly, because it was given to me in insight, in epiphany, and the completion of the rest will rely on a substantial amount of personal energy and commitment. So now the work gets abandoned, neglected, and every return meets me with another layer of dust, until the idea is unrecognizable. I might come back and try to complete it, but it won’t measure up to my original vision.

I don’t know… these are no more than just pixels on a screen, right?

And oh ya: Sartre something or other, blah blah, because hell is…

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The Fruit of Rejection

cameos

I submitted this poem to a Los Angeles poetry journal, and naturally they rejected it, so I decided to edit it and add some.

Cumming of a Creed

What we need

Is the cumming

Of a creed:

 

A doctrine of divinity that

Hurls human from slumber

With

Word thunder,

Instantaneous

To strikes of wonder.

 

It’s near.

 

An over-

Bearing,

Catastrophic

Dogma;

 

Or whatever

Your spirit animal.

 

It shall be of us,

By us,

For us,

In the Abrahamic tradition.

 

It shall encompass

Perfection,

And end compass

Directions

 

Guiding us astray

To the ashtrays

Of our minds

Where thoughts are pinched out

Embers

Laying in heaps

Of perceptual filters,

Yet shielding the Formica countertop

Of life

From collecting dust.

 

It shall explode

Explode

**EXPLODE**

Upon the Hiroshima

Of humdrum humanity,

And

The Nagasaki

Of dismal dailies.

 

It shall be a specter haunting. You erupt

27 years later

When the values

That vested you

Are vaporized off your body by

Napalm napalm napalm napalm napalm

During Vietnamese Kodak moments

That warp your face

Into Edvard Munch hallucinations

Of harrowing beauty.

 

It shall Socratically “WHY?” you

While you worry “why YOU?”

Until your ever present thoughts

Strip the Y U

From intellectual ubi-quity,

And you declare “I know nothing”

For the second time.

 

It shall deflower your comprehension

With Joycean oceans

Of cryptic cry,

And it won’t call the next day.

Or the next.

 

It shall be

Crowley

Circling above

The flower of truth,

Waiting to descend

Once “what thou wilt”

Wilts petals into wonder.

 

And word thunder

Will rumble

As long as

Tongues tumble,

And tongues tumble

All down to the bottom,

Because even this

Fall has an autumn.

Cumming of a Creed

What we need

Is the cumming of a creed:

A doctrine of divinity that

Shakes human from slumber:

Words of thunder

Instantaneous

To the strike of wonder:

There are no seconds to count

Between what comes forth:

And what comes fourth

Is always wonder,

Preceding

Curiosity, amazement, bafflement.

 

Wonder is the most common

Denominator amongst demigods

Such as ourselves.

 

Ourselves as barb ells

Of differing masses:

For we all possess

Sharp, measuring minds

With their own

Gravitational pull.

 

Impatience and

Low tolerance to time

Has left us lightwaits.

Forever abandon the now,

And start the next,

Forever.

 

Beginning next

This creed shall be of us,

By us,

For us,

In the Abrahamic tradition.

 

It shall encompass

Perfection,

And end compass

Directions.

 

It shall guide us astray

To the ashtrays

Of our minds

Where thoughts are pinched out

Embers

Laying in heaps

Of perceptual filters,

Yet shielding the Formica countertop

Of life

From collecting dust.

 

It shall explode

Explode

**EXPLODE**

Upon the Hiroshima

Of humdrum humanity,

And

The Nagasaki

Of dismal dailies.

 

It shall be a specter haunting. You erupt

27 years later

When the values

That vested you

Are vaporized off your body by

Napalm napalm napalm napalm napalm

During Vietnamese Kodak moments

That warp your face

Into Edvard Munch hallucinations

Of harrowing beauty.

 

It shall Socratically “WHY?” you

While you worry “why YOU?”

Until your ever present thoughts

Strip the Y U

From intellectual ubi-quity,

And you declare “I know nothing”

For the second time.

 

It shall deflower your comprehension

With Joycean oceans

Of cryptic cry,

And it won’t call the next day.

Or the next.

 

It shall be

Crowley

Circling above

The flower of truth,

Waiting to descend

Once “what thou wilt”

Wilts petals into wonder.

 

And word thunder

Will rumble

As long as

Tongues tumble,

And tongues tumble

All down to the bottom,

Because even this

Fall has an autumn.