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…other people.
They are
The city.

The city is
A person forest.

The city park
A person for est.

The city is
An (est)imation
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
To call
Something a

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. [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
In a poem,
And so on.

But I don’t hate hate.

Is the (square) root
Of all 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…


So, over the past month I have graduated college, accepted a fulltime job doing marketing for a software company, bought a new car, and my girlfriend has moved in with me. Despite these time-sucking life changes I am still trying to find time to write for myself. One of the hardest things in growing up is finding accommodation for your passions under the ever-growing weight of responsibilities. My dwindling time spent on poetry, skateboarding, guitar, etc. is what some would call a bummer, but so it goes.

My blog posts have been infrequent and short over the past month, but I haven’t lost all hope. On the rare occasion I get personal inspiration, I’m doing my best to mold it into verse or prose. But for now, I’m going to lazily repost an old poem I wrote that deals with my thoughts before I got into this (actually quite wonderful) mess:

I’m at the comma splice in



Falling from textbooks and chalk,

Crawling toward goodlooks and talk,

Through society’s leatherdark parking lot.

A field of tar,

I yield in car,

Checking dashboard digital

Every five,

Awaiting the ‘open for business,’

Ready for 10,000 tomorrows

Of cell phones

Erupting 7 o’clock seizures

On my magazine massacred bedside.

I fear the predictably punctual

With open arms.

(note: the forth-to-last line should read “6 o’clock seizures”)

Getting Physical

He led me to a room.

Behind he closed the door.

He asked if I take off my shirt,

And bring my pants down to the floor.


He looked me up and down,

And brought his hands upon my chest.

He told me to bend over,

And then to take a breath.

(It was then I knew I had no escape;

I was trapped inside his nest)


My eyes bounced nervously around the room

And landed on his toys.

He picked one up and got behind me

Making an unfamiliar noise.


I stood up straight and dropped my drawers.

He placed his hand where light gets lost.

I did exactly what he said

And turned my head and coughed…

I am Happy

It wasn’t Randy’s short stature that made him an interesting man, nor was it his dirty, unruly moustache or his pathetic demeanor. It wasn’t even his livercidal drinking tendencies. Rather, It was his ability to appear outwardly happy – despite circumstances – using the blank smile and the “how ya do’en chief?” that keep his perpetual pessimism under bondage. How could anyone who is forced to work on a janitor’s salary be happy, ever? They all knew it, and they all felt sorry for him, because they are us, and how would we feel for a man in such circumstances? Pity.

Every day, Randy would stop by the convenient store on his clockwork-car ride from work to pick up beer and smokes. I see him a few times a week while on my lunch break from my good, college-earned job. I’m on break, and he’s just getting off. Those kinds of people always work lousy shifts. I go to the store to pick up some family staples and our paths are aligned to where he is always a person or two in front of me at checkout. I also see him at the mall on weekends. He sweeps floors and cleans bathrooms. Poor guy. His name is Randy. That is what his crooked nametag says: RANDY. He probably never graduated high school, so he doesn’t understand the correlation between appearance and professionalism. That’s why he’s a janitor. No aspirations in life. Poor guy. I feel bad for him; I really do.

With my toilet paper, Kleenex and paper towels in hand, I look ahead at Randy’s inventory he lays on the counter: Four tall-boys of Milwaukie’s and a pack of L&M menthol. Every day.  He is an odd one. You know what’s really weird? Whenever he buys his daily pack of L&M menthols, he also purchases a lighter. Every time.

“What does he do with all those lighters?” we think, “He must be either losing them in drunken folly or using them up real quick. He might even be freebasing the nasties. I hear that requires a long flame to lick a bent spoon for a good while, and he’s probably into that stuff too. Or maybe he has obsessive compulsive habits that make him feel the need for new lighters with new cigs. These kinds of people usually have some mental abnormalities.”

He always laughs when he asks for the lighter, because we know he’s going to ask, and he knows that we know he’s going to ask, and this makes him uncomfortable (laughing is rarely a comfortable act). “Yes, yes. A lighter again today Chief. Thank you,” he says. We want to ask what happened to the lighter from the day before, but it isn’t any of our business, because he isn’t any of our business.

He smiles and carries on, repeating the same jokes and phrases every day. He must program his mind to only think on one track, because if his mind wanders to the point of analyzing his situation, he might just kill himself. He must be so miserable, wearing smiles as disguises. We know how he really must feel. Must feel. Must. If people could be happy working as janitors, everyone would do it. Not me – I have a good job – I am happy. I don’t drink and smoke every day. Poor guy. I feel bad for him. He’s been wearing the same clothes for years too. That faded, green jacket. Why doesn’t he just get some new clothes ? Doesn’t he care what people think of him? Where is his self respect?

I feel bad for him.

I am happy.

Words of Wisdom

The things that almost happen

Don’t even make a dent in the earth.

It’s the things that are, is and be

That are is to be given any worth.


Have you ever been so certain of something,
only to find that you were completely wrong?

It’s so liberating.

A weight of responsibility
lifts from your shoulders,
Because you make mistakes too.
You play the role of human in this production.

It’s even greater when you think you know something,
then you find out your wrong,
then you find out you were originally right in the first-place.

“Well am I really correct,
do I hold the truth of the situation,
or will my perceptions once again flip.
Now I can‘t rightfully know ANYTHING,
can I?”

This offers the greatest sense of emancipation
from the network of truth.
Weaved into web,
sticky network,
waiting to pull you in.

But upon realizing you’re not at all infallible,
your certainty gets pulled back and spread out,
the way the tide roles in and take a sand castle.

You become not only separate from the network of truth,
but you simultaneously become the network.
And knowing that you’re part of it,
allows you to rise above it; while at the same time questioning
if you really know that you’re part of it in the first place.

Epistemology – a philosophical branch closely tied to ontology that studies everything;
because everything is thought.
And the limits of thought define the boundaries of everything.

It is somewhat disheartening
to come to terms with the truth that all of these ideas thus presented
have already been thought about before.
None is wholly original.
It’s like, what use do I have writing this down when I could go read books on this topic.
Books that would map out my own ideas better than I ever could.

Not that the books know me better than I know me,
it’s that my ideas are not part of me. I don’t own the rights (I’ve yet to develop an original product).
They are part of the collective.
Thoughts and ideas are communal.
They rely on the existence of other people-generating-ideas to exist themselves.

I can’t build a house without the supplies provided to me by other people;
And the underline structure of each house will be loosely based off houses before it
and is not wholly original.
Similarly, I can’t build an idea
without the language/supplies/ideas provided to me by other people.

True independence can only be achieved upon death,
but even then
one relies on the bacteria and worms to facilitate the next step,
which is decomposition.

No one is independent, but we’re all individual.

Everyone is a snowflake,
with our own intricate pattern,
similar yet unique to the others around it,
and we’re falling into one big mound of snow.
The universe is snow.
Everything in the universe is a fluttering flake,
temporarily suspended in the fall to oblivion.

Yet, it’s only a matter of time before I find all this to be untrue.

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


To the strike of wonder:

There are no seconds to count

Between what comes forth:

And what comes fourth

Is always wonder,


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,



Beginning next

This creed shall be of us,

By us,

For us,

In the Abrahamic tradition.


It shall encompass


And end compass



It shall guide us astray

To the ashtrays

Of our minds

Where thoughts are pinched out


Laying in heaps

Of perceptual filters,

Yet shielding the Formica countertop

Of life

From collecting dust.


It shall explode



Upon the Hiroshima

Of humdrum humanity,


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


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.

Landscape with the Haul of Icarus

Driving from work

Toward more daily chores

The lights from the pigs

Shook my head from the boar bore.


They blocked off the road:


Swindled by these swine

My car fell in line.

Further time from Caroline,

I wait in the car-o-line.


And the line thought –

“Come on, come on;

Stop moving so slow.

Let’s move this along;

I got places to go.”


Up ahead I could see,

Where the car hit the tree.

they loaded him onto a stretcher

and hauled him into the back of an ambulance

(a little red adorned his white wrappings (wax wings?))


“Come on, come on;

Stop moving so slow.

Let’s move this along;

I got places to go.”


Glass, metal, blood sunk

Into bark splintered tree trunk.


“Come on, Come on;

Stop moving so slow.

Let’s move this along;

I got places to go.”


The cops leaked us by,

I did the gas-pedal-lean,

Past another who couldn’t fly,

But wasn’t noth’en I ain’t seen.

Planned Obsolescence

The Mart hung in the distance like an obsolete super-computer

Overcompensating for its faulty wiring,

While nervously waiting for the next big thing.

In a field, I stood in the epicenter, across from this epiccenter,

On an uneven ground of weeds, dirt, gnats, puddles, trash.


In the limits of vision, I saw the par-king lot

Balancing its inputs with its outputs

Into the super-computer.

-> In went bleak, gray, hungry bits of code

Out came obnoxious, colorful, fat bits of code <-.


I – usually bleak, gray, hungry – approached the Mart,

Pulled from the dirt-tangled field

By the electromagnetism of the straight angles ahead.


As I closed closer,

There emerged a binary to these bits.

And the Mart proclaimed, “Let this be man and woman,

And let their sacrificial computations be predictable, timely, and manipulateable,

And above all, let the 1 of woman and the 2 of man serve separate functions

To my Consumption Processing Unit.”

The Mart looked over all that it had made, and behold, it was very good…


My heel hit the hard of pavement and rolled up to my toe;

And as this became a recurring action,

My feet dealt distance with subtraction,

And the bits of code, post-transaction,

Grabbed my eyes with curious attraction.


These ostentatious outputs carried colorful cases,

Walked with manufactured importance,

Slapped smaller outputs and told them, “When I say stop, that means stop!”

Sputtered and spat at the ground,

Rolled toward their steel boxes like medicine balls in the wind,

Held the reins of their belt-buckle stallions, bucking for a fight,

Or yanking their buckles over their bulbous bellies,

With crooked smiles, crooked laughs,

Crooked plans, but straight paths.


The par-king lot carried the code

The best that pavement could.

Should cement lament it would.


I tried to think up a better system:

-Maybe a cloud based application (?)-

But my thoughts were sparse,

So, instead, I joined the cement sojourners,

Rolling toward my own steel box,

And together we awaited the next big thing.

Open Letter to God

Dear God,

Could you please eradicate all the poverty and starvation in the world? I’m sick being guilted into donating to the food bank at the grocery store checkout.  While you’re at it, would you mind protecting the rainforest, saving the endangered animals, and abolishing war?  You see… I’m very busy with my own petty problems and can’t seem to find the time for such things.  I have to manage school and a job, pay bills, take care of my living, and still find time for fun.  Although, I guess if I stopped having fun I might be able to find time to help with one of these things.  Unfortunately God, the bigger problem is that I’m very lazy.  It’s not my fault.  This is how you made me – it’s your fault!

I’m sorry God, sometimes my human gets to me.  You understand.

Do I understand?  God, if you helped the poor, starving people, who will make my clothes, and where will American corporations outsource labor to cut costs and save their CEOs more money?  If you protect the forests, where would I build my house; and what about the houses of generations to come?  You and I both know the human population is expanding, and we need tropical resorts to escape to from our meaningless jobs as general contractors, or whatever we do.

God, why did you make the earth so small; or us so big?

God, this is serious stuff! Are you listening?  Are you even there?

On second thought… maybe I am God.  I’m talking to myself again.  Do I actually want these problems fixed, or am I just repeating the generic altruism of others around me?  Now I’m confused.  If I fixed these problems, wouldn’t it only create problems for myself and others in my rich, affluent society?  I guess this is the price we would have to pay.

But I’m comfortable where I’m at in the world.  Why don’t people just take care of their own problems instead of sitting on their asses all day collecting welfare checks?  COMMUNISTS!  Sucking at the government’s tits… raising my taxes… just for a free ride.  After all it’s them with the problem, not me, God damn it!

I really shouldn’t blasphemy myself like that.  After all, maybe I’m being too hard on the rest of the world.  It’s not their fault.  Whose fault is it?  Mine?  Is it anyone’s fault at all?

This is all quite unsettling.  If I want to solve the world’s vexing problems, I must create some problems of my own.  Or, I can bask in my comfort, and acknowledge that I don’t care enough about these injustices to do anything about them.  So far I’m not satisfied with either option.