The trucker was still staring at me,
his sweaty hands insulated a glass of scotch.
I could smell his odor of liquor, piss and diesel,
all mixed with loneliness and a dire need for a companion.
My judgment was interrupted by the waitress,
a sweet smell of cheap jasmine perfume pierced my throat.
“Thought you’d like some orange juice while you’re waitin,
its on me sweetie, you look far from near here.”
“Thanks. Naw, I’m from up north, Canada.”
My gulp of juice echoed throughout the bar.
“Canada?!? Lord, must be damn near cold up there.
I bet this heat is sure a kick in your ass?”
“Oh the heat is more of a knock you in your face,
fall to the jagged ground, kick you in your stomach
then steal your wallet.”
She looked at me like I was nuts.
“Well, I tell you what, I had a cousin who went up there once,
came back hallerin’ and preachin’ about the cold,
sayin’ he almost damn neared froze to death after one winter!”
“Yah, Canada’s like that, we live in igloo’s you know?”
She stopped buffing a drinking glass,
staring at me in confusion.
I felt bad for playing around.
“No!?? Do ya? Child you have done gone in the right direction!
I would peel over if I had to live in an ice cave! Jesus!”
“Yah, it ain’t that bad once you get use to it,
we just use deer hide and seal skin to keep warm.”
Now I was being cruel, Americans are so easy though.
“Deer? Seal hide? Well, I would have never guessed,
you don’t look like the huntin’ type?”
I shrugged.
My shoulder fell through the neck of my shirt.
Clutching my skinny arm I was reminded how starving I was.
I could tell she sensed this realization.
“I think your pancakes are ready!
I’ll grab ya some more juice and extra butter too!”
She waddled back to the kitchen,
hips twistin’, barely contained in her floral skirt.
I guzzled more of the juice and waited for her return.
My chest burned as the orange pulp stuck in my esophagus,
firing a pain only a smoker can understand.
I pounded my chest to get it down,
hacking out the pieces of delta momma love.
I then smelt the warmth of a buttermilk batter,
felt the heat of a freshly flipped flap jack,
saw the beauty within ol’ Jerry’s art.
“Here you are child! Stack of six, extra large! Eat up!
Don’t go chockin’ yourself now, I don’t got no room left in the basement.
Down there just won’t fit another body!”
I don’t think she was joking.
The pancakes were perfectly bronzed discs.
Each one placed delicately atop the other,
a stack of pride and pretentious glory!
Pancake sweat corrugated beneath the edges,
I quickly lathered each floor of precious cake with softened butter,
using a knife engraved with teeth marks
of a fuming beast.
Drenching the stack with oozing syrup
I watched the last drop plunge from a glass dispenser,
crusted with crystallized beads,
adding to the memories of the ones who ate here.
The first bite was indescribably orgasmic,
a burst of sugar and maple
flooded within a heavy dough
melted, as if becoming one with my mouth.
I don’t remember much after that,
my hunger overwhelmed my ability to experience the taste.
Too bad,
I had a feeling it was like the best sex of my life,
I was just too drunk to remember
and forgot to turn the video camera on.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Chapter 2: Lonesome Red Pancakes in Noseneck Hill
The entrance door screeched with stories of drunks and truckers
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.
"Junket" Chapter 1: Hoardin' Coach Roads
Ginger skies and deserted roads were becoming too comforting.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.
That Night of Time, Beneath Breath of Wind
My vision rapt by a calm presence;
a truth so untouched and clear
has unearthed a weakened essence
far removed from this body of fear.
Night has casts her blackened shawl;
all begins to take shape of a form
so unfamiliar and dull.
Sorrow wept through vicious storm;
clouds cursed with a thunder
that shakes a sleeper’s eye.
The screams of weathers wrath
eats my will in dire time.
Such hardened rain pounds my door.
Strikes of lightening damn the skies,
softening a grip I held before,
all lost in angry battle outside.
Have I found a lucid kind
during a raging wretched gust?
A refuge born by heavens rage;
a squall in which appeals my trust.
My truth; naked in sweat of fear
in a defiant second birth.
An absence of love held so dear
was revealed by an angered earth.
It was that night of tranquil time
beneath a haven; breath of wind.
An undoing of my mind
had spoke only by way of storm.
a truth so untouched and clear
has unearthed a weakened essence
far removed from this body of fear.
Night has casts her blackened shawl;
all begins to take shape of a form
so unfamiliar and dull.
Sorrow wept through vicious storm;
clouds cursed with a thunder
that shakes a sleeper’s eye.
The screams of weathers wrath
eats my will in dire time.
Such hardened rain pounds my door.
Strikes of lightening damn the skies,
softening a grip I held before,
all lost in angry battle outside.
Have I found a lucid kind
during a raging wretched gust?
A refuge born by heavens rage;
a squall in which appeals my trust.
My truth; naked in sweat of fear
in a defiant second birth.
An absence of love held so dear
was revealed by an angered earth.
It was that night of tranquil time
beneath a haven; breath of wind.
An undoing of my mind
had spoke only by way of storm.
Entrance into the Field
Here I am amidst a wave of dying wheat
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.
Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.
Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.
Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.
Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.
Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.
Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.
An Unforgiving Fruit
A tree in Johannesburg
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.
A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.
Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.
A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.
Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.
The Breath
The breeze comes and reunites us all,
singing alone, giving rise to all of our songs;
The songs being the law of vivid life-
It is our very essence,
an essence which holds our substance,
advancing while detaching in night and day,
in man and beast.
Here is where silence becomes it’s own unwinding-
Transitioning into a wholeness
where words become fruitless,
where our eyes become our words,
where to speak is to die then to not speak; a movement
into a truer human form.
Everything in birth and death-
awareness, oneness, clarity, stillness,
become a blended existence amongst us all
where vibrant beauty is understood,
not through language,
but sensed in a shared breath.
Where the eyes give the lucid quality to glass,
breath in breath,
the essence, in essence itself.
singing alone, giving rise to all of our songs;
The songs being the law of vivid life-
It is our very essence,
an essence which holds our substance,
advancing while detaching in night and day,
in man and beast.
Here is where silence becomes it’s own unwinding-
Transitioning into a wholeness
where words become fruitless,
where our eyes become our words,
where to speak is to die then to not speak; a movement
into a truer human form.
Everything in birth and death-
awareness, oneness, clarity, stillness,
become a blended existence amongst us all
where vibrant beauty is understood,
not through language,
but sensed in a shared breath.
Where the eyes give the lucid quality to glass,
breath in breath,
the essence, in essence itself.
In Nature of Being
So to be here is to end a soundless weeping?
To silence the drift of autumn leaves and whispers of wheat fields
is to call, over and over to a listless world
and beckon the fallen petals and remain; motionless.
Transitioning from a time near, in a world of surmise,
to a time present in times potential
is to remain a constant possibility within this speculation.
Breath of summer breeze speaks of a weakening power,
a memory meaningless to times inability to contain our own time.
It seems, with age, a deterioration of a soul no longer becomes bitter
but a fruition with a ineffable joy, absent of any primitive fear.
What was once many loves beating in ones heart,
sleepless hearings of an intelligent memory,
is now a passage to the dwelling of that heart.
To the poet, he wrote, words mark but a moment of this mind,
Lost amongst the mourning who breathe merely that moment’s sudden fury.
For the past is a current destroyer of the presents history,
recovered by it’s own agony, unqualified to be a mere monument.
To the poet, it is in the ink, and the paper, and the hand that hint-
hint at the defeated actions and otherwise movement
to achieve happiness through right action.
It is to be here, now; resistant to past or future, existence in spheres,
whether submissive and alone or unwilling and naked,
one must forget trying, and leave the continual sustenance
to the life of momentous earth.
To silence the drift of autumn leaves and whispers of wheat fields
is to call, over and over to a listless world
and beckon the fallen petals and remain; motionless.
Transitioning from a time near, in a world of surmise,
to a time present in times potential
is to remain a constant possibility within this speculation.
Breath of summer breeze speaks of a weakening power,
a memory meaningless to times inability to contain our own time.
It seems, with age, a deterioration of a soul no longer becomes bitter
but a fruition with a ineffable joy, absent of any primitive fear.
What was once many loves beating in ones heart,
sleepless hearings of an intelligent memory,
is now a passage to the dwelling of that heart.
To the poet, he wrote, words mark but a moment of this mind,
Lost amongst the mourning who breathe merely that moment’s sudden fury.
For the past is a current destroyer of the presents history,
recovered by it’s own agony, unqualified to be a mere monument.
To the poet, it is in the ink, and the paper, and the hand that hint-
hint at the defeated actions and otherwise movement
to achieve happiness through right action.
It is to be here, now; resistant to past or future, existence in spheres,
whether submissive and alone or unwilling and naked,
one must forget trying, and leave the continual sustenance
to the life of momentous earth.
In Laughter
While the two men were laughing violently
I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter,
with every inhale and short gasps.
Their breath disappears into dark caverns,
smoke incrusted throats,
bruised lungs and forsaken hearts;
our breath allied into this band of essence.
We were together within a world of thought.
Thoughts of existing,
beings afraid of existing.
But I must ascend from this nothingness
to which we all aspire to.
The loathing, the repulsion of being-
there are so many ways to thrust myself
into this odd existence.
Such drifts are born within me often.
The faintness of such absurd reassurance
to which I always yield to
locks me into such a trance that I can no longer bear;
it fills me completely and renewing my survival.
I center my attention with careful delicacy
to become this very end.
I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter,
with every inhale and short gasps.
Their breath disappears into dark caverns,
smoke incrusted throats,
bruised lungs and forsaken hearts;
our breath allied into this band of essence.
We were together within a world of thought.
Thoughts of existing,
beings afraid of existing.
But I must ascend from this nothingness
to which we all aspire to.
The loathing, the repulsion of being-
there are so many ways to thrust myself
into this odd existence.
Such drifts are born within me often.
The faintness of such absurd reassurance
to which I always yield to
locks me into such a trance that I can no longer bear;
it fills me completely and renewing my survival.
I center my attention with careful delicacy
to become this very end.
While Boiling an Egg
In harrowing fears the wind works against us.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul;
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey,
a hoary now with a lurking mist.
Not today, I've learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul;
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey,
a hoary now with a lurking mist.
Not today, I've learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
I know you try.
Talk in drunkenness, but otherwise
our sweetened speech faces
death to my odd visage.
I want to love.
My soul; alone in the wild
thirsts for recognition to be unloved.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Your face of one
resurrects my mystical dream
of moonlight kisses and winters breath;
be bounded only to a wish of sleep.
Your tears look bleak.
I do not understand, what is, not numb;
my intentions are well.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Talk in drunkenness, but otherwise
our sweetened speech faces
death to my odd visage.
I want to love.
My soul; alone in the wild
thirsts for recognition to be unloved.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Your face of one
resurrects my mystical dream
of moonlight kisses and winters breath;
be bounded only to a wish of sleep.
Your tears look bleak.
I do not understand, what is, not numb;
my intentions are well.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Ode to a Dead Crow
Blackened substance, oh dry winged bird.
In my fall the scent of your petal
has locked your wary heart you so wish to settle.
I had just passed by peaceably,
sheepishly
with fury and forgotten,
until the glisten of coal black feathers
caught my eye, appearing as drift wood so rotten.
Reflecting my own obscene tears
of a world gone on over or after,
with many deaths of childhood laughter.
Your feathers burn, feathers marked,
a family cry like wounded helm,
a mug shot moon has transformed this realm.
A trail of hot bloody footsteps shove our shadows
and your horrific insides adorn the street.
I stare in drunkenness on shifting sidewalk
where lonesome figures call
whose fatigued tears, logically, cannot fall.
My vision focused on your eyes
softly glancing towards the very thing
that once carried your breast your beak your wing.
How unfortunate that Sundays always burn.
In my fall the scent of your petal
has locked your wary heart you so wish to settle.
I had just passed by peaceably,
sheepishly
with fury and forgotten,
until the glisten of coal black feathers
caught my eye, appearing as drift wood so rotten.
Reflecting my own obscene tears
of a world gone on over or after,
with many deaths of childhood laughter.
Your feathers burn, feathers marked,
a family cry like wounded helm,
a mug shot moon has transformed this realm.
A trail of hot bloody footsteps shove our shadows
and your horrific insides adorn the street.
I stare in drunkenness on shifting sidewalk
where lonesome figures call
whose fatigued tears, logically, cannot fall.
My vision focused on your eyes
softly glancing towards the very thing
that once carried your breast your beak your wing.
How unfortunate that Sundays always burn.
To the Prisoner of Capra Lake
Winged spirit, how far from hell’s wind
do you sleep hath with such virtuous grin?
A thousand truths that your falsehood know
would never infect that very wind that blows.
Those who are older than we –
Of many who are wiser than we –
I would try; try not to release
you for who my dreams are relying
on a spell of art still prudently dying.
Bring that bright snake coiling
with a hissing so annoying
To come down and see:
Our fate still hovering, covering
that bird the lover till he sinks- like me.
do you sleep hath with such virtuous grin?
A thousand truths that your falsehood know
would never infect that very wind that blows.
Those who are older than we –
Of many who are wiser than we –
I would try; try not to release
you for who my dreams are relying
on a spell of art still prudently dying.
Bring that bright snake coiling
with a hissing so annoying
To come down and see:
Our fate still hovering, covering
that bird the lover till he sinks- like me.
The Birthplace
You are as in a magnolia
amidst a great burst of thunder;
the power to stand still.
No breeze of wind
but your breeze is far greater.
The earth set in motion
by a ravenous sea,
foaming rivers of an eminent flood.
The ocean breathes, shivers and continues.
You are so endlessly submissive,
drawn to a destiny staying aware
of a sea’s grievous.
Edible flowers withstand
the hard crash of arterial water,
gathered in eternal vessels
so that those imprisoned
by October’s arrogance,
may be given your lucid wave.
amidst a great burst of thunder;
the power to stand still.
No breeze of wind
but your breeze is far greater.
The earth set in motion
by a ravenous sea,
foaming rivers of an eminent flood.
The ocean breathes, shivers and continues.
You are so endlessly submissive,
drawn to a destiny staying aware
of a sea’s grievous.
Edible flowers withstand
the hard crash of arterial water,
gathered in eternal vessels
so that those imprisoned
by October’s arrogance,
may be given your lucid wave.
Ode to a Poppy
It was just one thing that surrounded me.
White blossomed fingertips
embraced my cheek,
blown in by the doubt of the sky.
I was neither a child, nor woman-
but simply
a pith
licking the corners of the afternoon,
waiting near the warm gates.
Life had lived so dimly in my body.
White blossomed fingertips
embraced my cheek,
blown in by the doubt of the sky.
I was neither a child, nor woman-
but simply
a pith
licking the corners of the afternoon,
waiting near the warm gates.
Life had lived so dimly in my body.
For Mr. Abbott
How far south have you traveled?
- I am almost too near to you.
Beneath the breath of the Northern Lights,
silvered tongue, narrow shoulders and enlightened
you stand so ravished.
Your snow encrusted shoes, frozen by brilliance,
is eye for beauty that captures the dawning of a beginning.
If I were to tell you
I once waltzed atop Watson Lake,
adorn with icicles and crystallized reverie,
a sealskin cloak I wore,
would you kiss me with your old-fashioned wisdom?
Hidden behind artic fox pelt?
The sound of compressed snow
and creaking ice
and frozen earth
trapped in times grasps,
holding no silhouette of its own
gives me no release.
Stop!
- It is far too cold to continue on.
- I am almost too near to you.
Beneath the breath of the Northern Lights,
silvered tongue, narrow shoulders and enlightened
you stand so ravished.
Your snow encrusted shoes, frozen by brilliance,
is eye for beauty that captures the dawning of a beginning.
If I were to tell you
I once waltzed atop Watson Lake,
adorn with icicles and crystallized reverie,
a sealskin cloak I wore,
would you kiss me with your old-fashioned wisdom?
Hidden behind artic fox pelt?
The sound of compressed snow
and creaking ice
and frozen earth
trapped in times grasps,
holding no silhouette of its own
gives me no release.
Stop!
- It is far too cold to continue on.
Graves of Idle Night
We walked towards the lit corridor
in the streets alley.
The bricks are bare; leaves nestled in their crevices,
collected by a cold wind roaming
our salvaged remains.
It blew the door ajar;
the beat of an African drum
filled the hollow air and spoke to us.
“Come hither! Come hither!”
- It was a lovely day.
Two black boys were waiting.
Their eyes were a crimson red,
strokes of colored paint adorned their chests.
The boy’s drum- a concave dome.
But I am now but bleak for reasons
I cannot explain; we were defeated.
Eastern Cape Cycad trees danced strangely
in the heat of a hot sun.
And in the middle of the parade
the relic of a Roman Cathedral bleed mercilessly.
in the streets alley.
The bricks are bare; leaves nestled in their crevices,
collected by a cold wind roaming
our salvaged remains.
It blew the door ajar;
the beat of an African drum
filled the hollow air and spoke to us.
“Come hither! Come hither!”
- It was a lovely day.
Two black boys were waiting.
Their eyes were a crimson red,
strokes of colored paint adorned their chests.
The boy’s drum- a concave dome.
But I am now but bleak for reasons
I cannot explain; we were defeated.
Eastern Cape Cycad trees danced strangely
in the heat of a hot sun.
And in the middle of the parade
the relic of a Roman Cathedral bleed mercilessly.
$11.82
A murder of cigarettes.
His insides on the outside
beneath an abstruse silhouette of a power line.
Pillowed rain pools in ruts; riddled woman’s sickened strut.
Trash burrowed beneath flooded posts
coasting the frame of a frozen pond
spelling out the name of mythical orphans.
But a blackened eye is perched so sweetly; a loaded view.
Its head tilt with an assuming stare
flaunting a flamboyant fickle thought.
Cocking its neck; slanted wings,
a figure eluding God.
Silkened feathers oiled in disease and stalking virus
it waltzes back and forth an infected trapeze
slowly observing the scene with ease.
A vigilant vision it sees
but an unusual absent of judgment it lacks.
Talons gripped this weakened twine; a softened bow
sinking with the weight of such a swagger.
Peering into a knighted sky
its wings broadened into a cloak reeking of death.
An embodied gargoyle, deserter of St Peters perhaps,
clutches its sides and glares into the breath of soul.
Humane eyes are not the only ones to agonize over.
His insides on the outside
beneath an abstruse silhouette of a power line.
Pillowed rain pools in ruts; riddled woman’s sickened strut.
Trash burrowed beneath flooded posts
coasting the frame of a frozen pond
spelling out the name of mythical orphans.
But a blackened eye is perched so sweetly; a loaded view.
Its head tilt with an assuming stare
flaunting a flamboyant fickle thought.
Cocking its neck; slanted wings,
a figure eluding God.
Silkened feathers oiled in disease and stalking virus
it waltzes back and forth an infected trapeze
slowly observing the scene with ease.
A vigilant vision it sees
but an unusual absent of judgment it lacks.
Talons gripped this weakened twine; a softened bow
sinking with the weight of such a swagger.
Peering into a knighted sky
its wings broadened into a cloak reeking of death.
An embodied gargoyle, deserter of St Peters perhaps,
clutches its sides and glares into the breath of soul.
Humane eyes are not the only ones to agonize over.
In the likeness of a City
White blooded drapes lace the death of trees.
Shards of bladed glass perfect figures
as delicate as the color of a doll.
A canvassed willow;
its strength withered by the heavy stole
of diamond water
as weak as the man who carved them.
Glistened reflections of traveled snow
burdens the bleak faces
hidden by cloth of wind,
speaking only in moans of anguish
with the breath of our own.
Iron curtains bound this town of slaved dogs;
savages of vulnerability and greed,
tired beyond their bitter ends
and so awfully cold.
Warmth from my hands barely manifests this conceit.
Fated prints pressed against a frosted pane
leave behind a sweated window
that disappears into a frozen dream
by way of my own breath;
as my papered words are forever doomed.
Shards of bladed glass perfect figures
as delicate as the color of a doll.
A canvassed willow;
its strength withered by the heavy stole
of diamond water
as weak as the man who carved them.
Glistened reflections of traveled snow
burdens the bleak faces
hidden by cloth of wind,
speaking only in moans of anguish
with the breath of our own.
Iron curtains bound this town of slaved dogs;
savages of vulnerability and greed,
tired beyond their bitter ends
and so awfully cold.
Warmth from my hands barely manifests this conceit.
Fated prints pressed against a frosted pane
leave behind a sweated window
that disappears into a frozen dream
by way of my own breath;
as my papered words are forever doomed.
Singapore Train
The secrets paint the madness in her eye,
lost in alleys of midnights ease.
A silhouette bounded in a leathers clutch;
a cigarettes smoke spells out a fated crutch.
Stranded in the shadows of a pouring rain
the moon in a Harlem street.
I’m high on Whiskey; I can’t see straight.
Awaiting a misgiving
beneath the eye of God.
Three men waltz off a Singapore train
and I take a sip of a papered bottle.
Whispers have never sounded so vivid
and breath so rancid.
A mural of a sunken ship
doomed to a gun street wall
only eludes the mist
of a maddened bliss unbeknownst
to a dead woman’s ribs.
A darts ash dances beneath my feet
like starving pigeons fighting for the remains.
They disappear just as fast as the smoke
blistering from my frozen lips.
Then a fist is drawn;
black trenches freckled with red,
groans and pains murmurs echo down this empty street.
Shadowed faces speak only by their breath
shaped by the chill of air.
I can’t help but smile.
A hearts race beats have softened now
to the sound of a child’s innocent weep.
All is utterly silent and a wind begins to patronize its speech
through the blades of my hair,
setting the icicles in my eyes corner.
I can’t help but feel somewhat guilty,
delighted her soul has vanish into an untaken sky.
Dear mother,
Forgive me but I have sinned.
Morals instilled in my birth have slipped into a shallow sleep
of which has lead to your ruins.
Now your dead
and awfully exquisite.
See you on the other side.
lost in alleys of midnights ease.
A silhouette bounded in a leathers clutch;
a cigarettes smoke spells out a fated crutch.
Stranded in the shadows of a pouring rain
the moon in a Harlem street.
I’m high on Whiskey; I can’t see straight.
Awaiting a misgiving
beneath the eye of God.
Three men waltz off a Singapore train
and I take a sip of a papered bottle.
Whispers have never sounded so vivid
and breath so rancid.
A mural of a sunken ship
doomed to a gun street wall
only eludes the mist
of a maddened bliss unbeknownst
to a dead woman’s ribs.
A darts ash dances beneath my feet
like starving pigeons fighting for the remains.
They disappear just as fast as the smoke
blistering from my frozen lips.
Then a fist is drawn;
black trenches freckled with red,
groans and pains murmurs echo down this empty street.
Shadowed faces speak only by their breath
shaped by the chill of air.
I can’t help but smile.
A hearts race beats have softened now
to the sound of a child’s innocent weep.
All is utterly silent and a wind begins to patronize its speech
through the blades of my hair,
setting the icicles in my eyes corner.
I can’t help but feel somewhat guilty,
delighted her soul has vanish into an untaken sky.
Dear mother,
Forgive me but I have sinned.
Morals instilled in my birth have slipped into a shallow sleep
of which has lead to your ruins.
Now your dead
and awfully exquisite.
See you on the other side.
Homesick Letter to Beaver Nebraska
Dear Gwendolyn:
All I can think about is your stoned tongue.
The only thing that keeps me away
Is your fathers crocked way
To flood my name
with hallow spit and sparrows blood.
How’s he doin’ anyway?
Last time I check he was busy
writing on infinity, serenity,
and his mothers inability
To forgive his self righteous divinity?
He never was good with words.
You still ridin’ that buggie
that took you the wrong way west?
You know, I love ya gal,
but I swear to lord thundering Jesus, if you do that again,
I’ll slit your throat and collect
the sorrow you bleed.
I know some people
who’ll pay a pretty penny for that.
What the hell were you thinkin’ anyhow?
Perhaps it was the whiskey talkin’
and the blinded love walkin’
before Regret’s concrete fist came a kockin’.
I was never good at rhyming.
I told you; I told ya,
you gotta get outta that wicker pig pen,
It’s walls are too thin
to even screen those dirty deeds performed within;
not enough even to hold a flask of bourbon.
That reminds me,
Do you think your dad would appreciate that?
Before I left, I hid that flask
beneath Mr. Jockey’s bed;
I know he won’t appreciate it though.
Is it possible to be too drunk to be a drunk?
He’ll probably just end up
beatin’ his mail lady with it.
She never gets his address right
or his toupee correctly combed.
GOD DAMN SWINE’S I tell ya!
Anyways, I gotta wrap this up,
finish my drink from this out of order cup
Get outta this diner full of solid smuck;
up against the walls.
I think it may possibly be laced with cyanide?
I guess we’ll see won’t we?
Hey did I tell ya I’m in Readymoney Cove Cornwall UK?
Because that’s kinda important.
Remember your brother still has my 32-29,
which is probably a good thing
because I would be shootin’ you
something,
other then this letter.
Yours truly,
100% HELLbilly and head bound, St. Andy Conda(Formly Kit Kit Weezin’ Foley III)
All I can think about is your stoned tongue.
The only thing that keeps me away
Is your fathers crocked way
To flood my name
with hallow spit and sparrows blood.
How’s he doin’ anyway?
Last time I check he was busy
writing on infinity, serenity,
and his mothers inability
To forgive his self righteous divinity?
He never was good with words.
You still ridin’ that buggie
that took you the wrong way west?
You know, I love ya gal,
but I swear to lord thundering Jesus, if you do that again,
I’ll slit your throat and collect
the sorrow you bleed.
I know some people
who’ll pay a pretty penny for that.
What the hell were you thinkin’ anyhow?
Perhaps it was the whiskey talkin’
and the blinded love walkin’
before Regret’s concrete fist came a kockin’.
I was never good at rhyming.
I told you; I told ya,
you gotta get outta that wicker pig pen,
It’s walls are too thin
to even screen those dirty deeds performed within;
not enough even to hold a flask of bourbon.
That reminds me,
Do you think your dad would appreciate that?
Before I left, I hid that flask
beneath Mr. Jockey’s bed;
I know he won’t appreciate it though.
Is it possible to be too drunk to be a drunk?
He’ll probably just end up
beatin’ his mail lady with it.
She never gets his address right
or his toupee correctly combed.
GOD DAMN SWINE’S I tell ya!
Anyways, I gotta wrap this up,
finish my drink from this out of order cup
Get outta this diner full of solid smuck;
up against the walls.
I think it may possibly be laced with cyanide?
I guess we’ll see won’t we?
Hey did I tell ya I’m in Readymoney Cove Cornwall UK?
Because that’s kinda important.
Remember your brother still has my 32-29,
which is probably a good thing
because I would be shootin’ you
something,
other then this letter.
Yours truly,
100% HELLbilly and head bound, St. Andy Conda(Formly Kit Kit Weezin’ Foley III)
What is He Feeding in That Shed?
What’s he feeding in that shed?
I see him walk,
I hear him talk to somethiiinnnggg
within the walls of that damn near shed.
Always wearing thick lenses that man,
drives a TV yellow moving van,
sounds like the thing could blow any minute.
He posts a sign that says “no flyers”
on his door; without the thanks.
His mailbox vomits statements of his banks
attempt to take the money he don’t got.
What’s he feeeeeeeding in that shed?
Hiding in the corner of his yard,
I peer out my window wondering
what could be in there thundering
every time he comes and goes
from that god forsaken ugly shed.
He has no children, friends or foe,
no one that I have seen to come and go
from the house with bed skirts used as drapes.
So what is he feeding in that shed?
Covered in curly dock weeds;
the wood cuuuurrrrves inside like a squeeeezebox
sucking in just about to bust its lock.
I’ve seen a light beneath the entrance door
to that shed like mosquitoes getting zapped.
Flickering for a time, snickering
until a shadow waltzes past
the space beneath that entrance door.
What is he feeeeeeeeeeding in that shed?
5 am he leaves and goes somewhere
taking that black duffle bag elsewhere;
I assume to fill with the hush-hush
he feeds to the somethiiiinnngggg
that is in that god damn shed.
He returns on early evenings time,
I hear that van a stuttering
and that shed begins a muttering
for whatever it takes a day to find.
That man parks that rusted van.
Thin as a blade he walks through the gate
that leads to that somethiiinngg that awaits
whatever is in that god, stuffed to the tits, bag.
What is he feeding in that shed?
What is that song he always huuuummms
every time he leaves that shed
a bag, less than what he had
and a toothless grin smeared in chapped lips.
I think I may just know.
I see him walk,
I hear him talk to somethiiinnnggg
within the walls of that damn near shed.
Always wearing thick lenses that man,
drives a TV yellow moving van,
sounds like the thing could blow any minute.
He posts a sign that says “no flyers”
on his door; without the thanks.
His mailbox vomits statements of his banks
attempt to take the money he don’t got.
What’s he feeeeeeeding in that shed?
Hiding in the corner of his yard,
I peer out my window wondering
what could be in there thundering
every time he comes and goes
from that god forsaken ugly shed.
He has no children, friends or foe,
no one that I have seen to come and go
from the house with bed skirts used as drapes.
So what is he feeding in that shed?
Covered in curly dock weeds;
the wood cuuuurrrrves inside like a squeeeezebox
sucking in just about to bust its lock.
I’ve seen a light beneath the entrance door
to that shed like mosquitoes getting zapped.
Flickering for a time, snickering
until a shadow waltzes past
the space beneath that entrance door.
What is he feeeeeeeeeeding in that shed?
5 am he leaves and goes somewhere
taking that black duffle bag elsewhere;
I assume to fill with the hush-hush
he feeds to the somethiiiinnngggg
that is in that god damn shed.
He returns on early evenings time,
I hear that van a stuttering
and that shed begins a muttering
for whatever it takes a day to find.
That man parks that rusted van.
Thin as a blade he walks through the gate
that leads to that somethiiinngg that awaits
whatever is in that god, stuffed to the tits, bag.
What is he feeding in that shed?
What is that song he always huuuummms
every time he leaves that shed
a bag, less than what he had
and a toothless grin smeared in chapped lips.
I think I may just know.
The Jukeboxs been smokin'
The Jukebox’s been smokin’
‘cause it ain’t got no more soul to breathe.
The glass smeared with sparrows song,
its buttons too tired to turn a tune;
anything other than the blues.
Which is fine by me
just as long as my back ain’t turned
cause I do mind when people
spit on my shoes.
You get where I’m comin’ from?
So when I die
and he die
lay us in calico cat coats
and tell them we died standing still
with our hands ‘round each others throats
and I should have seen it comin’.
I got all boozed up on 2nd hand Joe
sayin’ “A pinball hell is tied to my chain.”
sayin’ “I’ll never fall for a Kentucky man again.”
I did fall in love once
with a 20 gage boy
who was all boozed up on 2nd hand Joe.
He shot a hole through that porches back door
the size of a dime
and grazed the cane that was tappin’
to the beat of my boot still snappin’
Tom, Tom, bangin’ on that Jukebox
with a glass of Old Ennis Owen
singin’ “I’ll never fall for an alley trash cat again.”
‘cause it ain’t got no more soul to breathe.
The glass smeared with sparrows song,
its buttons too tired to turn a tune;
anything other than the blues.
Which is fine by me
just as long as my back ain’t turned
cause I do mind when people
spit on my shoes.
You get where I’m comin’ from?
So when I die
and he die
lay us in calico cat coats
and tell them we died standing still
with our hands ‘round each others throats
and I should have seen it comin’.
I got all boozed up on 2nd hand Joe
sayin’ “A pinball hell is tied to my chain.”
sayin’ “I’ll never fall for a Kentucky man again.”
I did fall in love once
with a 20 gage boy
who was all boozed up on 2nd hand Joe.
He shot a hole through that porches back door
the size of a dime
and grazed the cane that was tappin’
to the beat of my boot still snappin’
Tom, Tom, bangin’ on that Jukebox
with a glass of Old Ennis Owen
singin’ “I’ll never fall for an alley trash cat again.”
Southern Ease
Southern Ease
It’s 2 am / 10th street and Cornerbrook / where all the windows are frosted with memories / the bricks show wounds of war / jailed tattoos / all the shops sell lollypops beside forties of Bourbon / the smell of diesel takes you to where others drive away from / smog beneath street lamps conceal the pushers / pistols in their jeans and ravens in their pockets / no one round here knows where they’re going / where they’re headed / I think we all must have took the wrong detour /
shame I gotta come all the way up here for a smoke /
it’s a blues bar for Christ sake /
fuck democracy, what happened to civil rights? /
my breath disappears into an unclaimed heaven /
where’s my lighter? /
above / a fluorescent blaze illuminates a spotlight outside the door / a stage for us who want to remain hidden / the South Hampton train passes / leaving all but the black cloud of a burning coal / smeared across the shadowed sky / like the whole god damn place is about to set fire / like the lipstick on that diner napkin / from the girl you never called because her eyes had done all the talking / you got the best of her anyways / the thunder of a Cadillac’s engine echoes like a gapping hole in the pit of your lung you hear every time you breathe in / a group of prostitutes surround it like vultures on their last legs / pretty girls / battered like hell / but nothing $50 can’t fix / one had a shaved head / said it got in the way of her day job / the strike of a match brings me back / a man holding a unmoved flame /
thanks /
only thing it did for me was fuel my cigarette / only thing it did for him was sneak beneath the age in his face / one of those guys whose figure only alludes the boy / he walks into the bar / a door riddled with pages of hope / no one goes in there without baggage / wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen / I’ve heard it all /
It’s 2 am / 10th street and Cornerbrook / where all the windows are frosted with memories / the bricks show wounds of war / jailed tattoos / all the shops sell lollypops beside forties of Bourbon / the smell of diesel takes you to where others drive away from / smog beneath street lamps conceal the pushers / pistols in their jeans and ravens in their pockets / no one round here knows where they’re going / where they’re headed / I think we all must have took the wrong detour /
shame I gotta come all the way up here for a smoke /
it’s a blues bar for Christ sake /
fuck democracy, what happened to civil rights? /
my breath disappears into an unclaimed heaven /
where’s my lighter? /
above / a fluorescent blaze illuminates a spotlight outside the door / a stage for us who want to remain hidden / the South Hampton train passes / leaving all but the black cloud of a burning coal / smeared across the shadowed sky / like the whole god damn place is about to set fire / like the lipstick on that diner napkin / from the girl you never called because her eyes had done all the talking / you got the best of her anyways / the thunder of a Cadillac’s engine echoes like a gapping hole in the pit of your lung you hear every time you breathe in / a group of prostitutes surround it like vultures on their last legs / pretty girls / battered like hell / but nothing $50 can’t fix / one had a shaved head / said it got in the way of her day job / the strike of a match brings me back / a man holding a unmoved flame /
thanks /
only thing it did for me was fuel my cigarette / only thing it did for him was sneak beneath the age in his face / one of those guys whose figure only alludes the boy / he walks into the bar / a door riddled with pages of hope / no one goes in there without baggage / wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen / I’ve heard it all /
The Vegetable Crisper
So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?
Right.
What have you done in your life that makes you so god damn proud?
Don’t talk like that Derek. You are just tired, you had a long day.
You think I don’t get it? You think I don’t know Sam.. you think I don’t know that endless sadness?
That quiet beating of the self we are all so loyal to? The one that’s so embedded in our thoughts it literally becomes apart of who we are? I too am habituated to that pain! I know that quiet panicky feeling, that desperate, frightening aching emptiness - that gaping hole in the pit of your lung you hear every time you breathe in, so vast you feel as if it could kill you…. all happening while you’re laughing.
Well what do you want me to say Derek? What the hell do you want me to say?
Say you did it! Say you fucking did it!
No, it will not change your instinctive belief on being wronged by fate; at odds with circumstance.
Fuck you Sam!
Do you know who Theodore Roethke is? I think you’d appreciate the disparity in his work. Your cry for nobility sickens me.
Right.
What have you done in your life that makes you so god damn proud?
Don’t talk like that Derek. You are just tired, you had a long day.
You think I don’t get it? You think I don’t know Sam.. you think I don’t know that endless sadness?
That quiet beating of the self we are all so loyal to? The one that’s so embedded in our thoughts it literally becomes apart of who we are? I too am habituated to that pain! I know that quiet panicky feeling, that desperate, frightening aching emptiness - that gaping hole in the pit of your lung you hear every time you breathe in, so vast you feel as if it could kill you…. all happening while you’re laughing.
Well what do you want me to say Derek? What the hell do you want me to say?
Say you did it! Say you fucking did it!
No, it will not change your instinctive belief on being wronged by fate; at odds with circumstance.
Fuck you Sam!
Do you know who Theodore Roethke is? I think you’d appreciate the disparity in his work. Your cry for nobility sickens me.
Cottage Cheese: A brief quest to dampen the GREEN mentality
Oh how strange are the ways of us human beings! It’s epiphanies like this that I begin to wish more and more that I lived the life of a maggot. Although, come to think of it, maggots aren’t entirely different from us now are they? So what do maggots and the human race have in common, besides a shared stench of desperation and an existence no more lifeless than the body they feast on? Well, for one thing, we both survive on the remains of a substance no longer useful to the world, feeding off of something that was once alive, now a memory that’s destined only to be picked at by scavengers desperate to survive on these forgotten fears.
A maggot feeds off of such trash- soaked in bacteria, filth and disease, the smell of rotting flesh is their all you can eat buffet. Sadly, our survival is no different; our society revolves around judgment, hatred, fear. Our television are filled with shit, drenched in hatred, spewing out our destines. Our dependency on words, laws, and routine are laced with fallacious hope similar to that of the maggots’ garbage. Not a pleasant source of nutrition, but unable to live any other way, we have no choice but to fed on this type of rubbish. Together we survive on negligence and greed, fueled only by our consumption driven society.
We also both conveniently move in masses, rarely a dawdler surviving on its own.(So they say) Leaving the way of the group is said to be unsafe, scolded that these wonderers will be subjected to that of solitude, no longer near the warmth of conformity. Although possible, it seems not an entirely desirable state to live in but the key word here is possible, and fucking fantastic might I add.
Okay enough about your mother, I’ll get to the point. I had this urge today, an urge to go to an organic food store and beat the living piss out of every person that walks in the place. Why not? They’re snobbery is not only slowing the advancement and limiting any type of sustainability in third world economies, but also starving their kids and raping their women. Okay maybe not literally raping their women, I mean that in a more comparative sense. More or less forcing these people to survive in an environment that doesn’t particularly give them much to work with, just so they can eat their “organically cultivated” food.
Now not only are these pig headed bastards enforcing this type of “lifestyle” amongst their own communities, but trying to convince the industrial manufacturers to do the same! HA HA! “Don’t use the fertilizer that will triple your crop because it isn’t healthy for the o-zone layer!” OHHHHH is it now? Well then, why don’t you go across the ocean and tell the village, where the wheat was destined, that they won’t be eating for the next week because there are some bitch ass people over here who are more concerned with the state of their reiterated ethics then the lives of distressed people! This is the very type of food production that has helped keep food supply ahead of population growth! God, it’s so very easy for people who can afford that type of lifestyle to tell others what to do and how to do it, only giving help to people with the means to help themselves. Sounds like the republican national anthem now doesn’t it?!
Where there is poor soil, uncertain rainfall and diseased cattle, there are fraught people willing to take any type of help they can get Ok? I will tell you this much, starving people don’t give a fuck where the food comes from, how it was made, and who fucked it. These so called “green people” are the very ones who are encouraging the demotion of technology third world countries!
This also goes for animal activities (don’t think I forgot about you) who are constantly trying to shut down chicken farms because they are handled “morally improper.” These very farms are the ones who supply such poultry to third world countries! Do you really think that a mother in Ethiopia, Ghana, Nigeria, Uganda, Mali, Guinea (just to name a few) really care that the chicken, which will feed her family for a week, was fed by a tube down its throat? No sir, no she would not care, and I guarantee she would still take the damn thing if you told her the guy who delivered the chickens had fucked every single one of them. Now I bet you’re really hating me now right? But Jenna, I bought this reusable bag the other day and it says I’m helping out, Oprah told me this, Al Gore told me that. Well you need to turn off Oprah and write Al Gore a letter stating you will no longer see any of his facts as self evidently true ok? I’m going to let you in on a little secret okay? GLOBAL WARMING IS FUCKING BULLSHIT AND ALL THIS GARBAGE ABOUT OVER POPULATION, GREEN HOUSE GASSES RUINING THE OZONE LAYER, RECYLING, ORGANIC THIS AND ORGANIC THAT IS A STEAMING PILE OF SHIT!!! It’s a trend, a soon to be failed trend, just like the hippies were. Our world runs on two things alright, consumption and fear. The government found an ingenious way to scare our civilization and condition us into purchasing items that are suppose to calm this fear. “You’ll be living in trash up to your knees if you don’t use these reusable bags, your kids will die when they are 40 if you don’t start buying these overpriced hybrids!” It’s brilliant; they even hire men in white jackets to tell us it’s true. “Well, he is a scientist, I can see he’s wearing the white coat; he can’t possibly lie to me!”
No, our earth is not going to be engulfed in flames because of pollution. These corporate scientists that are hired by the government to scare the shit out of you, are unfortunately way off. These statistics that they spiel are generally all estimated. In fact, the surface of the globe has never really been completely monitored!!! First, it is only natural that the surface of our earth increase in temperature, we just came out of a god damn ice age 25,000 years ago, THE coldest period known on earth! Second who said that temperatures were supposed to be stable? Any type of factors that influence climate (solar radiation, chemical activities of bacteria) are too diverse and unpredictable to make any sort of assumption or exact calculation of what the climate will be like in the next century! To say that our changing weather is a direct result of the human footprint is ridiculous and not coming from science.
Oh god and the greenhouse gases and CO2!! LORD HELP US!! Do any of you “green activists” even know how the greenhouse gas effect works? Of course you don’t you just know the words to be the “it” term of our time. To explain the greenhouse effect is extremely complex (if you’d like to know, feel free to email me, explaining it to you would give me the high I need; and that would be destroying your self righteousness) so I won’t go into detail, but I will let you know that the big theory they have is shown by a small tube of heat radiation being exposed to greenhouse gasses causing the temperature rise. Well yes, yes it does do that, we can all agree, but unfortunately our world isn’t as fucking simple as a vile of air in a controlled laboratory!! These jackass experiments are not designed with all the attributing abilities the earth has to expel this extra energy causing this type of heat!! GOD DAMNIT!! But government doesn’t want you to know that bit does it? After all that would decrease the surplus in their grand plan to milk ALL of the money out of our pockets!
Now, perhaps instead of wishing for a world that will continually “eliminate”; which I can tell you is incredibly dangerous to our human existence- we can wish to get rid of governments and “civil services” that have no independent accountability!!!!!!!!!!!!
A maggot feeds off of such trash- soaked in bacteria, filth and disease, the smell of rotting flesh is their all you can eat buffet. Sadly, our survival is no different; our society revolves around judgment, hatred, fear. Our television are filled with shit, drenched in hatred, spewing out our destines. Our dependency on words, laws, and routine are laced with fallacious hope similar to that of the maggots’ garbage. Not a pleasant source of nutrition, but unable to live any other way, we have no choice but to fed on this type of rubbish. Together we survive on negligence and greed, fueled only by our consumption driven society.
We also both conveniently move in masses, rarely a dawdler surviving on its own.(So they say) Leaving the way of the group is said to be unsafe, scolded that these wonderers will be subjected to that of solitude, no longer near the warmth of conformity. Although possible, it seems not an entirely desirable state to live in but the key word here is possible, and fucking fantastic might I add.
Okay enough about your mother, I’ll get to the point. I had this urge today, an urge to go to an organic food store and beat the living piss out of every person that walks in the place. Why not? They’re snobbery is not only slowing the advancement and limiting any type of sustainability in third world economies, but also starving their kids and raping their women. Okay maybe not literally raping their women, I mean that in a more comparative sense. More or less forcing these people to survive in an environment that doesn’t particularly give them much to work with, just so they can eat their “organically cultivated” food.
Now not only are these pig headed bastards enforcing this type of “lifestyle” amongst their own communities, but trying to convince the industrial manufacturers to do the same! HA HA! “Don’t use the fertilizer that will triple your crop because it isn’t healthy for the o-zone layer!” OHHHHH is it now? Well then, why don’t you go across the ocean and tell the village, where the wheat was destined, that they won’t be eating for the next week because there are some bitch ass people over here who are more concerned with the state of their reiterated ethics then the lives of distressed people! This is the very type of food production that has helped keep food supply ahead of population growth! God, it’s so very easy for people who can afford that type of lifestyle to tell others what to do and how to do it, only giving help to people with the means to help themselves. Sounds like the republican national anthem now doesn’t it?!
Where there is poor soil, uncertain rainfall and diseased cattle, there are fraught people willing to take any type of help they can get Ok? I will tell you this much, starving people don’t give a fuck where the food comes from, how it was made, and who fucked it. These so called “green people” are the very ones who are encouraging the demotion of technology third world countries!
This also goes for animal activities (don’t think I forgot about you) who are constantly trying to shut down chicken farms because they are handled “morally improper.” These very farms are the ones who supply such poultry to third world countries! Do you really think that a mother in Ethiopia, Ghana, Nigeria, Uganda, Mali, Guinea (just to name a few) really care that the chicken, which will feed her family for a week, was fed by a tube down its throat? No sir, no she would not care, and I guarantee she would still take the damn thing if you told her the guy who delivered the chickens had fucked every single one of them. Now I bet you’re really hating me now right? But Jenna, I bought this reusable bag the other day and it says I’m helping out, Oprah told me this, Al Gore told me that. Well you need to turn off Oprah and write Al Gore a letter stating you will no longer see any of his facts as self evidently true ok? I’m going to let you in on a little secret okay? GLOBAL WARMING IS FUCKING BULLSHIT AND ALL THIS GARBAGE ABOUT OVER POPULATION, GREEN HOUSE GASSES RUINING THE OZONE LAYER, RECYLING, ORGANIC THIS AND ORGANIC THAT IS A STEAMING PILE OF SHIT!!! It’s a trend, a soon to be failed trend, just like the hippies were. Our world runs on two things alright, consumption and fear. The government found an ingenious way to scare our civilization and condition us into purchasing items that are suppose to calm this fear. “You’ll be living in trash up to your knees if you don’t use these reusable bags, your kids will die when they are 40 if you don’t start buying these overpriced hybrids!” It’s brilliant; they even hire men in white jackets to tell us it’s true. “Well, he is a scientist, I can see he’s wearing the white coat; he can’t possibly lie to me!”
No, our earth is not going to be engulfed in flames because of pollution. These corporate scientists that are hired by the government to scare the shit out of you, are unfortunately way off. These statistics that they spiel are generally all estimated. In fact, the surface of the globe has never really been completely monitored!!! First, it is only natural that the surface of our earth increase in temperature, we just came out of a god damn ice age 25,000 years ago, THE coldest period known on earth! Second who said that temperatures were supposed to be stable? Any type of factors that influence climate (solar radiation, chemical activities of bacteria) are too diverse and unpredictable to make any sort of assumption or exact calculation of what the climate will be like in the next century! To say that our changing weather is a direct result of the human footprint is ridiculous and not coming from science.
Oh god and the greenhouse gases and CO2!! LORD HELP US!! Do any of you “green activists” even know how the greenhouse gas effect works? Of course you don’t you just know the words to be the “it” term of our time. To explain the greenhouse effect is extremely complex (if you’d like to know, feel free to email me, explaining it to you would give me the high I need; and that would be destroying your self righteousness) so I won’t go into detail, but I will let you know that the big theory they have is shown by a small tube of heat radiation being exposed to greenhouse gasses causing the temperature rise. Well yes, yes it does do that, we can all agree, but unfortunately our world isn’t as fucking simple as a vile of air in a controlled laboratory!! These jackass experiments are not designed with all the attributing abilities the earth has to expel this extra energy causing this type of heat!! GOD DAMNIT!! But government doesn’t want you to know that bit does it? After all that would decrease the surplus in their grand plan to milk ALL of the money out of our pockets!
Now, perhaps instead of wishing for a world that will continually “eliminate”; which I can tell you is incredibly dangerous to our human existence- we can wish to get rid of governments and “civil services” that have no independent accountability!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Last Summer part II
In harrowing fears the wind works against us.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul,
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey-
now hoary in a lurking mist.
Not today, I’ve learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul,
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey-
now hoary in a lurking mist.
Not today, I’ve learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.
The Last Summer
To speak of a love
would rout my reason-
to a shallow sea
of which it is a sign.
My trust, my will beseech your will.
Words can only entertain
but not define-
a rapture as of law
of our introspective minds.
would rout my reason-
to a shallow sea
of which it is a sign.
My trust, my will beseech your will.
Words can only entertain
but not define-
a rapture as of law
of our introspective minds.
The Proverbs of Religious Bigotry- Part I: An Atheist’s Confession
I want to believe
in a power beyond my own.
In trust, in faith - to be naïve;
my heart no longer harbor in stone.
Can I be freed by those who trail,
misspoken words of no avail,
from a God who’s presence is so cold?
A dire time eats my will.
Disparity seals my heart that I’m
finding refuge in his petty shrill.
My voice; no more words
than scriptures laced with lines that blur.
Spoken truth I do prefer
then be amongst rows of statues,
extremely lonely.
Pity enables the foolish kind,
saluting a welcomed anguish.
A guide who tames the deaf and blind
with a fallacious love he bestows.
My tired self has drowned,
in convenience that I have found,
to burn my eyes with such a sound
as piercing as gospels sang by the partisan of Satan.
in a power beyond my own.
In trust, in faith - to be naïve;
my heart no longer harbor in stone.
Can I be freed by those who trail,
misspoken words of no avail,
from a God who’s presence is so cold?
A dire time eats my will.
Disparity seals my heart that I’m
finding refuge in his petty shrill.
My voice; no more words
than scriptures laced with lines that blur.
Spoken truth I do prefer
then be amongst rows of statues,
extremely lonely.
Pity enables the foolish kind,
saluting a welcomed anguish.
A guide who tames the deaf and blind
with a fallacious love he bestows.
My tired self has drowned,
in convenience that I have found,
to burn my eyes with such a sound
as piercing as gospels sang by the partisan of Satan.
I Believe I'll dust My Porch
Jenna Reimer
36 Midpark Drive SE
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
T2X 1T2
1-403-542-6625
my shaking hands made it difficult to smoke my cigarette / it seems as if it has never not rained / don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the humidity of your breath when it’s not spittin’ your typical self consciousness amongst this chaos / but the timing is never right you know? / man, I am another soul lost amongst this chaos / my feet stuck in shoes that are three times my weight / didn’t you see me yesterday? / I swore it took me a day and a half to get across town / didn’t even get to purgatory / slower than the comin’ of Christ I tell ya / oh well, what would you care anyways / you know conformity has never been my thing, but my attentive habits seem to swallow my attempts to speak any truth / I work, I breathe, I hate, I lie, I cheat, I steal, I laugh, I cry, I love, I hate, I pity, I try, I forget, I wish, I wonder, I die / I am very afraid of being alone, or hung from a tree next to the president of The United States / the meaning of our deaths as different as the price paid for them / you get where I’m comin’ from? / I accept it all, but I don’t know whether it all accepts me / I know they’re afraid too man, afraid of the war, the cults, the germs, their wellbeing, their groceries, the environment, their neighbors / but I believe it all falls together / whether its in the right or wrong place it don’t matter, the grass will blow east anyways / security, failure, success, democracy, responsibility mean fuck all / and I don’t want nothin’ to do with any of it / what needs to be known has already been said / I could tell you right now the people who have questioned the right things and wrote the right books / who understand / but their all dead and the world didn’t stop because of it right? / we will all end up crawling through those seven sided wheat fields, unsure as to whether we have just been going in circles / but I was following you? /
36 Midpark Drive SE
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
T2X 1T2
1-403-542-6625
my shaking hands made it difficult to smoke my cigarette / it seems as if it has never not rained / don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the humidity of your breath when it’s not spittin’ your typical self consciousness amongst this chaos / but the timing is never right you know? / man, I am another soul lost amongst this chaos / my feet stuck in shoes that are three times my weight / didn’t you see me yesterday? / I swore it took me a day and a half to get across town / didn’t even get to purgatory / slower than the comin’ of Christ I tell ya / oh well, what would you care anyways / you know conformity has never been my thing, but my attentive habits seem to swallow my attempts to speak any truth / I work, I breathe, I hate, I lie, I cheat, I steal, I laugh, I cry, I love, I hate, I pity, I try, I forget, I wish, I wonder, I die / I am very afraid of being alone, or hung from a tree next to the president of The United States / the meaning of our deaths as different as the price paid for them / you get where I’m comin’ from? / I accept it all, but I don’t know whether it all accepts me / I know they’re afraid too man, afraid of the war, the cults, the germs, their wellbeing, their groceries, the environment, their neighbors / but I believe it all falls together / whether its in the right or wrong place it don’t matter, the grass will blow east anyways / security, failure, success, democracy, responsibility mean fuck all / and I don’t want nothin’ to do with any of it / what needs to be known has already been said / I could tell you right now the people who have questioned the right things and wrote the right books / who understand / but their all dead and the world didn’t stop because of it right? / we will all end up crawling through those seven sided wheat fields, unsure as to whether we have just been going in circles / but I was following you? /
Vision of Stone
My tired self creates lack of will,
one that hinders shadowed holes.
My bed protects from spitting twill;
breathe of dirt and burning coals.
Disorder breaks our misspoken words,
visions of boys in streets are blurred,
voices through walls are heard.
He leans in and whispers softly hatred.
A forbidden slumber in his keep
revealed a sickened myriad tale.
Piercing cries spoil restless sleep;
a woman’s strength to which none avail.
His empty eyes, eyes that seem
to walk you past bone that has been.
A dead mans law he cannot redeem;
eyes that tell when ours do meet.
The air had thickened with fated rage,
a scene fueled no longer by sullen word.
His voice fades with veiled winds of age;
familiar hisses again are heard.
My blind houseboy appears wherein,
this room is no longer an affair within.
He swallows whole and begins to grin,
“Perhaps it’s not your petty lies that haunt you.”
one that hinders shadowed holes.
My bed protects from spitting twill;
breathe of dirt and burning coals.
Disorder breaks our misspoken words,
visions of boys in streets are blurred,
voices through walls are heard.
He leans in and whispers softly hatred.
A forbidden slumber in his keep
revealed a sickened myriad tale.
Piercing cries spoil restless sleep;
a woman’s strength to which none avail.
His empty eyes, eyes that seem
to walk you past bone that has been.
A dead mans law he cannot redeem;
eyes that tell when ours do meet.
The air had thickened with fated rage,
a scene fueled no longer by sullen word.
His voice fades with veiled winds of age;
familiar hisses again are heard.
My blind houseboy appears wherein,
this room is no longer an affair within.
He swallows whole and begins to grin,
“Perhaps it’s not your petty lies that haunt you.”
The Answer to your Question
Not for sight, to be heard or sung
Nor to hid beneath candles light.
I care not for your thoughts on my words that caught
Your desperate woe and worthless avowal.
My salvation appears to thieve your wrongs
But it is just your idealism you drown in.
I speak of a truth, a law, a way, a love,
The ones you claim god who lurk above.
I offer no more than heated hands
Pressed against the chest of followers.
Laughing at all who beg for highs
Seeing their past and present through their eyes.
And I tell them,
I love telling them.
So the answer to your question is easy to say
Although to say would be against my ways
And you would not understand.
Nor to hid beneath candles light.
I care not for your thoughts on my words that caught
Your desperate woe and worthless avowal.
My salvation appears to thieve your wrongs
But it is just your idealism you drown in.
I speak of a truth, a law, a way, a love,
The ones you claim god who lurk above.
I offer no more than heated hands
Pressed against the chest of followers.
Laughing at all who beg for highs
Seeing their past and present through their eyes.
And I tell them,
I love telling them.
So the answer to your question is easy to say
Although to say would be against my ways
And you would not understand.
Not From my Bedside
Will your morose words defeat their reason.
Lying naked with no thoughts of my own,
no more body than the mound of sheets
cushioning my weary soul;
enables not you to question my motives.
Your money is only a breath I need.
My world may hang from trees,
far beyond your crops of blinded watchmen
but not from my bedside
will you eyes strip me of my familiar slip.
Has my fate swelled your hollow eyes?
Do my hands reflect the ranks you criticize?
I have not been born marked good sir,
and not from my bedside
will I idealize
the ones who are outside the den I lurk in.
In the end I will be the one
Who come back to claim the wicked ones
Tomorrow.
Lying naked with no thoughts of my own,
no more body than the mound of sheets
cushioning my weary soul;
enables not you to question my motives.
Your money is only a breath I need.
My world may hang from trees,
far beyond your crops of blinded watchmen
but not from my bedside
will you eyes strip me of my familiar slip.
Has my fate swelled your hollow eyes?
Do my hands reflect the ranks you criticize?
I have not been born marked good sir,
and not from my bedside
will I idealize
the ones who are outside the den I lurk in.
In the end I will be the one
Who come back to claim the wicked ones
Tomorrow.
Deity of the Unrest
Rising smoke from ashes between my lips;
disappears into a naked sky.
Such warmth from an impervious beginning
relinquishes my soul to Hathor.
Protect me from those whose freedom
is held by unbreakable hands of hatred.
If you shall rise before the sun,
warn me of the imminent flood
that drowns those with false anticipations.
Although, I too am like the rest,
I am aware of such clever deceit.
Allow me to hide within the trees
that protects the ones who are not coned
by paintings of bare lands and unfinished portraits.
I have my things prepared
and I want to be ready.
disappears into a naked sky.
Such warmth from an impervious beginning
relinquishes my soul to Hathor.
Protect me from those whose freedom
is held by unbreakable hands of hatred.
If you shall rise before the sun,
warn me of the imminent flood
that drowns those with false anticipations.
Although, I too am like the rest,
I am aware of such clever deceit.
Allow me to hide within the trees
that protects the ones who are not coned
by paintings of bare lands and unfinished portraits.
I have my things prepared
and I want to be ready.
Tell Me What it is to Be Free?
Tell me what it is to be free
How can you appreciate your freedom
Without accepting that your life is constituted by something;
Known or unknown,
And that this is impervious to the hand of man?
Tell me what it is to be free?
As you sit close eyed within your white walls
Wearing only your eyes you keep in a box
By your bedside.
Your reverie only ever preached to you
By men in black suites with green eyes
And stone hands.
Have you lost all but your illusive hope
And fabricated avowal?
I pity your obtuse soul and lack there of.
Tell me what it is to be free?
Your words are laced with denial.
Fire is burning from my finger tips
While I listen to your false dreams.
No one is free!
No one is free from a obstinate seize
That forms a life.
Tell me what it is to be free?
You walk with such direction and purpose
Towards a reflection,
Cast from the houses on the hill.
Wash your linens and cloth your children
For you need not worry.
A life of freedom is far from your grasp.
I am unable to deny my part in a society of fear
But I do not condone it.
I soon will be ready.
And when you dream of walking a red desert
With your arrow and bow,
Reciting the words from your book of bridges,
Then you may tell me what it is to be free.
How can you appreciate your freedom
Without accepting that your life is constituted by something;
Known or unknown,
And that this is impervious to the hand of man?
Tell me what it is to be free?
As you sit close eyed within your white walls
Wearing only your eyes you keep in a box
By your bedside.
Your reverie only ever preached to you
By men in black suites with green eyes
And stone hands.
Have you lost all but your illusive hope
And fabricated avowal?
I pity your obtuse soul and lack there of.
Tell me what it is to be free?
Your words are laced with denial.
Fire is burning from my finger tips
While I listen to your false dreams.
No one is free!
No one is free from a obstinate seize
That forms a life.
Tell me what it is to be free?
You walk with such direction and purpose
Towards a reflection,
Cast from the houses on the hill.
Wash your linens and cloth your children
For you need not worry.
A life of freedom is far from your grasp.
I am unable to deny my part in a society of fear
But I do not condone it.
I soon will be ready.
And when you dream of walking a red desert
With your arrow and bow,
Reciting the words from your book of bridges,
Then you may tell me what it is to be free.
A lecture about YOU!!!
We are all huge question marks. Victims primarily of ourselves, which actually makes victim status just plain awkward!?! See, all of us have theories about the world and about ourselves. We go to encredible lengths to convince ourselves that our ways and beliefs are infact equitable because it keeps the world in our heads a little less confusing.
Which leads to us training ourselves to naturally do the wrong thing on a subconcious level. mmmmkay. Generally, most of our personalitiy traits, disorders, warped views, are easily justified, diagnosised & can lead back to something that happened early on in your life.... whether it was an event that was tramatic, an imprinted memory of a certain being who distorted ur view on the world. Think hard, really hard...
My point: we are capable of teaching ourselves beliefs that is wrong,of course there is some influence in the outside world, but it all leads back to what we WANT to believe and CHOOSE to believe. The phrase "Self-fulfilling presage" comes to my mind.
Are you trying to treat your problem as a cause, a thing that screwed up your life and altered your behaviours and mind frame, or as an effect??
true story....
Which leads to us training ourselves to naturally do the wrong thing on a subconcious level. mmmmkay. Generally, most of our personalitiy traits, disorders, warped views, are easily justified, diagnosised & can lead back to something that happened early on in your life.... whether it was an event that was tramatic, an imprinted memory of a certain being who distorted ur view on the world. Think hard, really hard...
My point: we are capable of teaching ourselves beliefs that is wrong,of course there is some influence in the outside world, but it all leads back to what we WANT to believe and CHOOSE to believe. The phrase "Self-fulfilling presage" comes to my mind.
Are you trying to treat your problem as a cause, a thing that screwed up your life and altered your behaviours and mind frame, or as an effect??
true story....
Single Cup Coffee Machines
This world would be a far better place if people would listen more. I mean truly listen. I encounter far too many people who are always just waiting for their chance to speak. An extremely large percentage of our society is made up of people who would way rather listen to the sound of their own voice than that of others. The majority of my “public interaction” is spent making small talk with people who have little to no interest in anything that I, or anyone else for that matter, has to say. They nod their head, arms crossed, maybe a hand stroking their chin, saying “ah yes,” “that’s interesting,” “well good for you” and you smile back as if you did not just observe the most pitiful attempt at communal politeness.
I watch people intermingle and have great fun pointing out the exact moment when the other person has lost complete interest and is just waiting to start talking about themselves in their petty conversation. When you don’t talk much, like I do, you tend to become more aware of peoples awkward social faux pas and their feeble attempt to conceal it from people like me. :PSee, our civilization seems to be made up of two things: consumption and fear. These two particular qualities would be utterly useless if it weren’t for our civilization being full of people wanting to take up your time with their words and opinions right?
Television is telling you that the meat you are eating could be contaminated, that a tsunami is going to hit your town tomorrow, that carrying purple handbags has been linked to cancer! Such fears are followed by ads saying buy this deodorant it will help you get the girl, Take these pills it will make you have your dream body, buy this tooth whitener and then you’ll fit it! It becomes this disgusting cycle of freaking out; buy something, change happens; buy something, panic attacks; buy something, depression; buy something. So it’s in fact not our fault that we have problems listening to one another, we are so bombarded with massive spews of shit that it becomes utterly impossible to fit any more information in our heads, especially if it is not that of the television. It’s actually difficult to talk of anything but ourselves, it is what we are fed on a daily basis, it’s all we are really sure of! What’s wrong with YOU, how to make YOU better, what could happen to YOU tomorrow, how do YOU affect it all. Selfish unselfish employment under “The Man” comes to mind.
I guess there is just not enough room anymore, not enough time to care. It’s almost as if we each have been pushed to live on our own little planet and anyone from anywhere else is generally discarded as extra baggage. Planet Jenna, I do this, I don’t do this, I like this stuff, I hate that, I talk to these people and not those people and eat this but not that and that’s it. It’s like they want everyone to be isolated and become extremely selfish because this sudden remoteness forces us to take advice on how to better our lives from the one who is most accessible; television.
Where am I going with this? I don’t know exactly, probably just another added ingredient to my cynical recipe on how the world works and why it is such a horrid place to inhabit. The moral of this story? I don’t know, I guess just listen to one another, not just hear them, really listen to them. You’ll be shocked about how much more you’ll learn from people rather than the empty tube that calls you its bitch.
I watch people intermingle and have great fun pointing out the exact moment when the other person has lost complete interest and is just waiting to start talking about themselves in their petty conversation. When you don’t talk much, like I do, you tend to become more aware of peoples awkward social faux pas and their feeble attempt to conceal it from people like me. :PSee, our civilization seems to be made up of two things: consumption and fear. These two particular qualities would be utterly useless if it weren’t for our civilization being full of people wanting to take up your time with their words and opinions right?
Television is telling you that the meat you are eating could be contaminated, that a tsunami is going to hit your town tomorrow, that carrying purple handbags has been linked to cancer! Such fears are followed by ads saying buy this deodorant it will help you get the girl, Take these pills it will make you have your dream body, buy this tooth whitener and then you’ll fit it! It becomes this disgusting cycle of freaking out; buy something, change happens; buy something, panic attacks; buy something, depression; buy something. So it’s in fact not our fault that we have problems listening to one another, we are so bombarded with massive spews of shit that it becomes utterly impossible to fit any more information in our heads, especially if it is not that of the television. It’s actually difficult to talk of anything but ourselves, it is what we are fed on a daily basis, it’s all we are really sure of! What’s wrong with YOU, how to make YOU better, what could happen to YOU tomorrow, how do YOU affect it all. Selfish unselfish employment under “The Man” comes to mind.
I guess there is just not enough room anymore, not enough time to care. It’s almost as if we each have been pushed to live on our own little planet and anyone from anywhere else is generally discarded as extra baggage. Planet Jenna, I do this, I don’t do this, I like this stuff, I hate that, I talk to these people and not those people and eat this but not that and that’s it. It’s like they want everyone to be isolated and become extremely selfish because this sudden remoteness forces us to take advice on how to better our lives from the one who is most accessible; television.
Where am I going with this? I don’t know exactly, probably just another added ingredient to my cynical recipe on how the world works and why it is such a horrid place to inhabit. The moral of this story? I don’t know, I guess just listen to one another, not just hear them, really listen to them. You’ll be shocked about how much more you’ll learn from people rather than the empty tube that calls you its bitch.
Extra Dry
I can not seem to wait for old age.
Always dreaming of what will become,
Yet only ever feeling it with small hope
And a listless desire to find truth.
I am like the rest.
Torn between what will be and what is now.
Each day passes, slowly whittling our skin
To withstand what will soon become the end.
How can something beyond us all be widely criticized
And its journey blatantly ignored?
I suppose what we can’t understand,
We leave alone to drown in the gutters of our minds eye.
But for now I see and I will be.
I shall stay in the comforting arms of sorrow.
But soon I will accept what is now
And no longer wait for that of age.
Because time does not tell me who I am
For I already know.
Always dreaming of what will become,
Yet only ever feeling it with small hope
And a listless desire to find truth.
I am like the rest.
Torn between what will be and what is now.
Each day passes, slowly whittling our skin
To withstand what will soon become the end.
How can something beyond us all be widely criticized
And its journey blatantly ignored?
I suppose what we can’t understand,
We leave alone to drown in the gutters of our minds eye.
But for now I see and I will be.
I shall stay in the comforting arms of sorrow.
But soon I will accept what is now
And no longer wait for that of age.
Because time does not tell me who I am
For I already know.
Moonlight
Emitting such vivid burnishing through the spaces between linen draperies, catching my attention through the periphery of my vision, I turn my mind to you. Rush through the corridors that lead to that of exalted moral. Why must you mock us with such exempted beauty? You must be growing tired of such a meaningless existence in which your presence is dependent upon. Forgive my petty avowal and understanding of what you are, for my inept social graces limit me so. I know not the depth of your concord with this mass of barbarities; nor do I know my own with them. Defeat your selfish bearing and cast your beacon upon my bed of acorns and unfinished poetry. Once more, play the song I remember from the time you slept beside me, whispering our destiny’s into my ear.
To Vex a Question
The times when I am most afraid is just before night falls. The sun is setting, the day has finished and this inevitable silence begins to prowl throughout the house. Everything seems to change and take shape of a form that is unfamiliar and dull, losing any significance it had just a few hours earlier. Becoming suddenly aware of ever possible sound that comes from the walls, the floor, the breeze that flutters the cotton drapes is incredibly frightening.
All that is left to do is lay beneath the quilts on the bed, staring out the window into the deep blue sky that has swallowed the sun for another night. My thoughts bellowing inside my body as if it has only this one moment to speak to me. Tomorrow seems unimaginable, illusory, a dream that seems to end before it has started. Everything becomes out of reach in a sense that I am no longer burdened with the everyday struggle to be without having to ask. An experience that feels both make-believe and awfully real. Have I gone insane, or just reach a level of true helplessness and vulnerability that even my nightmares become increasingly intriguing.
For now I will forget the mysteries of life and my place in this universe, and retreat to the slumber that takes my frightened hand and guides me to a place where fish walk on land and we have tea parties on tree branches. A place that is marvelous and peaceful, one that feels more real every time I visit.
All that is left to do is lay beneath the quilts on the bed, staring out the window into the deep blue sky that has swallowed the sun for another night. My thoughts bellowing inside my body as if it has only this one moment to speak to me. Tomorrow seems unimaginable, illusory, a dream that seems to end before it has started. Everything becomes out of reach in a sense that I am no longer burdened with the everyday struggle to be without having to ask. An experience that feels both make-believe and awfully real. Have I gone insane, or just reach a level of true helplessness and vulnerability that even my nightmares become increasingly intriguing.
For now I will forget the mysteries of life and my place in this universe, and retreat to the slumber that takes my frightened hand and guides me to a place where fish walk on land and we have tea parties on tree branches. A place that is marvelous and peaceful, one that feels more real every time I visit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)