I never

I never liked reading poetry,

And maybe actually you’re like me, that you never really concentrate too well when it is spoken aloud.

So maybe this is an ode to the times when minor words, minor sentences make more sense than the entire composition

First of all (and this has no bearing on the entire poem):“Rude awakenings are simply rude awakenings”

I don’t really care if you understand

Though I do want you to like it.

That’s a bit of a paradox then.

It’s just like saying: “I want to be liked for not giving a shit about you”

Are you my enemy then?

Should I remember that I’m in a competition to be cared about?

If you are my enemy, then are we afraid of each other?

I leave you to think about that.

It’s really no care of mine that you like what I write about.

Though I do hope you very much like the way it rolls out the tongue.

tonight as we were

Tonight as we were waiting for eating

As we were sitting in the car.

Mind you, we turned off the car engine so as to not waste gas, so as to not waste the ecosystem

We thought and thought of our predicament. Our salty and thirstful taste in our mouths of once again, this thought:

Are we living in wretchedness? The fact of the matter is that we felt stale, worries of tomorrow, filled this car coffin. I press against this gas inducer. I try to find enough work. It’s not hard living, just stuck within the black tar and carpet and stove.

Nothing practical my worker bees said, “you do nothing practical, for today, for tomorrow”

So I ask you, Feel me like I am. All I do is think, and think and think and think…

One thing I have found from thinking, and that is that it leads to questioning. Questioning leads to ideas, ideas to action, action to change and finally, it leads to more thinking .

So does it lead to a life or wretchedness? Yes it very well does. I have no other thing to give to the world than to think of things to think about. I feel wretched. I feel found yes, but it is of no use since it is an impractical way of living.

My solution? I think to think. I’ll die thinking. Thinking I am? No I am not. In fact after this life of mine, whether I make my mark on the world is of no matter. Gone like tomorrow, here like yesterday.

So I thought of dying, and it was beautiful. I thought of living, and it was beautiful too. I thought about falling and flying and grieving and laughing, these things make thy human. No, sex does not beget humanness, it only makes you horny, which is a very good place to be instead.

Beauty then seems to be the only thing we live for. This is the thought I had. Beauty is enough to stop the pain, until obviously; you find beauty in the pain. And it’s enough to stop the boredom, until obviously; you find beauty in the boredom.

god loves the rosy cheeks that met me

Unknowingly she wrote on a train marked for Los Angeles: 13:45 5 of April

god loves the rosy cheeks that met me
god loves that ugliness
yeah, he loves to joke around me
sit, and slap my face.
He also loves me
to the point of giving me everything.
he lives within us
he lives without us
and i wonder why he's everybody.
why the one i kiss
can send me to deepest of hells
why the one in my reflection
well, his name is Zeus and you're just my pawn
we're in Ilium and the best you could be is Achilles
god hates me as well
i know he's plagued me quite a few times
I know of every place, and i know of tornadoes
such a beautiful sight....or so it looks to be
but god is dead....

things haven't changed.

The Rain Puddles a Bus

The rain puddles a bus,
"pull to signal"
and the enormous weight that drowns
my intimidated self
coincides with breathing
of my next seat neighbor.
like blurry lights
while out of focus...

this sounds of exhaust churning,
this smells like a special transport of cigarette smoke filled lungs.
and the over precaution of the time we lose...
just sitting here

here i am, with my twisted self reliance...

talking about a dog I put

On Jul 11 1:10 PM 2009

talking about a dog
I put it in very sweet
i hold a record of not sweating the stuff
fucker could hold me down for milliseconds and not care that i grabbed his whore by the neck
twisted her fingers, and called her a cunt
but his rust induced labored breathing runs through my eyes
and i begin to cough his dirty scent.
no more kicking the kids as they pass by the street
no more idling the cans of beers strewn across the porch
he's old and tired
I tell him, "you got mind to forget you about to die"
as his eyes red, and he holds my neck collar.
i could tell he's hanging on for his dear life
my young eyes see bombs and destruction
his old eyes see burned babies
right between the eyes
but he's stuck the knife in between my belly
i got no sense of right and wrong
he's got no sense of dying.