Ghost Land

I can see what you have closed your eyes to.
This town is a ghost land. Souls wanting life again.
At night you rest your empty minds full of broken dreams.
I won't play any part in this plot to pretend.
The summer breeze breathes past memories
that this mind has yet to let me lose.
Anamnesis of a thesis of ties to this town
and all the imagined that they had implied.
But the recognition has long since faded from my eyes.
And before I know it, a quarter of a century is gone.
There is truly only one motive constant to emote,
that tomorrow I will surely still feel the same.
This town is not Eden, and I won't settle for anything less.

Here and there I see a flicker, and catch a glimpse.
That almost abandoned rage begins to surge anew,
and I grasp the need of smashing something dear,
breaking the sincere, uprooting and fleeing here.
This town is not Eden, and I see it's nowhere near.

If what I now know was then known, I would have walked away.
I frightened those too afraid to think their own,
worried those who could not go without, and pushed away
every thought of thoughtless care of a non-contender.
I wrought the dark, and kept to and crept in corners
and slept in a candid town of the spirited dead.
The lamp posts spark and ignite the city lights
and engulf the road so that my way becomes clear.
Spectres walk the city streets hand in hand.
This town is a ghost land. It has no life left to live.
This town is not Eden, and I won't settle for anything less.

Red Carpet Massacre

The red carpet is a view to a kill
of thrills and spills at the awards,
one gigantic movie star dart board,
on my headphones I hear Duran Duran,
and inside my head I hatch a plan,
I know what'll make this interesting:
a bit of automatic lead protesting,
pumping round for round through the air
aimed at actresses with bleached hair,
the millionaires, the Prince of Bel Air,
pop stars, teen idols, I go homicidal,
the hip-hoppers and Hollister shoppers,
using teeney-boppers as bullet stoppers,
the TV reporters, the Disney supporters,
it's family-friendly televised homicide
and all brutally broadcasted worldwide,
a happy massacre on the blood red trail,
a carpet that leads straight down to Hell.

"Dance into the fire."

O, Arcturo

O, Once Great Arcturo,
take us under your existence,
All August Arcturo,
we hark a hound of distance,
and sleep 'neath split verses.

O, Unremembered Arcturo,
take us into the dead expanse,
Our Atrocious Arcturo,
let us mutter a spark advance
and come alive to intersperse.

Of our kind offerings
we become all consuming hate,
Of a righteous offering
we become a fury to uncreate
that we shall carriage down.

Of tempting offerings
a cosmos pas' time to expire,
Of dreamt other things,
this macrocosm of feeding fire
tho' we shall spark to drown.

O, Unremembered Arcturo,
take us into the dead expanse,
Our Atrocious Arcturo,
let us mutter a spark advance
and come alive to intersperse.

O, Once Great Arcturo,
take us under your existence,
All August Arcturo,
we hark a hound of distance,
and sleep 'neath split verses.

Brisk Motions

We teem with brisk motions and fill
full to the brim of null notions
that pull or kill any sense at all
to recall missed emotions now dull.

We deem those undoing with a doubt
and a curse in spite very necessary
to a cause about to take the night
from worse men that we might bury.

We seem to stand still in assurance
and a word could kill unless banned
in the third world that we assure you
can dance for less reason than you do.

We teem with brisk motions and fill
full to the brim of null notions
that pull or kill any sense at all
to recall missed emotions now dull.

The Source (revised)

Slipping dread and awe and undoing
each thought, each measure reviewing
until the placement of your doubt
slips and leaves you with no way out,
fallacy and fright plague the present
until you condone time not well spent,
until envy and disease become words
and anyone, anything else preferred,
silence, then, takes its own course
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...
wasn't it?

You cut down man with your tongue
by justifying facts others have sung,
you slip a speak never harsh to break,
but a force of habit is now at stake,
you open wide letting loose the tide
to cause a rift to ensure we divide
and walk ways away without a word
which was always what you preferred,
silence and satisfaction, no remorse,
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...
wasn't it?

That was always you...
wasn't it?

Halfway between Alaska and oblivion

I see the sea as a blanket field of red ruby and blue sapphire armies, oceans of men that consume each other. The entire view sky rests within your eyes, and your hands conduct only an empty stage. Pass the toast of wine and pour into the streets. You are the conductor because you built a house on sand and set this ship in motion. Keep asking all the wrong questions. No one lied to you more than yourself. This city is on the brink, delaying its time before it sinks beneath the dark and the murk of decay. Now the hand connects to the heart halfway between Alaska and oblivion and there is no longer any accountability in this city. You kept all of the promises you never made. If this ship ran ashore, we would never even notice. We are too busy calculating the wind and mapping the currents and raising the sails and being overcautious and overzealous for calm waters and too damn stubborn to smash though the hull. None of this will matter or make a difference if we never hoist the anchor holding us here. We are just dead weight in sunset in Salt City. It is time we take drastic action. Let's be dramatic. Let's engage mutiny. Let's jump ship.


Or, let's clock in. Let's do lunch. Let's forget I said anything…
halfway between Alaska and oblivion.

Walkaway

I open doors decorated in stained-glass windows and brass finish;
stone archways over hallways that always meet in the middle;
walkways that last only as long as the center allows them to be.
I open doors that are never locked and never have a reason to be,
and I walk hallways that always end but never meet at stained-glass windows.

The Map

Passed down through the days,
the map was now far beyond
moth-eaten
and archaic.

You creased it closed
with folds
instead,
and it caused
some of the smaller roads
to disappear beneath the lines.

Those were the ones
you chose to travel,
when I wasn't looking,
because you knew
I could never follow.

And maybe that was
even the reason
why you folded
instead.

Scrawl

Each scrawled line I write
is my testament and descent
into these darker shades of red.

I could contest the fact
or accept the truth,
but nothing will bring me peace.

A third solution
would be my reparation
with your pretty, little head
mounted on my wall.

But that's just wishful thinking,
I suppose.

Time (III)

I can see
that you're still doing just fine,
or so you think to yourself,
which may be a crime.
And as the cycle approaches nine,
all that's left is time.
I can see
you still color inside the lines,
and you still take time
for others' lives. Just not mine.
Not last time, not this time.
No, never mine.
But that's not a crime.
Just out of place

and out of line.

No Virtuoso

Sometimes
I just sit
and ponder
in absolute
amazement
at how completely
fucking
brilliant
I really am.
But every time,
after several minutes
and without fail,
I begin to realize
that I am actually
quite moderate.
I remember that
I am no virtuoso
and that you
half-baked sows
are all just
out to lunch.
Very
fucking
out to lunch.

Letter Y

Two years I've held my breath, with two times the effort you put forth. Two words and you walked away. So breathe, because today's the day that I make you pay. I've written it all down for you, so you'll see it coming. But regardless, you'll never escape your unbecoming. I will end you here today. Today's the day you have last words to say, since you'll never see tomorrow anyway. Today's the day. Two years I've held my breath, with two times the effort you ever gave. Today's the day I finally exhale and dig you a shallow grave. And to be perfectly honest, it no longer matters why. Hush, my dear, please don't cry. It's just that today's the day you die. Today I give you two goodbyes, one for each year, and one more goodbye for each you're not here. I'll never see your face on other faces, or remember us ever going places. I'll make every little detail untrue. I'll never remember you. Today's the day. Today's the day I leave you instead. Two more minutes and you'll be dead. Today's the day, after all you said, that I leave you for fucking dead. Hush, my dear, please don't cry. Say goodbye, because today you die.

Letter X

There's no more Seattle, so the rain comes here instead. No hope for tomorrow, and none for today. And there's no more Seattle because you only lied when you said there's hope for tomorrow, and hope for today. In a past now forgotten, you had drawn a visage of villainy in your kin. It grew like a sickness and spread. In a past never begot, yet foregone, a nightmare of memories once been had birthed a persuasion in my head. Now we've grown tired, withered and old. You've grown weary of vindictive remarks, and I can't escape my staggering failure. Now I've grown tired, bitter and cold, and so frustrated since we never embarked that my dreams implode without closure. So many years ago, when we were young, you had self-centered, selfish suggestions and petty, little plans all from the start. So many years ago, it should have stayed undone, and my dear two years, there's no question, ruin began to grow in your gold brick heart. Now there's no more Seattle, so the rain comes here instead, no hope for tomorrow, and none for today. And there's no more Seattle because you only lied when you said there's hope for tomorrow, and hope for today.

The Ship of Theseus

Replace the plugs,
refasten the bolts,
I will do my homework,
take the tests
and grow from a boy into a man,
meet new people,
change the oil,
buy new tires and watch TV,
I will get a job and vote for mayor,
change the wipers and fix the A/C,
and as the years pass on by
you will begin to see
that I am no longer the person
you once knew me to be.

If I am Angra Mainyu

Not far from Ahura,
upside down
and written in contempt and disgust,
he, equal
in opportune
and all things unequaled,
became the stranger
and the libertine
and the boor
and the varlet to a throne
in the mind
of a sunset head-storm.

Ahriman dwelled
with Auramazdā in passing,
though no two homes alike,
each was the same.

Now encased
and ending on a prophecy
he read to himself,
the dusk ushered
the night
and second sight,
well-founded,
found the brothers
as conquerors
of it all.

If I am Angra Mainyu,
then he must surely be
Ahura Mazda.

Swell

Quite possibly
the most acute,
overbearing,
and morally
ambiguous desires
are everything
so unfounded,
and
utterly
barren.

Golden Boy

For the inglorious, and valueless,
and baseless, and the easily blamable
there is absolutely nothing worthy,
nor engaging, nor rational,
nor left, at all.

Time (II)

The inapt and noxious obligation
in the matter is slightly
more inconvenient than its first
effect.

1:08

It's 1:08
in the early Monday morning
and I can see the raccoons
behind the cigar smoke
one by one
on their way to my trash can
that I'm sure is laying wide open
like a fruitful cornucopia
from the strong storm
some hours before.

I finish the fourth beer
and feel a sense of relief
that perhaps
I finished something I started today.

Buzzed,
and Bukowski's breath grips me tight
and he digs his fingernails
deep into my skull
and I just can't bring myself
to fall asleep,
deceiving myself into believing
the prolonging of rest will
stand time still.

Then I begin to realize
I haven't finished anything
at all.

I think I'll have
another beer.

Crestfallen Confession

Can I slowly abide and remain ever-so-hesitant
and rest the expansive silence to circumvent?
Can my crazy confession calmly wait and adjourn
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?

I sleep and see myself falling with the stars
and awake to this novel world where you are.
I used to think I could grow old and gray
in a contemporary life that could slip away.

Can I slowly abide and remain in my intent
and rest the ending silence to circumvent?
Can my crestfallen song calmly wait by concern
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?

I lived many lives in only a matter of years
in a tasteless manner that left none to fear.
Therein lies my own one true sin to obscure
and words on this paper you burn are a cure.

Can I slowly abide and remain without consent
and rest the reaching silence to circumvent?
Can my crazy confession simply wait to yearn
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?
Will it be written and thrown away to burn?

Father and Son

We were young then - when it all came down,
when worries were far from our minds,
and the morning sun called us out to play
in untouched fields and fresh water ponds.

Our father was gentle then - when he loved us
most, and he didn't care more for his job
than he did for us, and when he trusted
our decisions whole-heartedly above all else.

But he became afraid then - when it seemed
we were growing older and preparing to stand
all on our own, and we asked for independence
that any son who becomes a man would wish.

Then the old man became angry - when we
needed him most, and the family was torn
apart in a feeble quarrel that split us up,
and sent us into the new world all alone.

The Source

Slipping dread and awe and undoing
each thought, each measure reviewing
until the placement of your doubt
slips and leaves you with no way out,
fallacy and fright plague the present
until you condone time not well spent,
until envy and disease become words
and anyone, anything else preferred,
silence, then, takes its own course
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...

wasn't it?

The Wicked King Wicker

A mongrel's coarse tongue spoke laws
to relinquish the man of his own flaw,
to commission events in Pelham Bay,
to set forth a course he would obey.

Sam's son shouted at Queens thrice,
and once in Columbia spoken concise.

The bloodied Bronx brought two more,
and four finally fell but not before
the Twenty Two of Hell would write:
"For now I say goodbye and goodnight."

The Duke of Burgundy

Surely I could have been ceaseless
and unending in the beginning,
with ever none the wiser;

And slept the days away,
using my instar to establish
seeds of doubt in secrecy;

And kept other cats at bay
with the aid of air and brush
until the realization of exodus;

Surely the nefarious and miscreant
would then shudder at sight
of the great Duke of Burgundy.

Luna

I sifted through the tinsel and the sand
with an ever-argentine and vespertine zest,
we played as children near the uniform monolith,
an obelisk for every star
lined the extending open sky.

Celestial oceans slept ashore
and ash fell from the wound
that never healed.

And yet, the tide
was featureless.

We ran through basins and mare basalt
until we reached the highlands,
and played cops and robbers in craters.

The Earth seemed so big,
when we were small.

We were still too close.

The imposing pearl in your view
is just one leap and one eclipse
from leaving you.

The moon seems so bright tonight.