there is this old man, right. and his wife passes away and he can’t get over the grief of her
death so takes her cremated ashes and puts them inside of a mason jar and he takes that
thing with him everywhere he goes, except the fact that he never really goes much of
anywhere. he just sits around the house with the mason jar beside him on the couch
and he watches repeat episodes of the price is right and let’s make a deal and wheel
of fortune and just game shows all day long and his eyes twinkle at the success of the
people on the television screen and he turns to his wife’s ashes and he says “oh my lord, helen – did you see that? that man just won 50,000 big ones.” and helen, of course, says
nothing, because she is just a mason jar but not the way our old man sees it. he sees this as his only opportunity to hold onto the love of his life. the best way he can keep her alive without actually keeping her alive and god damnit, there’s not always something out there that you have to go seek out and find. yes, it’s important to meet people and see new places and gain new experiences but every single minute of this life is a new experience and sometimes you just find one you like, and sometimes that one that you like is the one where you and your loved one sit on the couch and watch game shows together. and after 50 years of that, that is the only life you need. that simplistic idea of home and safety, those paintings on the wall collecting dust and that water stain on the ceiling that’s been there forever are what you’ve made and that person you are with is the one that you give to. that’s fine. be like the old man. build a boat from scratch and then sail it until it gives out. no one ever talks about laughter at a funeral but it does exist. it should exist. this is all just a glimpse at what could happen and it passes so fucking fast so you have to take a minute to look around and see where you’re at and when you are and maybe who you are if you can swing the time but it moves fast and it’s all about saying goodbye to things and sometimes doing what you can so that you don’t have to say goodbye.
and today is the first day I ever walked out the door
not for bread, not for eggs but for the hot hot mess of humanity on the other side
I walk slowly down the sidewalk but really I’m ramming my tongue down her throat
and then a careful glance where your black holes stare straight on into her black holes
and amongst each other’s galaxies you feel meaningful
you are the most significant speck of dust on the dashboard
and rumor has it your hands your arms can reach anywhere in the world but all I do is ask her if she wants to go lay down in her bed
and she says yes yes of course hallelujah and
and I put my outstretched arm around as the other one goes to the store to get some breads, get some eggs and I breathe as if air was free and oxygen limitless
her hair was wild
it is now tamed
seeking refuge from
a long life
in the sanctuary
of a black bandana
her eyes sunken in
like great ships
in the starry night
beneath her eyebrows
slowly through time
her wrinkles have
formed like drylands
under the salt water crusades
of lovers above her
onward to other women
and down the stairs
six feet beneath the
there is no symmetry
left to her face
there is no falsity
of give and take
of war and peace
just the residue
of what lost
and what was won
at the artist
like she is staring
like she stares out
into the great void
that hovers over her
the great void
that comes whistling
out of her teapot
the great void
not only the old woman
but the artist as well
he does not know
that when he stares out
at the old woman of arles
that he stares into
does he know
how to paint
WE HAVE WHAT IT IS YOU MOST VALUE.
AND WE ARE NOT GOING TO GIVE IT BACK TO YOU EASY.
WE WANT YOUR EVERYTHING:
YOUR BED AND BREAKFAST
YOUR WIFE AND KIDS
YOUR DRIVEWAY AND YOUR CAR
YOUR GOOGLE SEARCH HISTORY
YOUR BLACK BOX OF SECRETS
YOUR IMAGINARY PHOBIAS
YOUR VERY REAL PHOBIAS
WE ALSO REQUEST THAT YOU DELIVER
40 HOURS A WEEK OF YOUR LIFE
FOR 50 YEARS OF YOUR LIFE
IN SMALL BILLS
IN A METAL SUITCASE
TO THE INTERSECTION OF REALITY RD.
AND DREAM DRIVE
BY 0900 HOURS
ON YOUR SON’S
WE WILL NOT COMPLY
WITH COUNTER OFFERS.
IF YOU WANT MORE
WE WILL BE TAKING MORE.
THIS IS NOT A GAME.
THIS IS THE GAME.
THIS IS NOT YOU VERSUS US.
THIS IS NOT A WAR.
THIS IS A MASSACRE
AND WE HOLD ALL THE GUNS
AND YOU HOLD WHAT FITS BETWEEN
YOUR PRAYING HANDS.
THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL.
YOU MUST DO AS WE SAY
OR THINGS ARE NOT
GOING TO BE PRETTY FOR YOU.
WE KNOW HOW TO STARVE YOU.
WE KNOW HOW TO CUT OF YOUR
ELECTRICITY: BOTH INTERNAL
WE KNOW HOW TO SEDUCE YOU
AND THEN NOT GIVE YOU
WHAT WE PROMISED.
WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.
WE HOPE THAT WE HAVE BEEN CLEAR.
IF WE HAVE LEFT YOU WITH ANY CONFUSION
DO NOT WORRY.
WE WILL BE RAMMING THIS DOWN YOUR THROAT
THROUGH CEREAL BOX PROPAGANDA
AND SCHIZOPHRENIC POSTCARDS
FLASHING SCREENS OF LIGHT
AND JUMBOTRONS OF ANAPHYLACTIC APOCOLYPSE
UNTIL YOUR LAST BREATH.
UNLESS YOU CHOOSE
TO MEET OUR DEMANDS.
WE LOOK FORWARD TO
YOUR PROMPT RESPONSE
it’s the return of the millenial landmineheaded boy poet
the child prodigy who can’t see the whiteboard from the back of the classroom
the rampaging aging bamboo tree that is thankful for the water it is given
and that is about all that it needs
quill and ink and scroll
hand takes the wheel and the rubber hits the asphalt
as the glove hits the face and the knuckles hit the teeth
and they’re off pulling into the lead the inevitable truth of the brushstroke
he used the same damn toothbrush for so long until he got lucky
and he could afford a new one and he didn’t throw away the old one
he used it as a hodgepodge ghetto ass painting instrument
to flick the colors on the canvas with a lack of control
that ensured that he could never ever ever feel comfortable
taking credit for what he had done
any pieces of gold that got mixed in with the offbrand cereal vomit
was just luck
but he doesn’t believe in luck
and things are getting really confusing
but one thing is for certain
the little wooden horses are circling the little wooden track
and place your bets now, bukowski
because this dented up rocket ship is trying to fly
antigravity words pushing through blackholes
and coming out floating amongst the cosmos of the twittersphere
(a flower grows
in post-apocalyptic america
and it wants you to know
singing to a flower
will always help it
and the weatherman says
flash flooding expected in the west
wear a coat
do not drown
you look into the camera
like a deer in headlights
your eyes shine bright and lucid
your skin looks as soft as lonely madness
your breasts come together
like strangers making a drug deal
in central park
like this reminder that if you had nothing
you would still have this body
these fiery cheeks
this smile like old film actresses
but behind that glimmer in your eyes
behind your shark white smile
there is something dead
from some nuclear explosion
and i don’t know what it was
but i know it is there
and all the guys lining up down the block
think they’re the Hiroshima boy
to your Nagasaki baby
i just wanted to take a second to say
that i haven’t been posting online for
a few months, really.
i was spending all my free time on the computer
and it was eating away at me
i think i’m back.
i know from time to time
i get on here
i post a new piece
and then i disappear again.
i’m gonna try to not do that again.
i get a lot out of posting.
i can’t promise it’ll be poetry.
i can’t promise it will be good
but i will do the best i can
to keep it coming.
whatever it is.
it could be anything really
a commentary on post-capitalism
and the cyclical nature of society.
it might be a just-waxed red hot rod.
it might be a video of me performing
beethoven’s fifth symphony
impromptu on an out-of-tune harmonica
while under the influence
of twelve and a half pounds
of pure mexican black tar heroine.
i guess mostly
i’m just saying sorry for the poor communication
but i’m back.
in some weird way where i’m still afraid to commit
but i’ve found that running away from the blog
isn’t gonna fix the problems i had with it
so i’m ready for battle
got my warpaint on
and a whiskey bottle full
of adrenaline and testosterone
so bring it on, bitches.
is it a crime to be a wallflower? am i not allowed to sit and listen to the wallpaper listening to me? must my name be known? other people isn’t always the answer to a bad case of lonely. i can breathe with my mouth shut. my ears open like a great gramophone to the everything we are. we are we are. great big clouds melting and billowing and motioning omniscently across the sky. try and grab us and we disappear. i do not need my name 13 stories high over a grand old theater because every time i look up at the stars, i see my name in lights. i sway like a pendulum on a great grandfather clock. i sway like a dvd menu loop. like the electronic waves in a cheesy youtube meditation video. let me be. i let you be. do not grab me by the neck and throw me into the mosh pit. do not push me. i push myself. i pull myself. i water my kneecaps, i turn my palms up to the sun and wait patiently. an ancient dying man sitting at a closed down bus stop. desert dust and broken bottles of old granddad. let me be. please just let me be.