Cure

Drawing the molecule

Over and over again

M-D-M-A.

Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.

Methamphetamine .

Amphetamine.

A hammer-to-anvil sense of the world 

that brought us misery

casting syllables from the bunker of failed civilizations  

Loaded into a pez dispenser, like a clip

Dropping red-eyed, hating bodies into a chemical euphoria

They don’t fire from guns, they don’t explode

we're safe, man.

realizing that justice is another ideal  

rooms of shadowy figures loom overhead

towering specters that cast the spell of words 

with their shrapnel-laden

B-P-S-D.

Schizophrenia.

Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Sociopath.

Sculpted expressions designed to lift themselves up

devastate those who trusted their benign surroundings

Forgetting that; though the ocean is a magical place, taken lightly, you can still drown

I think of those figures in the rolling waves

the far-off oceans  that mountain people imagine

collectively forgetting human worth

Suburbia

Your words fall like meteors from some ominous sky

Hurled airborne by the catapult

Of your immeasurable disgust  

Standing stark and unforgiving as gallows

More than ready to let battle be joined

As am I

more than ready to spread my wings against you

as the dragon of my ire

unleashes the infection into every-fucking-thing

Like all of those loves you put the chainsaw of your words to

Where in the moments of cheap vanity

You chased all of my dreams into a corner of some forgotten playground

& eviscerated them… one-after-another-after-another

In the drone of incessant lawnmowers

The wake of gasoline

As whalers become soldiers

 & their flags fly

At shopping centers

& the counter-culture remains anonymously paralyzed

Marking them like the ignoble scars of circumcision

Ink-stained hands

converting the powerless into copies of some sick perception

gripping them like waking drunks

laughing manically at the permanent wound on their psyche

as the dead become brandished with pride   

This is the hell-

Where they stripped me of my wings

casting me down into this disease of lies

with the imaginative façade that sterilizes everything

the empty space of projected illusions permeating

that irreversible viral load

an ominous reminder that hangs lifelessly

that my wings can grow back

 

Tear

Through the many dimensions

I saw your face in my dreams

I met the damage inflicted upon me

In kind,

Where hurt placated all my thoughts of violence

And I became gangrenous  with the damages of your action

 brought down in in a thick swamp of your cowardice

Enraptured in the tar of your sick world

In boxes, in a cage, entrapped

Where the tainted shroud and mask became everything I had left

as though going through the motions remains everything  

As time passes, I see you for what you are

Recalling through the many verses

The vacant words

The vacant look of your treachery

Packaged up in the same boxes that I placed my eviscerated eye

those same boxes reused as refuge

where you have hidden for so long.

the world is filled with sick, disfigured animals

because of creatures like you  

where you cast me into the infected

corruption bathing my heart for years

I am of pestilence

As I ride half blind into the dark

The single tear you shed will never be enough.

A sick compensation,

For an attempt to bring light to this dark place

A tear in the ӕther that nothing can repair  

Los Amsterdam

I am sick

Sick of them showing up in white blouses

White slacks,

And their pale Dutch skin

Making the world that we are a part of

Look like the fourth circle

It is what it is

It’ll be what it’ll be

I have seen the canals first-hand

In that land beneath the sea

At it’s core it is brilliant

beyond robotic and the same

the organic breathing life

that takes away our mundane

across the six dimensions

this schizophrenic town

burns as a cauldron on the hearts of everyone

and every dream 

we are the exploding volcano

we are the breathing ire

in this dragon city

that stands burning at the pyre

lily pads and mushrooms

brown bricks in the rain

the hookers walk in daylight

the macabre becomes plain

art becomes the royal business

of the queens domain

enthroned on the kingdom of fungi

textiles of our fleeting woven world

It is what it is

It’ll be what it’ll be

I have seen the canals first-hand

In that land beneath the sea

With the stale headlights that stare

The wyrm runs on forever

into the forgotten life that rots

the tangled dance of the commercially clever

the lives fall in ashes

skies that never rain

the frame burst into wildfires

and the world becomes the same

we are the exploding volcano

we are the breathing ire

in this dragon city

that stands burning at the pyre

I am sick, sick of their cheap words 

Posing as if they had ever struggled

 tormented souls falling as trash

 on golden roads where dreams have crawled 

to die.    

It’ll be what it’ll be

 As we are the breathing ire

In that land beneath the sea

that stands burning at the pyre

   

Phantom

They are the roaches

Or something akin to it

We convert them into; with our piety

I saw a phantom

A thin specter of the friend I grew up with

And felt the hurt, of his body

You fell as the walking dead

the drug put you between both worlds

It feels more and more like your there

I don’t know what Aichmophobia really means

never believe in hierarchy

because of our mutual footing, I call you brother

of nature

On the far side of the river

As the sun falls in the sky

I seek to know your process

And the shimmer of your eye

The dirge of our lives

Sung low when we die

The flowers of our being

string we’re seeking to untie

Plain as vile vectors

infect us with their words

the venom of this existence

taking flight as dark birds

As a rising, flowing, rift

That dissects us into thirds

We dreamt of greater things,

Than a lifetime made of words

Recurring so repeatedly

The cycle is so small

Repetition of the inadequate

With emphasis in the scrawl

They’ll devastate us surely

we must construct a wall

to hide away their ignorance

from the fragility of it all

corruption is so deft

seeking not souls, nor desires

our people’s world burns

in any type of fire 

the stones of the fortresses

powered by casual liars

placing some strange value

with a fear they mask as pyres

we must pick our heads up

be kind to them again

lashing it all together

with the might of our chain

that binds the flowing ӕther

seeking hopefully to obtain

 we are as the running river

 we are the falling rain

Cell

palms towering overhead as bars  

they vanish into the crimson sheet

the sun dies out beyond the ocean

city lights plastered over the stars

snow crunches beneath bare feet

deft little steps that lead us home

I peel the wallpaper from my heart

to repaint the walls in fresh hope

claws that sift through loose earth

searching for blessings buried in the past

losing these things is their synthesis

permitting the volta of which they came

I wish so many things were different

Blooming into colors that carried no connotation

A semblance of déjà vu that lingers

In the ketamine whispers of your mind

Eternity’s haunting embrace enshrouding

Compartmentalized into distraught ideals

The hyper-snap of shattering lights

A jagged wake of phosphorescent glass remains

Though Stripped of the necessary tools

I think of it in the rolling waves

Like the glass and steel cages

coming to mind when contemplating freedom

Infantile

There was a time in my memory

That holds no weight

Battles were waged with purpose

Claymores rose and fell into crimson rivers of carnage

Those days have died

And we have fallen grey

In the incessant evening

It was a memory that I was never a part of

Cars rolling along aimlessly

Some of them with their lights illuminating the road

…Many more without

ambiguity remains dissolved in constant smog

Exhaust seeps into the cracks of every fortress ever constructed

And they stand as ominous figures upon castles of paper

Claiming each was a paradise scribbled in ink

Carrion-eaters refuse to gyre in the sky

Preferring to indistinctly saunter in our circles

Waiting for the mistake to fall like freezing rain

The excuse that they cower behind

in black-on-white automobiles that illuminate the already lit world

in the haze of flashing blue

willingly, they all lack headlights

outward exerting a blatant exhibition for the inner, vacant core

waxen molds whose hands gesture wildly

if only anything could grasp the matte in their frozen eyes

they could not understand the voltage

that can be expressed in the moist caves that man inhabits

as they wander incessantly

for a place called “home”

Hope in low-doses

In front of the spraypaint counter

someone from my old life

called by my vandalicious

As I buy fuchsia in low-pressure cans

barter about the difference between German and Spanish

because I have no idea 

Remembering my clock that hangs with pride

the keepers of my pieces held in high esteem

musing  about  faces plastered all over paper

the arts college falls under bureaucracy’s dissection 

the cats that fought so hard

can never be euthanized  

“you have no idea the impact you had.” He said.

“I did my best.”  

Molten

The pomegranates split open

Anticipating the coming rain

your soft eyes smooth razors into river stones

the words overexerted, as juveniles of masterful predators   

molting zealous carapaces, carried for far too long 

still fragile, cautiously inflating their wings

the morning’s lustful bite

taking away the fangs we were born with

treasured, if only for an instant

an iron core eroding in fragments of confetti

scattered in the wind over jagged terrain

where we will soar in time

as the molten begins to shed

condensing into an alloy of sorts

that knows of no limitations

Race

She learned to play piano

through two sad creeks that bled mascara

bought a djembe with drug money

& tapped at it with her fingers

emulating the strokes

she once hated.

Evacuated the anger of her forgotten dreams

Into the spotted skin of a zebu

where every circle took flight with ire

landing gently in a meadow of bass.

another piece of mismatched furniture

in the same garden

where her artwork

died under the Brugmansia

eaten by a fungus that never fruits.

in a warehouse she dances as a phantom

elegantly weaving the invisible

through lights & noise

electronic drums removing all human error

contemplating the imperfections

of her own helix.

a clock that is kept as a reminder

the disease inherited from man. 

Synchronize

Treating the world like it could burst into flames

at any conceivable occasion

I was there, to watch, to stand

As your ambassador and liaison

you arsonist and child of treachery

fought as a warrior without a banner

I became that serpentine flag

And grew within you as a cancer

rotted out your flesh and bones

brought you to a knee

they have all forgotten your face

it is my eyes that they see

though you were torn

it was nothing like the shredding you have done

in the battlefield of naked corpses

what was it that you won?

You rode the horse of pestilence

Dark into the dream

Where similar creatures awaited  

to open your inner seam

you pushed them down deftly

under a mighty claw

and ignited them in the flames

from a well-trained jaw

but between your scales

there was an ache

a frost was seeping in

something there for me to wake

so that we may live again

the torment you have suffered, the ire you’ve released

could never be equal to myself

though I can be appeased

and you set fire to your realm

dependent on my love

that simple force you could not overwhelm

plainly how to make you undone.

So what then, when all your glory fades

Upon the return to your forest

Where none speak of sharp blades

Their songs enchant your carapace

They ignite the passion of your mind

And fill you with a reason to be

Something that you return in kind

Because they need you to see

And they need something akin

To last for many more years

To forget what you have suffered

And devour all their fears

where the trees will still call to you

and speak your given name

where you are needed most

in this world you must reclaim

old friend I am here for you

and have grown thick inside your mind

we will be forever changed

to remain still undefined.

Raptor

The falcon-faced woman

Digs tiger pits

To trap the unsuspecting

Winning them over and pulling them under

With Jammed sentences

As though-

The two people inside her

Are trying to speak simultaneously

Always interrupting one another

…and everyone else

She whips her feathers

All over the room

Stirring up little vortices

To bear her beak out at the gray world

Screeching about hidden powers

Secret colors,

And other powerful birds of prey

Flapping her mighty wings

Into the frenzied storm

Against the grain of consumer culture

As lightning cracks

Through their hearts

Raptors turn hard wings to the cold

As the doors open they take flight

C/1995 O1

The comet ignites

Into a fantastical blue

In the presence of 

the release of

pure energy

Then vanishes
to who-knows-where

in the frozen dark

becoming forgotten

its power is such that

People are willing to

End their existence

Seeking to be

A part of it

siren

Sad creatures

slink

out of her

 broken

empty dreams

weights that trail behind

fraying out

the organized life-

my friend

since when do you

listen to the voices

in the heads of others

since when did

hurt

become all that you knew

since when did your

voice

become so quiet.

Ode of patience

I suppose I should say thank you

Something gracious, something huge

Fantastical, beautiful, glorious and new

But you did nothing that was not already there

Enjambment of my words as we spoke manically

we are both of the kind that likes to share

perhaps I was not thinking, or had nothing there to say

to someone so vastly superior

that, randomly, gave me the time of day

and look what we have become, and I wouldn’t call us friends

perhaps something more, or less?..

ill figure it out in the end

but on this day, the adrenaline courses where I stand

patiently you have taught me a great many things

and for it I am a better man

  

Orchids and Oysters

Crushing clams under the tremendous bite

Because they are each so distinct

And for whatever reason,

seems to remember them individually

Unlike the days

pissed away in drugs and excess

hedonism dancing thorough life

leaving a tracer of chemicals

that glistens as the ribbon

on the gift of something cheap and disposable

the life of an orchid

made friends with a cactus

leeched life from everything for decades

surviving on nothing

and vapid expectations

manipulating the ants

guarding its flowers

the only worthwhile thing

as we all synch up

and I shout at you in all of my dreams

because I want to wake up where you are

fuck you like you deserve

as there is only one thing that orchids can do really well.

Aside from holding on

Pick out the pearls

taste the ocean

And carelessly flick their shells like coins

Because what I value,

already became a part of me

as somewhere in a dense jungle awaits

the colors of a flower

I have never been able to fully recognize

that shirks me as a disease

with an allergy to shellfish    

Gargoyle

Grinding in the rusted old gears

When they snap into release

machine lurching forward

Igniting the innermost  caprice

To extinguish all those forgotten tears

As we appropriate the meshing inner accord

Surely it can Fuse into something

More or less what’s calling

Though it’s not what I was hunting

 With this deficient prize I can easily afford

The lights fled outwardly sprawling

For the decadent dance

of the phantom

in their absent trance

their dreams remained falling

although their hands traversed the chasm

their human form spelled ire

in the tide of exhaust

the gargoyles upon the pyre  

vapid voyeur s enraptured in tantrum

where the currency of the day is the accost

the rabid mind will have to rely

hoping  that more appears

behind the fantastical wandering eye

the fourth dimension of where our lives crossed

the frost

The footing  traversed

Deep within those frosted canyons

I carried each stone; one-at-a-time

Where I built as a castle

And lost in the blowing snow

infinite self-reliance

may be impervious to the cold

But not to the depravation of poor decisions

The echoes of a wolf’s teeth

Will never sting as much

lingering ache of the frozen iron

the harpoons I taught you how to make

Lies

Nothing seems to get loud enough

In the filth of this sphere

The songs of more adjusted people

Whine away their air time
as quickly as they can

failure seeps into the fractures of my glass heart

-Because the arson of you actions turned everything to ash

Drowning out all the creativity

That was tediously set up like the countless dominoes

Loving each ounce of energy that dissolves in that repetitive sound

"Why yes, we’re friends."

friends in the way that a clear-cut forest regrows.

We are friends.

-in the way that we heal but never forget

As the treble of your distraught voice

screaming out against the rising desert sun
that instills the schism 

where my diligence burned the sky

scorches the earth

bringing the darkness asunder in coils of hate

-to the effect that, I followed the trail of feathers

to where that ethereal creature carried our bird

After some kind of forced seduction-

And found nothing but death

-the truth is; I hated it

 with pride and shame

from behind the mutual mask we have shared

in the dark rooms where the phantoms dance without restraint

where perceived evil is the masquerade

hiding an utterly malevolent psyche

-because I want someone that has burned inside as I have

Who knows the power of their own hands

And is not afraid of exercising the might of their heart

-because I thirst for it more than anything

But cannot make the first step in any direction

As she has fallen barren and is not sustainable without

Fame. and wealth. and power. 

Clawing at herself telling everyone to let her out

-what I mean is that the apathy is suffocating

a void that cannot sustain or collapse

And reverts into the lithopedion that it began as

Nothing can be the same

people put an end to the charade

                -to the effect that I am sick of being surrounded by disease

As they play up their self-worth believing that they have anything like what you and I had

                -what I mean, is that I miss aspects of everything but would never want any of them back 
taking solace in the ability to more through the dark the future gets brighter and brighter in the setting sun 

One-thousand Words (or Less)

There is not enough room on this page

For any institution, anywhere

To judge me in 1000 words or less.

One thousand words is simply not enough

Wouldn’t you like a photograph instead?

Would you like me to preform fellatio?

Perhaps you would like burlap sacks with dollar signs on them?

I could be eviscerated in front of you

In white lab coats and hard hats

judge me like a piece of meat

Mark me up like the hanging carcasses in a slaughterhouse

As we ponder which cuts are ‘prime’

Should I tell you about poverty?

Should I tell you about fame?

I can tell you about injustice, and how I have overcome it

How someone crawled out of Chino California

Picked up a pen

And rewrote their own future.  

Honestly, I’m terrible on a horse

But excellent on a tractor.

I can tell you all about the macabre Los Angeles Streets

How the ‘lowbrow’ artists scratch together their lives

For that moment that culminates

After hundreds upon hundreds of hours of work

So that strangers can stand, awkwardly, before their struggle and announce:

“I don’t get it.”

I could tell you all about Raymond Burr’s orchids

The amazing international musicians I have met

The Incredible Street artists who willingly sacrifice everything

to make their world marginally less gray.

I could tell you about friendship

And what it is like to know mediocre is not good enough

In the eyes of people that love you   

unequivocally I return their sentiments

Who have lent a strong hand

to pull me out of the depths of myself

more times than I care to admit.

Perhaps you are interested in philosophy,

we could share a Jungian discourse like a sundae.  

Or get really chummy over a glass of scotch

 And talk about ‘other things’ in ‘other times’

as though I care about the prestige more

than I care about the adventure.

Let’s talk of æther

The substance between us the ancients called ‘upper sky’

And why my self-reliance permeates everything and

everyone I come into contact with

I could tell you all about that fluorescent pink substance

That I have learned to weave as the fabric of everything and everyone

That my life comes into contact with

And how you’ll see it flow all over the place, 

if, I were standing in front of you.

I don’t like talking to people if I cannot see their eyes

Because I live to see character within people’s eyes

Perhaps more than anything

give me a fucking chance

And you’ll see what I mean.