Tuesday, December 28, 2010


Drawing the molecule
Over and over again
Methamphetamine .
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
Seasonal Affective Disorder.
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

Friday, December 24, 2010


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

Thursday, December 23, 2010


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  

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

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


Tuesday, December 14, 2010


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

Monday, December 13, 2010

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

Monday, December 6, 2010


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