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.

武田氏

Billowing smoke peels

from the place you called home

Running mascara plays out

the predictable storyline

Each empty promise, a landmine

that you stupidly plodded over

 to hear from some imperial parchment

Imagining what your bloodline

means to a virus

The rolling hills burn

in the reflection

of your tear-laden eye

Under the waves where

your gods cannot swim

Within the divine wind

that blows glitter in your face

always pronounced

in the secondary language 

through the embers

the tendrils of influence

bloom like the hand-grenades

that devastated your pitiful artistic license

…and those who swore to protect

fell like flittering prayers

carried off by the vacant breath

tell me of your black diamonds

the excavation of your known depths

in which I learned to saunter

like the dark megatropolis   

because the black kites of your originality

were copied, thoughtlessly

I shattered your mask

with the same wrecking ball

cowards pushed you out for

and you know to tighten your abs

because it will never be

as vulnerable as your sloppy candy

tell me of bushido, of the way

how honor trumps brutality

it cannot stop the assassins

that linger in my mind

 

1r

I saw you still as the tide came rising

Waved your hand at it like it was not there

As if the sprawl could keep us hiding

Looking into the maelstrom with a fearless stare

 the urban coral thrives in the concrete wake 

Under the stale gaze that statues recall

the beautiful things we’ve struggled to make

against this canvas that has made us so small  

as you plant the polyps one-by-one

anchoring transformations that all undergo

how the reef struggles to bloom in the sun

and the effort it takes to let the barrier grow

the supremacy of your wry leer

propels the waves against the shore

your colors and light feast on that fear

in tropical nights where we reign this war

hummingbird

Where they call it 'urban coral',

Under galvanized bridges

Slimy alleys filled with the creatures that you love

With the substances [in all probability] you’re addicted to

The polyps of our smut take root

 disgustingly fertile environments flourish  

 The factories make a luxurious French-inhale

Against The burning canopy that sags in the background

Moments before it transformes… into a molten pile of (plastic)

I saw you there

Standing among the orange sellers

On the side of the freeway,

I could not resist the taste of each-and-every-single morsel you had

As if I could ever be filled.

I say this, fantasizing about a handful of Norco

And riding a train off into god-knows-where, for who-cares-why

Because I believe that money is the Santa clause for adults.

And that there are way too many people

To those same lumberjacks that believe in making the world a better place

What I mean is that everyone is a liar.

Where we can no longer remain a part of your world

And still call ourselves “sane”

Because There is a reason cyanobacteria can grow

in the steamy wet cracks of the pustules of the earth

Fungus learned how to carry it up rocks, like the flag of the universal

each step backwards brings us closer and closer to the essence  

But this world cannot carry that banner

in this psychological charade we are at the mercy of the mushrooms-

This sphere engenders the illusion of perfection

As if any one of us could ever become

The madness that our respective minds cook up

Perfection is only a theory

Excellence is the particular phenomenon   

in which; somewhere between everything and nothing

lies absolution