We Field Plastic Soldiers and Candy Colored Illusions

They buried you right there,
those bullets,
those men,
Where were you,
when we were so young? When we
and they called out to you,

to shadows cloaked in rain and truth,
hands cold, wanting

A dream,
warm and trickles down my face
with obscured visions,
and fairy tales
unsaid,

without impulse,
We laid there, he and she
the grass damp
and comforting, whispering
a festive good bye to youth,
and you watching, unassuming,
the sky passive,
magic unwritten, hinges on
a word all encompassing,

didactic imaginings,
in unfair fantasies
the armies learn to march unheeded,
revered by those in tall dewy grass
dreaming as youth drifts by,
silent, like the lumbered gait of broken horses.

Morning Coming Fast

The faucet drips,
keeping time with
forgetful sun, and
the oysters sleep unaware,

darkness clings to my room,
on chairs and bed frames
casting silhouette, and maybe sadness;

A boys dream
somewhere happy
someplace died,
whatever remains in comic books
and side scrolling video games,

Tally them up to
something lost- four strikes,
a diagonal is five-

the future presses on like the sun,
in my room
coating everything
in shining gold,
the burn-
I close my eyes,
the oysters lie.

I bought this new text book of walking history and it taught my students to mix water and concrete

The soil is weightless,
yet the trees form concrete walls,
a quiet liminality exposed,
past bleeds into present
clean air and the rumble of the automobile,

Thundering silence
and we shouldn't be here,
though we need to be;

understand or forget.
to ignore, and crucify
the steady beat of identity,
fragile and benign,

clouds heavy with rain
beating down,
a memorial hastily constructed,
following the bend and curve of road and river;

the discourse of commercial markets pursued, 
a discipline of asphalt and ignorance,
governments and private wealth,
a history of interstate highways,
walmarts, shopping malls, and
supermarkets to worship
and write about in circular ads.
the new history,
the new past,
heroes and gods
barely perceptible
a new identity dissolves.

double-click

Art.

I hate art.
Everything about it.
Abstract, Impressionism, neo-abstract-impressionism.
A Spam filter on the other hand,
is beautiful.

It protects me from being forced to determine
if I should read an email with the heading:

STOP. You need LARGE PENIS. Tired of unsatisfied women? 77% off TODAY ONLY.

Monet would be jealous,
but mostly because he slowly went blind.

Who has to write it?

Write yourself...

All these ideas and nothing is free,
meandering ideology and modality
and, what do we attain from it?

Confusion and unreality
in lost hours,
for nothing.

A paid copyright
for a story no one wants to tell,
or read.
A discourse of fancy,
a result like struggling plants
in winters cold soil.

A dialogue without end
or adversary.
 

I think the server crashed

Welcome! You have entered [The Lounge] at 4:02 am
[The Lounge]: The Demogoblins has entered at 4:02 am
[The Demogoblins] 4:02 am: my glorious drills reversed
[The Demogoblins] 4:03 am: like so much meat
[The Demogoblins] 4:03 am: thrown in my face by a butcher named server crash
[The Demogoblins] 4:04 am: o will we never be blessed by tiny pixels and text based lifeforms as we were before this
terrible rapture
[The Demogoblins] 4:05 am: have not, each one of us suffered enough
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: and now to be forced to remember
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: in the dead of night
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: 406 eastern standard time
[The Demogoblins] 4:06 am: the former wonder of two +2s
[The Demogoblins] 4:07 am: i cry foul world
[The Demogoblins] 4:07 am: cruel and steely like the guillotine
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: you slice at me
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: love,
[The Demogoblins] 4:08 am: The Demogoblins