Surreal

Emptied the
recycle bin, planted da da
dreams on facebook screens
tumblr passwords and
how to keep up a post
a day in the impossible age
of followers--reblogged--
sparks on the keyboard scene,
static motion electricity
ricochet, I am making my own
failures
up so i have something to say--
which seems well and good
but the shocks don't go away--

tell me we are smarter
because there's some hive
mind besides wikipedia--
but what do we really know
today?

the ending to Twilight?
that the sun is a burning gaseous star
billions of miles away--

they're just words, idiot!

We don't know anything really,
anymore, everymore,
ever did--

It's just I can admit it.

Ana

Slog through this
poorly paced shit and you'll
run aground on the anagram
generator mechs that patrol
the grammar roads of legitimacy--
like legitimate literature pours out
the academic assholes, like always
clenching tight, ya--
follow the red ambulance
down the street with those eyes
reading further for the answers
mechanically separated dark meat,
light meat, parts and pieces, hell
it's all over hieroglyphs on the
telling walls--they're protected
electronically
from our fingerprints--luckily--

Last thing I want is for them
to be scared.

This was going somewhere but it left early

wind outside is picking up
heard in prison Friday it's gonna
be cold on Sunday, sure feels like
it, most time guards don't lie,
so I trust the intel just so I won't have
to open and window or door,
face the cruel natural world--luckily
there's four walls of radioactive concrete
surrounding me, playing the perfect defense,

I think maybe I'll read some
whitman and drink a glass of milk in
the droning light of the apartment space,
or I'll end up staring at numb letters on numb screens,
eh, either way milk'll go down smooth,
non-homogenized constant of my nightly
deliberations, they won't let me change
the spelling tho, they won't let me in on
what's really going on, what's wrong--
I don't have clearance for that,
it's made clear,

I listen to the leaves touching the balcony
giving themselves to the wind, there's no car
sounds, it's all drowned out, fuck--

I forgot what the last line was going to be,

I'll just fit it with a period and
call it a day.

People keep telling me I'm innocent

I.
When I've no more words
I'll put this axe down,
I'll take to the road,

Oh, if you'd follow me!
Oh, if you'd let me!
I don't think you would,

I am running out--
or I will one day,
my pen is finite--
my eternal mind infinite,

We'll pass on vain thoughts
we'll pass on unwashed fears,
tho again, we'll pass on
nothing,

II.
When I've no more left to see,
I'll focus my vision to the floor,
I'll leave the sky alone, unblemished,

Oh, if you'd understood!
Oh, if you'd see we were wrong!
I don't think you could,

I wish to see beyond--this...

III.
When I've no more words to give you
bright world, forget me! Forgive me!
Don't blame me for what I've done in your name!
even if I have failed,
I've only done what you've asked,
I've only failed at what I believe.

Charcoal fiberoptic lore

they chalked my
mature rating up to
word count, text recognition
bullshit, slapped the reverse
cuffs on my skinned wrists,
left me locked down
in the internet stockade
without a key, languishing
in my gentle obscurity, my
self imposed anonymity, or
am I , was I, supposed to realize that
too late--? Hell, it's worked so
far for the mainframe locusts
popping all my shattered balloons,

I'm not even sure you can read this--
how does it translate from my head
to the keys to the screen to the save
to you, how do I know they don't alter
the meaning before it's too late--?

how do I know I'm even typing?
How do I know I'm not someone else?

Vanish

Yesterday I kept telling
myself today I'd make it all
up--but I won't--I couldn't,
in the with nothing to do
I'm writing from the beginning
one bad trip and on to the next,
all my time left out to dry
on the surface of societal
regimentation--climbing that
grand gold slippery ladder of the
world--BUT I DON'T WANT TO!--
can't you see? I am useless to you.
I am nothing for those rules,
I don't fit in--don't want to momma--
can't--I ask them to leave me alone,
but they have SWAT gear and tear
gas, and billy clubs and guns
and they won't go away,
all I got is wine and isolation--
what about where about all
the things I want/wanted to do?
where have they gone?

They'll make me throw it away
they've made me a ghost

and I let them.

She's got a handle on it

She can see in
merged realities
all spectrum colors
rising like tides on
phantom shores,

I dangle my feet over
america's great canyon
a lifetime ago
thinking of her
somewhere in space
I can bend the misunderstanding
that's been forcing us apart,
that's been forced upon us,

somewhen we've been
able to escape this fate
sometime--

a pencil and paper is
older than the typewriter,
dig? you have a false view of
the past, you are ignorant of
the scene--

She refuses
the answers we've built
returns the boxes that
are shipped out to
every house on every block
waiting out
the strong arm knocking at her door,
black boots kicking it in,
turned out in the night
herded to the sleeping train,
another number for the record books
another mind on the grill.

whirlpool

just enough time to

get from one box to another

quick cat litter rain

on the intellectual parade

for a nominal fee the underlings

carry the promenade floats

will suck you off behind

the orange glowing street light

on 19th and I,

passers-by will take the time to

shouting in the general direction

of their understanding

gurgling choking sounds

everyone is glazed eyes happy

getting up and down

trading in the day

sunshine who needs it

I've got florescent light patterns

and fake social interactions--

take it to the boss

and get it stamped

it'll roll nicely and cram up your ass

over the boarder smuggle

still wondering what the 

usb drive is for? It hooks onto the

gas tank, downloads the shit

eat shit die shit take shit

the driver doesn't give it--

he's got medic-aid backed up

to the 14th kid on the next 

block there's a johnny rockets

pump to handle the caloric intake 

required for decision making

two heads in front

but the rifle can be placed straight across

shame you can't pay someone to pull the

trigger

killing yourself is against the law

and courts will get that subpoena to 

heaven by God! or without him

they don't give a fuck

as long as the control app is still iphone 

downloadable reusable

100% combustible--like our love

bombs over desert carpets

fuck this fuck that fuck ass come on

tranny america come on limp dick king

work 8 hours sleep 8 hours

you're in charge

cast that vote cocksucker

take the load

they know we'll swallow 

every time 

For me

All of five minutes
left no sound in hallway no sound
not looking up at monitor no
white lights no go afternoon
in darkness now it's night
outside, outside where I'm shackled
indoors where I'm caged,
stuff the pastries in the drawer
momma won't see, momma won't hear

the collapse, prolapse
lights spark on more work
on the anal enema cure
more vomit for the clarinet player
more meals for the worms
reinforced concrete shit--

what do those sounds want
from me? How can I pay them in
song?

I am an awful singer and
awful giver--

I feel the November chill selfishly--
the Halloween whistle in
the lightened hall
isn't as scary as it would have been
with the lights out

I steal all that memory for myself

Missed two

I came to blame the fever
it was in some ways easier
some ways more believable,
when burying ideas to
ascribe them some other form;

of their old stuff
packed away I said nothing,
sun setting
on Mondays a bit hesitantly,
a but unsure, something to
do with the blood ritual of the
inured mass-machine mash,

sun in my eyes is damaging
my feet sweat in these shoes
not wearing any socks
the radiator is cold

I am othered from the outdoors
regardless, by conspiratorial window
panes,

the sunlight reflects off my screen
I am typing blind
like always.

October gone

put the water to
boil on the bloody stove,
and while it heats I'll construct
my own innocuous identity
my own morning mask,
there are gray skies, no
more gray Octobers tho;

and
I'm here, already
missing October, Whitman's
October and Wolfe's and
Jack's and my October, I watch it
drifting south on the gentle,
muddy, earthy brown Potomac,
erasing whatever thoughts
I've had, whatever memories
I've tried to keep,

I find the road toward my
end bittersweet and I don't think
I've cared enough,

how many Octobers have I watched
on mornings just like this?