pick ax philosophy

if
you
dig
deep
enough

you'll
always
hit
agony

the
core
of
mankind

happiness
is
a
surface
thing

exists
only
w/in
the
first
few
layers
of
strata

anything
beneath
is
mouthfuls
of
dust

then
all
fire

farther reaching than all the bridges i've burned

i write
like
my life

there's
not much
in it

but what
little there
is

is larger
than all
the lbs
of fat
i've cut away

farther
reaching
than all
the bridges
i've burned

higher than
all of
the dreams
i've crushed
beneath
my own feet
etc...

one man
standing

stripped down
to the
basic frame

his spleen
dripping w/bile
in one hand

a paint brush
in the other...

until Loss moaned his name

night by night, part by part
the woman he was with
eventually transformed

her pair of tiny wrists
becoming rivers of Desertion

her arching spine
a bow of Abandonment

the roots of her hair
the threads of Retreat

each rib of the cage
a baton of Betrayal...

until the complete shape
of Absence shuddered
beneath him & Loss
moaned his name

july beauties

the july beauties pose
on fine white sand

their meat covering
the bone much better
than most

these shining shapes
well-oiled, polished
w/not one edge

i'm amazed by this
trick of the magic skin
diverting us from
the framework
the marrow

even their smiles
their teeth, so full
of seductive promises
you'd never believe
they're merely
chips of bone

i awoke nauseated

i had a dream
in which a pair of
my favorite writers
had gone quite unmad...

there was nietzsche
waxing an automobile

while baudelaire purchased
a dining room set

i would've understood
the symbolism if either were
sweeping w/a broom

or perhaps scooping
shit from the litter box

but these two acts
these blatant visions
of normalcy disturbed
more than any nightmare
of an apocalypse

the mad lengths of the poet

like crazy
crows on
the asphalt
dodging fenders
in order
to pull out
the guts
of roadkill

the poet
must go
to mad
lengths
to unravel
the ugly coils
of his
freakhood
within

fools & demons

insomnia
after 3 a.m.

so i count
my numberless
demons

5:30 a.m.
still adding
them up

dawn sharpening
the edges
of things

my head impaled
upon the pike
of delirium

demons cackling
at the foolishness
of human endurance

staring at the plants

i stare at the plants

green stalks standing straight up under the sky
sunlight on their green leaves

they sway slightly but only b/c the wind
works upon them

i really dig the plant's way of being

the way they'd stand there even
if you were being murdered or if you
were murdering them

b/c they don't have a clue what murder is

their stalks just standing there
w/the sunlight on the leaves

only unplant-like beings know what murder
is & on top of that perform it

& it's funny we think we are better than the plants

that's why i feel bad when plants go the way of plants
back into the ground

& i don't feel bad when unplant-like beings
go the way of plants

they deserve to return to the dirt more than
anything on this planet

ah, but how i love & mourn the plants

this strange lonesome 40th summer

a
door
is
strictly
a
human
thing

a
way
to
close
out
the
world

people
talk
about
the
metaphorical
door
opening
to
bright
new
futures

but
to
me
a
door
is
a
sad
rectangle

a
rejection
of
the
world

tonight
i
drive
the
streets
alone
&
notice
all
the
closed
doors

one
after
the
other
in
this
strange
lonesome
40th
summer
of
mine

i
want
to
park
along
the
curbside

knock
upon
all
of
the
closed
doors

see
the
white
or
yellow
porch
lights
come
on

the
curtains
swing

the
blinds
turn

the
brightness
from
w/in
throw
itself
across
the
dark
ground

across
the
tips
of
my
shoes

but
i
keep
driving

until
i
get
to
my
own
place
&
then
i
do
the
same

close
this
door

this
strictly
human
thing

this
rectangular
rejection
of
the
world

wrecking balls & backbones

most confuse the long, tiresome process
of initiation for education

education should be a wrecking ball
smashing the building that is yr life

& you pissing upon the remains

while noting the smoke in yr throat
& the ash in yr hair

as yr blood jumps in a circle thru yr shape
& yr backbone is the only thing left standing...

hollow ghosts

the sunrise
w/its many arms
erases all of
our stars

giving us a low dull
ceiling of clouds

the hollow ghosts
of all our silver hopes
& shimmering wishes

sadly afloat in a pale
aquatic blue sky

dying savior

a
poem
should
be
a
verbal
siren

preferably
an
ambulance
wailing

forcing
its
readers
to
pause

the
poet
both
the
damaged
body
on
the
gurney
&
the
administer
of
resuscitation

in a blink

it's strange
how moments go

from up-close
like cells upon
a microscope slide

to very far away
like stars thru
a telescope lens

until one day
all of yr life
is up in space...

the burning man

there's
the obvious
sources of pain:
war
fire
flood
the big c
the nut house
incarceration
amputation
divorce
poverty
etc...
the list
is long
& mighty
but then
there's
the man
who is
on fire
just sitting
there in an
easy chair
gazing at
objects standing
on the surfaces
of things
that are made
up of 90 degree
angles
or things
leaning against
one or more
of four walls
he is burning alive
like the monk
in vietnam who
doused himself
w/gasoline
& sat there
crosslegged
& ablaze
only this man
isn't physically
on fire
it's subtler
than that
it's his cells
that are burning
each one
a small pool
of gasoline
aflame
each mutinous
nucleus
like the
burning
vietnamese
holy man
only these
trillions
of miniature monks
are protesting
not war but
peace

that searing singularity

it feels like the time
before i ever loved

that searing singularity
that weighty waiting

the only difference
being i don't have
that crazy desire
to love another

it's like i've been
reborn w/out a heart

just lustful blood
& dusty days
of nothing much

the greatest con

capitalism: biggest promoter of endurance, longevity & persistence

it wants its citizens to never quit feeding the big pigshit money machine

eat more viagra to churn out more & more generations of cog-babies

then one day you can be lucky enough to pick out yr own coffin

& pay for yr deathbed & a 6 foot ditch

misfit living

there has always been
the minimal here

no dining room set
no living room set
no kitchen set
no children's beds
etc...

no purchases of newness
no uniformity

only rickety cardtables
third-hand chairs & shelves
hand-me-downs
from the dead

faded, mismatched,
chipped & scratched

a roomful of misfit sticks
of furniture

& to top it off
an old mattress upon the floor
the lopsided raft
of a capsized soul
going nowhere

just floating...