Ritualized Disorientation

It was when I traded the

pen for the drug that

I lost my mind.

The debilitating buzz.

Slurring poorly written slam

to an audience of a complacent cat.

My dog died...

(he was a better listener.)

Sometimes I'm bold and proud,

the rest of my hours are spent 

cruelly staring at a genius

that'll never materialize. 

Fraternize with the enemy.

Maybe choke down a cat call, 

a copper brew, a smile to say

I'm prone to poor decisions. 

Attention comes at a price 

we're all paying. A dilemma 

we often ignore, but 

I need this more than

you ever care to know. 

Acknowledge me, 

Cater to these 

intoxicating fetishes. 

Habits, demons drowning 

out the cries of nature's better angels. 

I, a casualty in an unholy war. 

Alas, the angel before me now 

fills my glass, and again...

Return

I'm at a loss, involuntarily
withholding words best
put to paper.

Arrangement improper,
prose perhaps?

Phony, fake.
Unsightly to scholarly
eyes, an undignified
force to reckon with.

I wish myself Webster,
or perhaps an Eric Carle.
I find myself Dadaist,
mocking my own meanings.
Ambition lost in a
weathering soul.

Grace in a period of
brutality is a hard sell -
an even bloodier buy.
First it's a black eye,
then a bruised aorta,
then comes the real hurt -
pride in the age of the fall.

I should be writing
instead of laughing.

I should be living
instead of dying.

I should be loving
instead of wondering
what's wrong with a
little more cream in my coffee.

The Ballad of Unrequited Indigestion

I'm yours. Forever, for now,
'til then nothing more.

The flight of fleeting feelings,
an "aw fuck it" facade. Your
rule-breaker smile sends a
chariot of chills down my spine
as I use hand-crafted baby
bottles to catch my salty tears.

I blew it.
The candle, the torch,
the belated birthday balloon.
I'm the prick, the pop!

I lay a heap of latex deflated.
Stretch me with your hands,
pull me over your face so
I can feel your smile tickle
my elastic skin.

Sometimes I fear you're
allergic to me, itching as if
I were a rash. Other days
I'm kept not far away,
as if separation might cause
a worse reaction -
the stuff of fatal attraction.

We'll kill each other before
we're through. If you go,
I can't live knowing
of love without you.

Me, the fool who will
follow you to the grave.

You, the sorry soul who
can't escape one stubborn sucker.

I'm yours. Forever, for now,
'til then, and the remainder more.

Performer

Years passed, unflattering
the face of the young man
you thought before you.

Years past - flattering
in the right light.

Today he observes an
imprint in the armchair
where he spends countless
hours musing then
neglecting a fruitful destiny.

He'll sigh indignantly -
he always does.

Minutes crawl by as
seconds march on,
soon, soon, soon,
genius will strike
like lightning.

Until then, comedy of
grotesque by the masters
of degenerative thought,
for the voyeurs of
blameless bystanding -
a beautifully obedient audience!

Obscenities fly like pigeons
into skyscraper windows.
Originality not unlike the
poor horse put to pasture
after being ridden too hard
by an undisciplined jockey.

He worries not -
he's found a new horse
to ride to the grave.

Opera of the amateur, the
pretentious provocateur
is neither powerful nor bold.

An aching yawn,
spasms of the bored
harmonizing with the
horrors echoing in the
half empty hall.

He screams a passive
sigh, and again -
contorting his face into
devilish shapes- tongues
lashing, teeth gnashing,
lips smacking feral and fierce.

By display's end,
depravity grew legs
and wandered away,
wounded, weeping.
He clasped his hands
and exhaled deeply.

67.628 oz. to Freedom

Part-time poet,
PepsiCo™ pontificator.
Leader of new-thought vendor,
the soda slinging half-wit.

Brain on fizz,
finessing a fine belch from
my gangly gullet to which
I exclaim -
Smart fart! 
Took the Elevator!

Slapped knees swell
from banter.

Living the dream!
A loaded lie as we
sweat the loaded pistol
held to our carbonated craniums.

Down the barrel I hear
an angel deliver us from
Dew ™, her grace
sugary and subversive.

Do it for the kids,
hubris gushing from
my oily pores.

The denial of dealing
phallic plastic rockets
of confectionery pesticide.

I envision myself
down the drive-thru
asking the great maker
for an order of mercy
on my insulin deficient soul...

with a diet.

I've Been Thinking About the Future Lately

Death's unwanted guest,
brisk and bright, persistent
to receive eternity's embrace
in sweetest serenity.

I remember her sifting
homesick though lucent
photographs stacked
in a rustic cedar cigar box,
emanating smells of stale
smoke and morose memories.

She'd stare intently, then
look back, as if these
keepsakes were
treasures to hide.

Then came her first knock
at death's door.

Death accepts no visitors,
she freely comes and
sweeps all souls of their
feet - eyes wide and shut.

As she waited, her soft
pale complexion turned a
violent shade of contempt.

"Entitlement",
she sighs.

Photographs lay at her feet,
the placid face of her
past-father glaring, wondering,
who lies before him
locking eyes wide,
then shut.

Mr. Dismissive

I'm stumped,
staring at a wall adorned
with a genius' mad ramblings.
A so-to-speak who's who
of nobodies, somebodies,
and - for the sake of closure -
everybodies.

I've lost so much time
in awe of this pervasive
beauty, mingling among moochers.

Can I embark?
Who's to give me permission
if I so choose to ask?

The world-ender, trendsetter,
real go-getter makes his
entrance...now!

Can he overcome?
Who's to give him permission
if he so chooses to ask?

"It's a grand show"
I duly admit, the crowd
vibrating and warm.
Faces lost within a
nest of angst and ambition,
hatching now a dark cynicism.

Can we deny?
Who's to give us permission
if we so choose to ask?