pome
I don't
know
who broke your
goddamn heart.
I
just wanted
your
attention
for a minute
I wasn't planning
on feeding your hungry
fucking ghost of a soul
for the rest of time as
we know it. I love
you. I'll try. I'll try.
I'll try.
****
Exile & The Kingdom of Gears
Home is where you make it, and nowhere else. It can be invented. It can be found. It can be created, stolen, taken away. Home is where Larry Fiskovitz was going one rainy afternoon, in the year 2034, on a Thursday in August, when the cool, drizzling rain pattered through the sky, splashing onto his crisp, black windbreaker/skicoat and he stood on the corner of Marigold and Broca Avenue, attempting to catch a cab the old-fashioned way: by hailing one out of the casual, constant herd of the rest of the traffic. Meanwhile, another man by the name of Jerry Ratbaum, a resident of the New Life Center situated in Hammlett New York (formerly Queens) was piloting his "cab"/a 2016 Ford Chrysler with a rebuilt engine and the assorted technological add-ons like advanced gps radar for superior navigation meant to provide the driver (in some--perhaps unkempt, circles, "Captain") with a convenient shorthand in order to collect more passengers, etc. if only the computerized pharma...
The Practice of Wise Abandonment
ReplyDelete~
In this exercise,
you throw yourself
from one side of the earth:
your courage and attention take the lead.
Joy supplants the joyless.
Satisfaction dislodges the hungry.
Concentration reduces beggars
to the pitiful letters they should've grown from.
And your heart untightens a strange, usually
dismissed feature in the most inferior segments
of your abdomen, your heart finds a light
and a breath previously shadowed by bad karma.
In this exercise, gravity and memory
still pull
yet
the topmost height of you
is like some nomadic dinosaur, oblivious
to human time & societies, and your
crazy bones harbor an incalculable sanity.
The letters of some comatose planet
rush & scatter in the hyperaggressive winds.
The birds dream of nothing. The trees
smile into themselves.
There...is the moon
and hot, vigilante planets
belonging to nothing, including themselves
and your chainsaw teeth,
drunk with cold atheism,
gnashed, challenged, absolute:
they sink into that marrow of anticipation.
In this exercise, defined by a math without numbers, a language of exotically
unpronouncable words, this world of
a shape cast from temperature --
your earth is hardly a weed, a germ, a thought
or the possibility thereof.
In this exercise, color gives rise to
plants and animals: not the other way around.
You move across the ice, through the wind, into
a chronology of existence, equally strange & predictable, away
from the sad facts of a desperate, unreliable species.
****
A Modern Study of Reciprocity
ReplyDelete~
Fashionably dispirited yuppies, proto-
yuppies, etc. slip thru, among
the known world, nourished
by generations older
and not much older,
that could easily do without them.
Dopamine junkies with far more
arrogance than style, leftovers
of industrialization and American
prosperity. Raised by an internet
overcrowded with their laziest peers,
crippled by inconvenience, like
death warmed over
and seeking applause.
Imagine the quarter-life crisis generation
actually arriving at middle age --
woefully inexperienced in nuance
and claiming rights to originality
for fads that will perish
long before they do --
Imagine them caught in the indifferent
hazzard of the world, decoupled
from their promise of a now-long future,
waiting on phonecalls and messages
that none of us care to speak or write.
****
scenic apocrypha #2
ReplyDelete~
it's almost a surprise
I haven't woken up to discover
the address
on my
driver's license
has been altered, modified.
well, impermanence. some
winds deliver, some carry away.
I've lost more notebooks, backpacks, lighters,
cigarettes, marijuana, glass pipes, papers, pens,
shirts, sweaters beds -- while I was storing my luggage
and other belongings in a tent on Caesar Chavez Blvd.in Chinatown, LA
I got to making myself amiable to the cashiers
at the Rocket Gas Station, smiling through my eyes,
my hands, for hot cups of coffee with sugar & cream.
this morning I turned out of a few hours
of insomnia-free rest, on a cushion on
lopsided dirt underneath the bridge (my
uncle Frank was right about my
fondness for Bukowski.)
but people who live on the street
for the entirety
of their lives only see
half of that picture.the hardest addicts
are obligated to
far less than they imagine.
shit on the indignity of your darkest
wishes...boycott the lie of supremacy
of the belligerently spiteful...cut
their throats
with
the
twisted
dagger
of Gaia...drain
the blood from their
very name, dripping
on the
anonymous stones.
****
evolution and meritocracy
ReplyDelete~
perhaps Clarence Darrow misspoke, partly,
when he said new insights were unlikely--highly unlikely?
to be unearthed on the campuses of universities, in courthouses, in
the offices of politician's and such places.
the rise of education begins with the desire for improvement,
advantage.
education is nestled in the warm depths
of the autodidact's soul. quiet as an egg, a bullet
waiting for the most felicitous firearm.
this is in no way meant to suggest either
the plea for nor defense of meritocracies: meritocracies
are surely slowed by the weight of their assumed, collective arrogance.
oh no: education is far more adaptive than that...
in the stones of governments & graveyards alike, Mr. Darrow
the efforts of the dead are only gradually eroded--like the mountains
that were pushed from the young earth's belly with fire & gravity & time.
take my word for it: the eye is
the greatest invention of all:
it discovered the knife and the letter,
the music we wait for.
****