I have forgotten how to be amazed,
Can anyone teach me?
What feeling is in the animal of my strangeness?
What nuance of outrage – struggle – what
insistence must I maintain to hold my beliefs?
As a child, I stood on an oath, tall like a crucifixion.
I said I can’t be gotten. I am powerful –
like a genie.
This is the poverty of a disabled genius,
this is the tuberculosis of thinking – without
luck, no great thing is possible.
So I chew Christ-thorns and rub my body with
the rude shrapnel of my fathers addictions and
hang on the next word of his victim explanation.
Idea by idea, I commit to being crazy. Isn’t it great?
I don’t have to take responsibility. Instead, I will rant and
journal and describe in detail why I am not amazing.
The traditionalists are in chaos, their relevance
is like a late evening shadow skirting from rooftop
to alley wanting to be tangible, but fading
Now, the priests are paupers standing like
tombstones at the grave sites of their pedagogical
disasters – speechless.
Who will be the next person to wake, turning
from their paradigm interpretations too many
years later, famished for attention, and wonder –
what love is?
How did we forget that plans, schedules,
and loyalties are temporary – that in a quantum
world arithmetic is chicken scratch and fable…
In our hands – between us – we sincerely made god.
How did our creation become an addiction to mad
scribbles, church building and prayer codifications?
#three and ½
There is no such thing as the “glory of god”. There is only
the rudeness of our arrogance and the supposition that
we as investigators have the capacity to define omnipotence.
So go now to the river, and give Charon your measly penny
with our minds lets be reactors,
ricochet watchers –
but with our bodies
(our voices and our hands)
lets act like movie extras waiting for a director.
this way the miracle happens sooner.
this way our murder is part
of a story –
we don’t care what part. the important thing
is someone gets to be a hero;
let’s hand the hose to a fireman.
if reason and logic mattered
we would sit in classrooms
studying socrates –
instead of memorializing
our minds with tattoos
of pop pornography.
what’s the only thing that matters?
how to be beautiful and take away the
jealousy we think we need to have of others
does anyone know
what its like to have a
gang-bang going on in their head –
to be entertained by fear,
to have termites eating the sticks
that hold them together?
when we are gone, we are gone.
why is it that while we are here
we get so good at dissociation and
become addicted to distraction;
convinced we have all the time
in the world?
what ghost will wear masks
to our funeral – what whisper will
contradict our corruption?
on the slab of truth
which of our intentions
will be left believable?
# 6 six
now might be the perfect time to remember our promises:
glass and wood and glue and string
and tears all put together
without an architect –
one big mess
hung by a nail on
the back door.
but that’s not what we pretend.
no, we act like its “all right”,
like everything is going ahead as planned,
like we are not worried;
but we are
wood about to splinter.
we are the watched and the watching.
everything we do is analyzed
by ourselves and others.
yet we swear we have never been seen,
much less heard. that’s why we can’t
is a delirium tremor we
most of us are excited though –
we believe in
that’s the belief that no matter how bad
we screw up now, we’ll get to come back
later if we promise we’ll try harder.
we are like boat people
taking ships apart,
plank by plank,
delirious with mutiny –
eye patch wooden leg people
marooned on the shores
back at the chimney –
we burn the world;
tell ourselves lies,
indulge our pleasure centers
and pretend to be witty –
like late night party people
shabby after eating
just look at the picture you
have of yourself as a member
in someone else’s entourage.
once a upon a time
you wanted to be better then this.
you didn’t want to be a trophy.
you wanted to be hero. but that
was before your commitment
to being safe, fat, and lazy.
pornography has destroyed the
original sin of our passion – made
our lovemaking cinematic,
had us disassociate from the
pleasure of ordinary skin, and
compare what’s ours to theirs;
it is the heroin in our lust addiction
keeping us in a state of panic, wanting
more, more, more.
it has totally fucked up our prey
instincts. now we hunt all day, like
zombies looking for bodies;
like detectives looking for suspects;
like miners wondering which hole the
treasures buried in.
poets who write on and on – with lots of futile words about meaning – who want us to believe in their pedestals of feelings; their sure things – are like priests promising angel dust sprinkles to anyone.
poets who un-do themselves writing silent scribbles of expression, lose the tongues of their adulation – the passion of their whispers, and are like children who’ve stuffed their mouths with crumbs.
poets who no longer sing in voices that express any clarity about charity, are like collapsed former champions losing battles to echoes – explaining that sound is too big a demand to place on a word.
poets who perspire hallucinated tears while struggling with where to place a (.) are believers in the hoodoo of modern grammar and are like bellhops wondering where the paradigms live.
convince me i am wrong; that you want me to tell you the small details tormenting me – things i think you don’t want to know – the nightmares that circle like sharks my beach dream.
when i describe myself as lonely, don’t list the friends that make this feeling impossible, or insist i give up on doubting because it’s silly, and proves i will never enter heaven, or shop any of its fine stores.
it is better i say nothing – you have made it clear by your subtle positioning – my burdens are my burdens and not yours to bear; that you and i are not citizens enough to each other to be anything more then temporary.
so there you are witnessing me like a failure of mirror and i imitate a sharp thing deep in your chest. and the blood between us spills in puddles for children to splash in – coating themselves with our despair.
if i wanted to move from this place by the sadness shore how would I do so? would I go it alone without playmates – all by myself in the sandbox – filling the pail, turning it over, emptying it, and then filling it again –
each time wanting the filling to mean something?
and pleasure, how come it doesn’t last long? how do children become adults, trudge along, hold lunch boxes, and dream?
worms wiggle memory – moths slurp soup –
tattle-tales ring school bells in halls of youth:
who’s the culpable sparrow chirping denial in the
ears of hawks counting bodies destroyed by holocaust?
who’s a patient, beating therapist pillows with child hands
into errant parents who should have loved something?
who’s doing a freak panic, bobbing a police mans head
in the normal mirror, wanting everything corrected?
who’s indifferent to blind hillbillies burning homes and
anger dogs raping the families’ women?
who’s the money pagan that seeks forgiveness through
philanthropy for stomping on the graves of parity?
Sloppy food fed from bastions of gold arch…
Triggers pulled shooting opposing psychologies…
Paranoia marching down empty streets caressed by red flags…
Humpty Dumpy falling head over heels and cracking…
Faces following rage into trenches of pain, singing…
Lovers collecting bits and pieces of the torn apart…
Who are we if not the fear of failure?
And the maybes dance with the wanna-be’s
everyone’s asking questions…
Night wing of dream Indian
hanging from lodge pole of
Heavy hand of white face,
musket fire of take overs
Slow magnolia melody
strummed by dirge athletes
who are sweating…
Red glare over blue bay
and the sun melting water
until salt crystals glisten…
And the maybes dance with
the wanna-be’s everyone’s
Still life scholars tooth
pick big bone dioramas
Word men text message
stipulations of astounding
Ghost gatherers rip sheets –
KKK march, and then meet
Child gorillas wear masks
making money fall from piñatas
And the maybes dance with
the wanna-be’s everyone’s