I woke up.
My daughter wants a tattoo. Something that reads
Chicks are tuff,
Strawberries are cute, or
Fuck you.
It’s time to make a decision.
Okay, I woke up. Now what?
Sitting in this wheelchair at the top of the stairs
I heard they closed the corner tavern.
Troubles a stirring.
There’s no taking care of business
My designs were washed away
As the Etch A Sketch® was sold
During last week’s garage sale.
We were able to buy grandma's medication
But boy how I miss that toy.
Kids these days!
They grow up.
They take over and
Design the newer prosthetics
We all become so dependent on.
I remember when I only needed
A crutch.
Now it’s hovercrafts and tattoos.
But it’s nice when they ask
Can I say fuck you?
Friday, June 04, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Transmagnamodified Technicolor Sensationalism
Stumbling locutions and non-confabulating copious word lexicography striving to reveal a rational juxtaposition patronizing soul-searching connectiveness and boundless inappropriate boundaries. Boundaries? Hah!
Lavender phases mixed with purple hazes; new perfumes dancing within the hues. Bi-polar elation magnifies opposing certainty. Behold the Jabberwocky for The Allure of Madness is seen in mirrors reflecting mirror images making the nonsensical sensually sane. Schizophrenic internal preoccupation lying to an altered state of consciousness. Electrified Cool Aid Acid static electricity moving the uncontrollable contorting convictions of black and white conflictions touched by gray.
Sharing and caring, jarring and marring, an archangel sending in his hoards to watch over and comfort the vulnerable, weak, and weary. The smells and the bells of dream state church attendance. Reading the missal of The Power of Now marks a New Beginning with the Buddha sitting, laughing, smiling, contradictory to the nature of suffering. Vanity of vanities, time being in the wrong place, place being in the wrong time, a dichotomous duality heeding hedonistic Epicurean delights, never a “…release from the captivity of concupiscence.”
Suspended disbelief, believe in the moment’s delusion, to live the circular nature of
Surreal discourse. Walk away, up the down staircase, swim upstream against the tide of unyielding dialogue, descend into the depths of the inferno, a Paradiso of intellectual, spiritual, emotional, and physical passion. Is Milton Right? Are we lost in “The dark decent, and up to reascend, though hard and rare”
You say not for you but for yourself. Selfish want and need needing to be needed and wanted within unrequited love. An enigmatic sooth-saying elixir said to reveal the nobility of life. A Placebo (FDA approved Rx Obecalp) that produces extroverted expectancies within the struggling soul searcher; the Shaman within. Countdown to extinction through a Catalyst not of our own doing, not of others doing, not of our control. A Catalyst for what? A change for the better, for the worse?
Fight on brave Saint Solider. Thrust thy trusty sword into the fantasized mythical dragon of passionate sinful barren hearts laid waste by a moment of honor. Infinitely caught in a blaze of the bright and the balmy effulgence of a modern day rotund Shakespearian amphitheater while circling the heavens and skirting and prancing along the event horizon. Duel on, Knight of old, Eternal Champion, canonized by the forbidden pomegranate offered to all but experienced by two within the world of lotus eaters, naysayers, and hater-ations.
William Hurt’s modified monkeyness caught within the primordial swirling why-self; a void of fulfillment and sustained awareness. A moment of profound clarity and oneness with the whole when life suddenly grabs you and you forget about yourself and just are. The Circular equation of pi where “... those who claim to discover everything, but produce no proofs of the same, may be confuted as having pretended to discover the impossible.” Since there is no squaring of the circle, since there is no end but the middle Tao, since the vision quest within the tent is but a construct, a massing of smoke-filled opulence, is the moment deluded? Is the solution solvent with the suicidal thoughts of a boy’s never ending story. A lovesick neediness poked by a needy undefined love?
Without a doubt, doubt says it all, at least No Doubt, singing a song of conviction and knowledge of certain uncertainty. Reaching inside the honey pot knowingly wanton sticking to the glow of amber chromaticity and dominated by an embodied revolutionized meta-morphed modulation. A linguistic grouping of two where so much has been said, so much can be said, and nothing else can be said. Amare me vocat. The unabridged 13 volume dramatized romance adds to the common place Romeo and Juliet lexicon through Transmagnamodified Technicolor Sensationalism.
A radiantly sublime climatic emotional oeuvre indeed.
Lavender phases mixed with purple hazes; new perfumes dancing within the hues. Bi-polar elation magnifies opposing certainty. Behold the Jabberwocky for The Allure of Madness is seen in mirrors reflecting mirror images making the nonsensical sensually sane. Schizophrenic internal preoccupation lying to an altered state of consciousness. Electrified Cool Aid Acid static electricity moving the uncontrollable contorting convictions of black and white conflictions touched by gray.
Sharing and caring, jarring and marring, an archangel sending in his hoards to watch over and comfort the vulnerable, weak, and weary. The smells and the bells of dream state church attendance. Reading the missal of The Power of Now marks a New Beginning with the Buddha sitting, laughing, smiling, contradictory to the nature of suffering. Vanity of vanities, time being in the wrong place, place being in the wrong time, a dichotomous duality heeding hedonistic Epicurean delights, never a “…release from the captivity of concupiscence.”
Suspended disbelief, believe in the moment’s delusion, to live the circular nature of
Surreal discourse. Walk away, up the down staircase, swim upstream against the tide of unyielding dialogue, descend into the depths of the inferno, a Paradiso of intellectual, spiritual, emotional, and physical passion. Is Milton Right? Are we lost in “The dark decent, and up to reascend, though hard and rare”
You say not for you but for yourself. Selfish want and need needing to be needed and wanted within unrequited love. An enigmatic sooth-saying elixir said to reveal the nobility of life. A Placebo (FDA approved Rx Obecalp) that produces extroverted expectancies within the struggling soul searcher; the Shaman within. Countdown to extinction through a Catalyst not of our own doing, not of others doing, not of our control. A Catalyst for what? A change for the better, for the worse?
Fight on brave Saint Solider. Thrust thy trusty sword into the fantasized mythical dragon of passionate sinful barren hearts laid waste by a moment of honor. Infinitely caught in a blaze of the bright and the balmy effulgence of a modern day rotund Shakespearian amphitheater while circling the heavens and skirting and prancing along the event horizon. Duel on, Knight of old, Eternal Champion, canonized by the forbidden pomegranate offered to all but experienced by two within the world of lotus eaters, naysayers, and hater-ations.
William Hurt’s modified monkeyness caught within the primordial swirling why-self; a void of fulfillment and sustained awareness. A moment of profound clarity and oneness with the whole when life suddenly grabs you and you forget about yourself and just are. The Circular equation of pi where “... those who claim to discover everything, but produce no proofs of the same, may be confuted as having pretended to discover the impossible.” Since there is no squaring of the circle, since there is no end but the middle Tao, since the vision quest within the tent is but a construct, a massing of smoke-filled opulence, is the moment deluded? Is the solution solvent with the suicidal thoughts of a boy’s never ending story. A lovesick neediness poked by a needy undefined love?
Without a doubt, doubt says it all, at least No Doubt, singing a song of conviction and knowledge of certain uncertainty. Reaching inside the honey pot knowingly wanton sticking to the glow of amber chromaticity and dominated by an embodied revolutionized meta-morphed modulation. A linguistic grouping of two where so much has been said, so much can be said, and nothing else can be said. Amare me vocat. The unabridged 13 volume dramatized romance adds to the common place Romeo and Juliet lexicon through Transmagnamodified Technicolor Sensationalism.
A radiantly sublime climatic emotional oeuvre indeed.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Still
Still
It's that after sex
After a mad dash
After a days hard labor
Where you're quiet, content.
Still
Hints of a Pounding
A deep quivering thrust
Then a
heart beats last giant push
Like A
dying fish's last jump
Moving agaist the water
Lovingly
Still
It's not for not.
It's a cool sheet's touch.
It's a walk in the fog
Knowing your way
Waiting happily at the end.
Still
That low murmer
Like a babies sleeping rumble
Or a winds wrestling a rock
Or a pedals loss of color
Still
To be still and all
Presentable
It's that after sex
After a mad dash
After a days hard labor
Where you're quiet, content.
Still
Hints of a Pounding
A deep quivering thrust
Then a
heart beats last giant push
Like A
dying fish's last jump
Moving agaist the water
Lovingly
Still
It's not for not.
It's a cool sheet's touch.
It's a walk in the fog
Knowing your way
Waiting happily at the end.
Still
That low murmer
Like a babies sleeping rumble
Or a winds wrestling a rock
Or a pedals loss of color
Still
To be still and all
Presentable
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Standing in front of an empty auditorium
Standing in front of an empty auditorium,
a blank movie screen,
the grand canyon,
naked, hard as a rock,
yet looking down,
nothing.
Looking out at
a blank stare of forever.
There's that quietness,
late, late at night,
that's so comforting
& coldly numb
You hear the distance racing by.
You feel a star's solar wind against your bare skin.
You close your eyes to see better and
attempt to move but
trepidation.
You've locked eyes for ten hot minutes,
wanting,
go in to kiss and
puff!
The moments gone.
Desire never happened.
You're touching that one,
soft part of the inner thigh.
Dared to move up,
asked to indulge.
When you move,
it's like corse bark
on the log left out of the fireplace.
The heat died out and
eveyones been asleep for hours.
Bucketlist advice be damned!
never waste a Boner *cough*
In a lone apartment,
with the trains rushing by,
I grab my resolve,
and I
Scream and Yell!
And I
beat at the walls,
and I
push through the door,
into,
nothing.
It might be a long,
yet likely short,
tunnel where I
and a bunch of
echoing me's
want to go running out
to escape these frigid confines.
But where's the light?
Where's the embrace of knowledge?
I loved!
I fought for the fuck!
I moved from beginning to end with
sprinkles of relationships,
smatterings of emotions,
and for what?
This baby set adrift?!
Damn the torpedo!
Wasted hardons them all.
For as I lay here.
I seek that quiet.
I wish that moments nonmoving
with a bodies emptiness,
and a hardness that's soft.
Now, to share that struggle
might just fill up an empty auditorium
and I'd see more
than nothing.
a blank movie screen,
the grand canyon,
naked, hard as a rock,
yet looking down,
nothing.
Looking out at
a blank stare of forever.
There's that quietness,
late, late at night,
that's so comforting
& coldly numb
You hear the distance racing by.
You feel a star's solar wind against your bare skin.
You close your eyes to see better and
attempt to move but
trepidation.
You've locked eyes for ten hot minutes,
wanting,
go in to kiss and
puff!
The moments gone.
Desire never happened.
You're touching that one,
soft part of the inner thigh.
Dared to move up,
asked to indulge.
When you move,
it's like corse bark
on the log left out of the fireplace.
The heat died out and
eveyones been asleep for hours.
Bucketlist advice be damned!
never waste a Boner *cough*
In a lone apartment,
with the trains rushing by,
I grab my resolve,
and I
Scream and Yell!
And I
beat at the walls,
and I
push through the door,
into,
nothing.
It might be a long,
yet likely short,
tunnel where I
and a bunch of
echoing me's
want to go running out
to escape these frigid confines.
But where's the light?
Where's the embrace of knowledge?
I loved!
I fought for the fuck!
I moved from beginning to end with
sprinkles of relationships,
smatterings of emotions,
and for what?
This baby set adrift?!
Damn the torpedo!
Wasted hardons them all.
For as I lay here.
I seek that quiet.
I wish that moments nonmoving
with a bodies emptiness,
and a hardness that's soft.
Now, to share that struggle
might just fill up an empty auditorium
and I'd see more
than nothing.
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