I started writing pseudo-poetry in June. It actually has lines and stanzas and ish like that. I moved away from this type around August. But, hey, let's post a few.
Forever
I feel not alone
but almost.
It's alone
in the slaughterhouses
that I
wither
decrescendo
wilt
as the
final
cresendo
parallel
is played.
You said this
was a
duet
however you have
consumed my part
in a way
that
I dare not explain.
"Come quick, the eunuch is dying!"
It was
all
servitude.
Now
it's
all
ineptitude
even
in
the
swinging
slingshot
of tempo.
Holidae
Wind the victrola
my darling.
I declare
this
a national
holiday...
--
There's more where that came from, eventually... they're all that bad.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Monday, September 12, 2005
In Thy Sarcophagi
It could go on, this Casper, if I don't exorcise the demon.
Mildly afraid and violently cautious, the virulent hive lives, knowing his poison is not strong at all because of the slit-throat mastecation.
It could carry on for days! they said.
It could carry on for an epoch! I thought.
You don't want this! They said.
Nay, I need this! I thought.
The scuff-mark guillotine tore on like a vulture for demons, raping the lark of its song, taming the hatred like a blackbird's whip. Time went on but the thought slowed so that time could catch up, only to stop for a moment before perpetuating the improper and vile fragment of the hedonist.
How Come? Why Come?
They all could do nothing except ask nothing, dlved too deep in their own desire, their own ego.
But their id was not. Not what, goddammit?
Like lines of powder for the guns, the amphetamine derivative drove the atheistic insane, drove them toward religion. So quick, so quick, the neologist works.
Your cobblestone bullshit is no match for the vintage universal I have spun like Charlotte's nasty web that snitched and snitched and snitched and told and told and told and told and taddled and told and snitched. It's all fucking lies, Dear Charlotte!
But, no, the idea still rests in the sand of thought as time stopped to allow the mind to think.
The war like wonder is bread for mediocrity, a Fox for the lackluster, a ball-and-chain bitch for the swollen words of flattened minds, knee-deep in the depth of a dismal attitude.
This is real! and no one is afraid.
This is told! and no one is afraid
This is! and no one is afraid.
And no one is afraid. and no one is afraid. and no one is afraid.
And no one is afraid.
And only I am afraid of the scuff-mark, the width of patronage and height of lineage.
And why aren't you, my daughters, my lovers, my sinners?
Coltrane's alto strongarm should have been a warning...
Dylan's keyless croon should have been a warning.
But the mentality of the cloaked or crucified is to not believe in Lazarus and his flight from spectrum with a god of man of god at his helm, at his hull, at his throat, at his feet, in his hands, in my thoughts, in my toes, in my face and nose and mouth.
But you merely pretend to notice that anything moves, that life is a changing myraid, a lost yellow in a sea of green and blue.
As his guts spilled out upon the inverse-ocean's floor, the sand kept it as its own, clinging to the moisture, more thirsty than the coward. Some were afraid, but they were all dead, and now there was one with a problem: his entrails had burst forth with fury from his belly as if they had to say something...
What are you saying? I cried.
Silence.
What are you? I cried.
Silence.
Will I ever? I cried.
Silence.
And so he picked up and gathered the red and the church organs and trotted on, hearing the bell toll in the distance.
Clamped in the warning tone, the fire hit the water when the building collapsed.
And collapse, it did, O Father.
The non-fake neo-speak of the menial convention faced the kite so idyllic and free like the lap-dance luncheon served by a horse of needles in the banquet hall of the agnostic anti-thought as the puss granules fought against something archaic. C'est la Vie, my dear brethren.
Life is hot and cold and front and rear and near and far and aft and political and starboard and true and questionable and graphic and sadistic and masochistic and musical and quiet and meaningful and pointless and left and right and up and down.
The lexicon of the putrid fight drove on for miles, it fought against turning its back and walking on water and knowing truth. Knowing indecision is not to know at all like eyes that open and close only to remain bloodshot and obviously ontent unlike the analogous and sterile animal.
Mildly afraid and violently cautious, the virulent hive lives, knowing his poison is not strong at all because of the slit-throat mastecation.
It could carry on for days! they said.
It could carry on for an epoch! I thought.
You don't want this! They said.
Nay, I need this! I thought.
The scuff-mark guillotine tore on like a vulture for demons, raping the lark of its song, taming the hatred like a blackbird's whip. Time went on but the thought slowed so that time could catch up, only to stop for a moment before perpetuating the improper and vile fragment of the hedonist.
How Come? Why Come?
They all could do nothing except ask nothing, dlved too deep in their own desire, their own ego.
But their id was not. Not what, goddammit?
Like lines of powder for the guns, the amphetamine derivative drove the atheistic insane, drove them toward religion. So quick, so quick, the neologist works.
Your cobblestone bullshit is no match for the vintage universal I have spun like Charlotte's nasty web that snitched and snitched and snitched and told and told and told and told and taddled and told and snitched. It's all fucking lies, Dear Charlotte!
But, no, the idea still rests in the sand of thought as time stopped to allow the mind to think.
The war like wonder is bread for mediocrity, a Fox for the lackluster, a ball-and-chain bitch for the swollen words of flattened minds, knee-deep in the depth of a dismal attitude.
This is real! and no one is afraid.
This is told! and no one is afraid
This is! and no one is afraid.
And no one is afraid. and no one is afraid. and no one is afraid.
And no one is afraid.
And only I am afraid of the scuff-mark, the width of patronage and height of lineage.
And why aren't you, my daughters, my lovers, my sinners?
Coltrane's alto strongarm should have been a warning...
Dylan's keyless croon should have been a warning.
But the mentality of the cloaked or crucified is to not believe in Lazarus and his flight from spectrum with a god of man of god at his helm, at his hull, at his throat, at his feet, in his hands, in my thoughts, in my toes, in my face and nose and mouth.
But you merely pretend to notice that anything moves, that life is a changing myraid, a lost yellow in a sea of green and blue.
As his guts spilled out upon the inverse-ocean's floor, the sand kept it as its own, clinging to the moisture, more thirsty than the coward. Some were afraid, but they were all dead, and now there was one with a problem: his entrails had burst forth with fury from his belly as if they had to say something...
What are you saying? I cried.
Silence.
What are you? I cried.
Silence.
Will I ever? I cried.
Silence.
And so he picked up and gathered the red and the church organs and trotted on, hearing the bell toll in the distance.
Clamped in the warning tone, the fire hit the water when the building collapsed.
And collapse, it did, O Father.
The non-fake neo-speak of the menial convention faced the kite so idyllic and free like the lap-dance luncheon served by a horse of needles in the banquet hall of the agnostic anti-thought as the puss granules fought against something archaic. C'est la Vie, my dear brethren.
Life is hot and cold and front and rear and near and far and aft and political and starboard and true and questionable and graphic and sadistic and masochistic and musical and quiet and meaningful and pointless and left and right and up and down.
The lexicon of the putrid fight drove on for miles, it fought against turning its back and walking on water and knowing truth. Knowing indecision is not to know at all like eyes that open and close only to remain bloodshot and obviously ontent unlike the analogous and sterile animal.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Tortura o furio?
During the summer, I watched a movie entitled "Invisible Children" which is about Ugandan kids who flee to Sudan at night to escape the rebel army. The reason they're fleeing from the rebel army is because this particular militia enslaves young children, kidnapping them and showing them violence to scare them into staying.
The whole "take them in early and brainwash, brainwash, brainwash," made me think of the Christian, Catholic, muslim, Mormon, Church in general and how they handle sunday school. Is it brainwashing with felt boards instead of guns? Or is it something different? I came back from this camp and looked around, they were doing the same thing, showing information in a gripping way with semi-scary stories to keep kids coming back.
However, there is a difference that I overlooked: choice. In these rebel armies, you are kidnapped and forced but in religion, you have a choice to leave though it may feel like you are kidnapped and forced by your parents to go sometimes. How could I have overlooked that? Because few people ever leave their roots, and look past their choice to turn against Allah or Joseph Smith or Christ.
Happy September 11th.
The whole "take them in early and brainwash, brainwash, brainwash," made me think of the Christian, Catholic, muslim, Mormon, Church in general and how they handle sunday school. Is it brainwashing with felt boards instead of guns? Or is it something different? I came back from this camp and looked around, they were doing the same thing, showing information in a gripping way with semi-scary stories to keep kids coming back.
However, there is a difference that I overlooked: choice. In these rebel armies, you are kidnapped and forced but in religion, you have a choice to leave though it may feel like you are kidnapped and forced by your parents to go sometimes. How could I have overlooked that? Because few people ever leave their roots, and look past their choice to turn against Allah or Joseph Smith or Christ.
Happy September 11th.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Tired
Oh father, I'm tired
of sorrow
of pity.
Oh father, I'm tired
of pre-conceived-notion-bullshit
of lies.
Oh G-d, I'm tired
of being afraid
of learning nothing.
Oh G-d, I'm tired
of being lonely
of feeling everything.
Oh Father make me afraid of what I've become!
of sorrow
of pity.
Oh father, I'm tired
of pre-conceived-notion-bullshit
of lies.
Oh G-d, I'm tired
of being afraid
of learning nothing.
Oh G-d, I'm tired
of being lonely
of feeling everything.
Oh Father make me afraid of what I've become!
Monday, September 05, 2005
Forty-six
The doctor told me that I had 48 hours to live. He said about, "Level four blahblahblah," sounding like a Peanuts adult, speaking through a trumpet mute. All I knew was that I was dying...fast. I left the hospital without a medicine for melancholy--no solace, no comfort, no closeness, nowhere to rest my tired, feverish, dying head; all I had now was 47 hours and eight minutes. Thursday morning: 8 AM: Death comes like food stamps: in need and almost on time. I knew there were amends to make before I exploded--before I lay before the guillotine of cancer. I got in my car kn0owing today was not going to be a good day.
I also realized that I could murder and rape and pillage, get caught, and die before trial or sentencing... But where's the fun in that?
For now, amends. windwindwind the phonograph until the vinyl is flat... I must die a victrola.
It was ten in the morning. My first stop was my work where I sat in one of many cubicles in the rat maze where everyone vied for the same tampered piece of electric cheese. I had some last words to say to my boss. Some fury--nay, a big fucking bone to pick with her.
I rode the elevator to the upper-crust-eighth-floor and there I walked, paced, jogged, trotted towards her door at the end. I turned to her door and promptly opened it without knocking, without formality.
She was sitting at her desk in front of her window that convered most of the wall overlooking 17th street. She looked up and said, "Ever hear if knocking? It's been said it's a way of letting people know an asshole is on its way in."
I walked forward into the room, straight faced but wanting to laugh at the retort. I put my hand on a chair in front of me where some would get executed, persecuted, interrogated, and said, "I have about 46 hours to live."
I picked up the chair and flung it at the window behind her. It shattered into a thousandmillion pieces that rained down upon passersby so small. She was awestruck, bewildered, bitter, angry, confused, wondering, questioning, utterly emotionless. "Now go fuck off."
I took a running leap at her desk. I jumped over her and out the window, chasing the chair to the white concrete so red... so dark...
I also realized that I could murder and rape and pillage, get caught, and die before trial or sentencing... But where's the fun in that?
For now, amends. windwindwind the phonograph until the vinyl is flat... I must die a victrola.
It was ten in the morning. My first stop was my work where I sat in one of many cubicles in the rat maze where everyone vied for the same tampered piece of electric cheese. I had some last words to say to my boss. Some fury--nay, a big fucking bone to pick with her.
I rode the elevator to the upper-crust-eighth-floor and there I walked, paced, jogged, trotted towards her door at the end. I turned to her door and promptly opened it without knocking, without formality.
She was sitting at her desk in front of her window that convered most of the wall overlooking 17th street. She looked up and said, "Ever hear if knocking? It's been said it's a way of letting people know an asshole is on its way in."
I walked forward into the room, straight faced but wanting to laugh at the retort. I put my hand on a chair in front of me where some would get executed, persecuted, interrogated, and said, "I have about 46 hours to live."
I picked up the chair and flung it at the window behind her. It shattered into a thousandmillion pieces that rained down upon passersby so small. She was awestruck, bewildered, bitter, angry, confused, wondering, questioning, utterly emotionless. "Now go fuck off."
I took a running leap at her desk. I jumped over her and out the window, chasing the chair to the white concrete so red... so dark...
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Chased Mind--A Life Unknown.
I
Ugly and vile
and insignificant.
The simple minded
Cup of ugar
let flow
40,000 granules
of lackluster hope.
Some wish they could fly.
Some long to push people,
push air,
push paper.
I, however, long for empire--
a longing esoteric and
arcahaic.
But,
really,
is it?
Suppose all this is real,
it still isn't it.
Dance and sing
and live
for breath is fleeting--
for life
is fleeting.
I've stuck to my guns,
tasted life,
but,
O how there's so much more...
II
O Lord, let the blood flow for redemption because the time is nigh.
So you can say anything but it cannot stop the empire within for I will merely scream,
"If not for the father than what?"
I've fought, I've fled, I've known life and it has known me.
III
Though my ancestry
hasn't risen from the grave of opression or
of confederate racism, I know what family is.
Though I cannot see,
for I am blind,
I have felt the hand of the Risen Lord and known the might of his blood.
With my father,
I am alone but not lonely,
a protected commissioner.
With my Lord,
I am purely untouchable.
But the Emperor still wears no clothes...
Ugly and vile
and insignificant.
The simple minded
Cup of ugar
let flow
40,000 granules
of lackluster hope.
Some wish they could fly.
Some long to push people,
push air,
push paper.
I, however, long for empire--
a longing esoteric and
arcahaic.
But,
really,
is it?
Suppose all this is real,
it still isn't it.
Dance and sing
and live
for breath is fleeting--
for life
is fleeting.
I've stuck to my guns,
tasted life,
but,
O how there's so much more...
II
O Lord, let the blood flow for redemption because the time is nigh.
So you can say anything but it cannot stop the empire within for I will merely scream,
"If not for the father than what?"
I've fought, I've fled, I've known life and it has known me.
III
Though my ancestry
hasn't risen from the grave of opression or
of confederate racism, I know what family is.
Though I cannot see,
for I am blind,
I have felt the hand of the Risen Lord and known the might of his blood.
With my father,
I am alone but not lonely,
a protected commissioner.
With my Lord,
I am purely untouchable.
But the Emperor still wears no clothes...
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Hate.
What is hate? Color vs. color? Skin vs. skin? White vs. black vs. mexican vs. asian? I just finished watching American History X and it changed my perspective on the whole matter of racism and hatred towards those that are unlike you. We can laugh all we want because Jim Crow is funny, because repression happens every day, but the reality is this: Jim Crow is and repression is. Is it really that hard? Is the tension really that deep?
To me, the whole idea of racial inequality is merely a group of elitists from any race that want to keep the others from feeling this elitism and pride. The Civil War, for example. In the South, a war was fought for the upper-crust-aristocracy-slavetrade. The ones that went to war were the younger people, the people who were too poor to have slaves and, yes, when drastic came to drastic, even the slave owners. But the only ones that felt and knew the reason for war were the slave owners. They understood that they were fighting to not destroy the society that they had created. And, suddenly, their world fell apart.
Hatred is a stupid thing. "Life's too short to be pissed off," is one of Edward Furlong's (Danny) closing lines. It's too true, those words. The fact that people can spend one-third of their time and the others hating others and waiting for their chances exploit their hate is pathetic while the exploited create an identity for themselves in America. Who, culturally, is the most prominent in Southern California? Los immigrantes.Why? Because they were preoccupied with creating a name for themself. That was until they started to fight with the blacks over who the better minority was.
I don't understand it all, but I want to. Why do we hate? Why do we want the tension? Is it because we want to be remembered? Dr. King created tension via non-violent means and, shazam! forty years later, we're still celebrating his doings. Malcolm X tried, in the beginning, to use the i'm-gonna-get-you-if-you-don't-give-me tactics but was coming more towards Dr. King's policy before both were assassinated in the late 60's.
Brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, mothers, husbands, fathers, wives, I plead and beg with you that we must get along, that we must turn the other cheek, that we must believe in an idea of one and an idea of equality or else our world with go to hell, our world will become what it wants to be: an animal rage embellished by our so-called intelligence.
To me, the whole idea of racial inequality is merely a group of elitists from any race that want to keep the others from feeling this elitism and pride. The Civil War, for example. In the South, a war was fought for the upper-crust-aristocracy-slavetrade. The ones that went to war were the younger people, the people who were too poor to have slaves and, yes, when drastic came to drastic, even the slave owners. But the only ones that felt and knew the reason for war were the slave owners. They understood that they were fighting to not destroy the society that they had created. And, suddenly, their world fell apart.
Hatred is a stupid thing. "Life's too short to be pissed off," is one of Edward Furlong's (Danny) closing lines. It's too true, those words. The fact that people can spend one-third of their time and the others hating others and waiting for their chances exploit their hate is pathetic while the exploited create an identity for themselves in America. Who, culturally, is the most prominent in Southern California? Los immigrantes.Why? Because they were preoccupied with creating a name for themself. That was until they started to fight with the blacks over who the better minority was.
I don't understand it all, but I want to. Why do we hate? Why do we want the tension? Is it because we want to be remembered? Dr. King created tension via non-violent means and, shazam! forty years later, we're still celebrating his doings. Malcolm X tried, in the beginning, to use the i'm-gonna-get-you-if-you-don't-give-me tactics but was coming more towards Dr. King's policy before both were assassinated in the late 60's.
Brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, mothers, husbands, fathers, wives, I plead and beg with you that we must get along, that we must turn the other cheek, that we must believe in an idea of one and an idea of equality or else our world with go to hell, our world will become what it wants to be: an animal rage embellished by our so-called intelligence.
Creation
It's this we've done with our imagi-
Nation.
It's that we've done with the sole thought of condem-
Nation.
But, nay, my friends,
we've done nothing for this our
Nation.
You call nationalism,
patriotism,
sadism,
any more than a fad?
Can you call the faux
prints,
our ass-backwards flag in the hands of ass-backwards people,
anything but bullshit?
Oh how YHWH sighs upon this our imagi-
Nation.
Nation.
It's that we've done with the sole thought of condem-
Nation.
But, nay, my friends,
we've done nothing for this our
Nation.
You call nationalism,
patriotism,
sadism,
any more than a fad?
Can you call the faux
prints,
our ass-backwards flag in the hands of ass-backwards people,
anything but bullshit?
Oh how YHWH sighs upon this our imagi-
Nation.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Mother Nature: Terrorista.
Devastation. Death toll in the thousands. National Tragedy. What is President Bush to do? Last time you heard words like that the terrorists had brought down a skyscraper and we immediately went to war. Now, Hurricane Katrina has caused the same type of devastation, if not worse, and we cannot go to war with mother nature. What is President Bush to do? Americans are banding together and donating money to ease the everything-loss in the south, but how are we to get those people out of the superdome? Isn't it far too easy for one person to just let off shots and genocide to ensue? These people can't go anywhere, and when the evacuee busses arrive, people are fleeing to them as if it's The Day After Tomorrow. It's as if the third-world-reversion in New Orleans has no way of changing. They say it could take years to rebuild and months to drain the water out of the areas, but what then? Do people return to houses where there's nothing but soggy carpet and leaking insulation? It's beyond my grasp to think how we are going to fix what happened in a few short hours.
Mother Nature. Aint she a bitch?
Mother Nature. Aint she a bitch?
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