Syphilitic Ramblings--A Different Pace

Usually, I don't post poetry on here because, well, that's just cheap and retarded because I know far too many "MySpace Poets" that crank out three word phrases, tie them together in stanzas, post them, and then post a bulletin saying, "New Poem! Read it and I won't cut myself anymore!"

They're all liars. So this is a one time thing. It's an experiment in rhythm, dictional rhythm, since it starts as "Verb Verb Verb Verb Noun Noun Verb Verb Verb Verb Verb." The second half turns, becoming an extended haiku as four lines of five syllables (instead of one), two lines of seven (instead of one), ending with two lines of pentameter, one more heptameter, and a tercet. Neo-poetry.

So, here goes.

Rhetoric and Ambition, Baby
I
Imprint vile serums,
Strongarm guillotine suffixes;
Release upon labor day
(cauterize upon MLK day)
Chemical Virulance.

Oh the Plight of cyncs,
plight of the lover's love
With tulips in the fall in a bowl in a room on a table

Kindle
Dwindle
Swindle
Launder my propository antithesis,
Anti-Genius
Generate Chernobyl acts of sedition.
Venerate
Iterate the guillotine contrappasto tourettes.

II
In the midday sun
She howls at the moon
Crying for Mary
the Virgin Birth and
Virgin Death--the want
How she wants Virginity--
How she needs Sanity.
Forward on the move
The soldier's insane
Though so is the
Soldier's tireless love
who howls at the moon in the
midday sun.

Ten speed if I must then I must.

I just sent a message to Christina Rios concerning something that I'm about to discuss. This isn't for the faint of heart nor the sexually awkward (Emma, I'm looking in your direction.)

Why is premature ejaculation such a problem in our age of fast food, fast service, and fast this that and the other? It seems like this would be the preferred model for ejaculation, both sexually and verbally, since we want everything quick. We ejaculate our camera angles every three seconds, releasing another one on television, which is why the movies from the 60's with shots lasting 10-20 seconds are so amazingly raunchy to us. That's probably why books are so annoying to us. They take the time to love us. They court us, date us, kiss us, play with us, climax us, love us, then stay with us til death do us part. Whereas T.V. and mass media fuck us and leaves us to foot the bill for the loose prostitute with the loose lips and the scandals. Republicans take your money, Democrats take your women. I'm taking your women and prematurely ejaculating on their leg.

--

The Real question is, "What isn't sexual with you, Evan?" But, really, JP made a good point today: anything perverse sticks with you. That's why I'm a fucking genius--because I can relate anything to sex. Well, almost anything. Well, I'm not a sexual fiend and I'm actually tired of the stigma. But, at the same time, I may be smarter because of it.

To be all honest, there may be a reason for me being so sexually charged in speech and stature but so tame in emotion. I'm an emotive guy. Sex is the height of passion between two people--the unascertainable between two lovers, the ascribed between two life partners. It's what God created for greatness, It's what God created not for backseats and bathroom stalls, but for bedrooms. I look upon sex as sacred. I look upon sex as the greatest of all things. I'm awkward around women, you all know that, and I could never never have sex with a woman I don't feel holistically comfortable with, AKA my wife. Don't think I'm a perve just because I speak of sex a lot a lot. Think of me kindly, as that boy who knows the genius of sex and exploits its emotions to people around. Because sex is awkward to even the sexually active. It's a secret, it's a giggle. It's a brag, it's a privelage. But, in all reality, it's the euphoria peak, the utopia between two souls reaching climax for ever more. That's sex to me--emotional fodder, and something to be highly respected. Glad that's clear now.

The Problem and the Problem

No one gives a damn in High School, at least enough to show it. I'm in that. I want to do something revolutionary, but I blame my stagnancy on the fact that no one will care... And I realized that the things I do after high school are what matter more.... JP made a good point in saying that kids don't care in high school because they're just trying to get to college, preoccupied with their own self-indulgent drama, preoccupied with meaningless bullshit.

Blame it on the music. Blame it on the tetons. Really, though, tetons have become a problem. Porn is rampant. The fact that it's free and out there and easily accessed is something that is terrible. It used to be, before 1990, when the internet was first mass created, you had to sneak your dad's porn from his stash in the garage, if he had some! Or you had to have locker room trades. Then you had the guilt and worry of having it between your mattress. Now! Now, it's all in the fingers. Search for Porn on Google, Yahoo, Excite, Webcrawler--shit--Wikipedia! And you'll find what all the horny boys in the 80's were dreaming of--A pseudo-utopian society of naked-plastic-women. My God have we succumb to trillions upon billions of nipples and vulvas? to trillions upon millions of penises and anuses? Have we really become a culture from 13 to 80 years of age delved in a jungle of Pubic hair without a machete or a Gillette disposable? It's the plight of the man to lust; it's the profit of the entrepeneur to make us lust; it's the point of the Christian man to resist these innate urges to be with the rib that was taken so long ago; it's a problem that's taking away our social skills--our courting skills.

It can't be stopped. It's the steamroller so slow yet fast. Boys, you might as well get the lotion. Girls, you might as well start filming.

Pues, Viva su vida. Just shrug your shoulders. C'est la vie. High Schoolers are giving naught a fuck but to their hand anyway. C'est la vie C'est la vie C'est la vie.

--
Postscript: "We could end wars if we all ate the same shit." -Jon Stewart, The Daily Show

AcaDeca Speech 2005

In 2001, a movie was released entitled High Fidelity, based upon the book of the same title by Nick Hornby. One of the first lines in the movie is a monologue with the watcher that goes as such, “What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?” Now, at first glance, this may seem like an asinine assumption and argumentative questions may arise like “Why pop music? Why not the inhibitions and chauvinism of gangsta rap?” But, once you begin to dwell on what most pop music is about—break ups, let-downs, beat-downs, masochistic and sadistic pleasures not even sexual—you begin to realize that this may be a good assumption and a concern.

The enigmatic “they” worry about everything from To Kill a Mockingbird to Scarface, censoring and neutering all thoughts and ideas that are too graphic in any nature for someone to see. But in the music industry, a Parental Advisory is adhered to the label only if the lyrics are rife with swearing and sexuality. But what about pain and heartache and sadness? There is no warning against this, even now when the emo-genre has become another sub-culture of teenagers and 20-somethings steeped in pseudo-depression. Why? Because pop music so outright miserable. Because songs like “Dammit” by Blink 182 are what launch a career. Because wearing your heart on your sleeve is so cool.

But, let’s look at the other side of this for a moment. Let’s say you’re in a band that’s in the undercurrent of bands ripe for picking to be put in the heavy-rotation basket at MTV. During this period, you’re writing songs with hooks and melodies and things that are down-right catchy, happy-go-lucky and beautiful as if life is a bed of roses. Then, during the recording of the new EP, the love of your life, your high school sweetheart who you envisioned putting a ring on her finger, breaks up with you. Better yet, she’s been cheating on you. Do you then continue on this quest of writing songs that are about the whimsical fairy tale that isn’t life? Or do youu. Do you then continue on this quest of writing songs that are about the whimsical fairy tale that isn’t life? Or do you turn to real life experience and write emotional songs that are heart-felt and thus more inspired and tighter? I would most definitely wallow in the misery and milk it until I am in heavy rotation on MTV.

An example of a band that took the aforementioned route but, with their latest album, changed their course, is Green Day. Before American Idiot they were a generic pop-punk band writing about life and break-ups. But, suddenly, they’re politically active with a mascara flare. And we teenagers are eating it up, even though they aren’t complaining or whining. Has this shown something to the media, to the producers? Perhaps it has shown them that lyrics aren’t directly related to fame and that a catchy melody is good. Or it’s shown that being all about a relationship isn’t the only thing that’ll make money.

The music industry, however, is not the only portion of entertainment that deals and revels in misery. Books like Great Gatsby are a consortium of lost hope and death and emotion. The difference between books and music, though, is that books have multiple levels whereas most pop music, except for the few political bands left, has a single level based in a life that really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Books, whether canonized or not, often have social issues that are being dealt with, making the plot and the misery merely secondary to the issue being addressed.

The author Charles Bukowski is an alcoholic, lonely, and tired in most of his stories and poems. When you read them, you can’t help from feel bad for him but, at the same time, his stories are amusing because of the contention he has with his state in life. On the flipside, a popular band called My Chemical Romance is “Not Okay,” as one of their songs is titled, with their situation and they can do nothing but wear makeup and push people around in their music video.

Therefore, the answer to the question “Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?” is simple: I’m miserable because I listen to pop music based on the evidence that I’ve been listening to it since Kindergarten and now I can’t do anything but write poetry when I’m sad or depressed. At least I don’t cut my arms as recommended by some bands.

Billy club for the bobby pin riot. Pretentious, long-time coming, the pin was let down, releasing the grenade of a fervent and western Pandora's box.

Like a war without soldiers--take up thy Puritanism and walk through the amoral Underground where in crates and bags and boxes and carts wtihout numbers or names or tags or identity the gold truly lives--the Uncle-Sam-Untouched lives.

With a mind without reason we are the Brute of Titus Andronicus. Listen to me, O Unshaven daughters of the nether, take thy pins and ide upon the mane of needles.

Oh please believe in me!

Beginning

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.

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.

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.

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!

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...

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...

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.

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.

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?

Small Stones of the Lexicon

Some say the word "nigga" is blasphemous. How? Why? Isn't the connotation different than the actual word "nigger?" Tell me, if "nigga" was not part of the upper echelon of friendly lexicon, how can black people can get away with calling everyone it? The house of lexicon that I am a part of believes that to satirize a word is to cauterize it, thus making it another word and words are mere. So my niggas, I tell you this: nigga is a brother and a brother is a friend of mine.

To call someone a "nigger," however, is completely different. Amazing how the change of the ending can bring about two different meanings. But is this so different? In Greek there are four different words for love, and in spanish, there are constant irregularities that cause changed definition. Thus, only "nigger" is offensive, whereas "nigga" is not.

Sin boldly, O brothers, for in sin is the basis of change and acceptance. Society, more oft than not, is wrong.

Mastercard, Postcard

So I went to the mall today to do some school shopping and, well, yea. Fashion today is quite out of hand. Quasi-funny shirts that insinuate playful infidelity mixed with silk screened advertisements. Today's fashion seems to have all the qualities of an over priced thrift store. They destroy the print to make it look vintage despite the fact that the paint on the shirt feels new... I suppose that's why I ended up getting next to nothing at the only two stores that seem to at least try and adhere from that look: Gap and Old Navy. Yea, sure, they have the same old ish but, at the same time, they have their usual campy slash preppy stuff which I love. I just might have to stick to Ross. Damn right.

Laments, Regrets, and Rock & Roll

Ok. Take a look at the shirt below....

Notice something? The back states that "You can't be Catholic and Pro-Abortion." Does this not advertise, in blatant words, a God of exclusivity? How can a God of exclusivity be when God created choice? The act of abortion itself IS a choice and, lemme just reiterate, God created choice. Now, let's say a lady gets an abortion because she was raped and doesn't want the baby because it'd just be a regret and a burden since she's, oh, fourteen. Adoption wouldn't work in this situation because the kid would be wondering who his real parents were and, when he finds them, will be filled with regret that they were a mistake. Life made, life lost.

But, also, here's a thought: the abortion was forced by a boyfriend, a loved one, or by herself. And after the abortion, her guilt drives her to find something more than life: God. Perhaps God can USE abortion to bring people to him. What a novel concept! C'mon, if God can use the negative life of being a pothead, crackhead, cokehead, methhead, speed freak, porn star, rapist, liar, cheater, stealer, murderer, tax collector, fisherman, pervert, or crucified in this world, then perhaps, just perhaps, he can use an ABORTION to draw people towards him? Wouldn't that be a shocking testimony to the Conservative crowd? Wouldn't it be total Jesus Propaganda just waiting to be eaten up?

Therefore, you can't be Catholic and be pro-abortion, sure because Catholicism is just a name. But you can be God's chosen child and the apple of his eye if you're pro-abortion.

Life of regret or Life in Christ?

People Don't Save Their Tenderest Hearts for Assholes like You.

Words are easier than action, yet a thousand million words cannot define an apolgy or a kiss. Words are wrong and empty, corrupted by our memory and cozxed by our heart. A love letter can affirm yet three words spoken can comfim.

But, O daughters of Jerusalem, Words are easier...

Is it thus that I chose to write and not to act? It is thus, O brothers.

A farewell to...

the armament of the broken heart. The alms of a sordid culture. You liar. You cheater. Words can only do so much justice, yes. Oh, God, yes. You can tell me all you want but, truly, I know that, someday, the way life is led will be obsolete. Don't trust the fervor, trust the mentor.

Who is John Galt?

Your mind is your greatest tool. Use it and don't let anyone control it or use it.

Independent reality is a capitalist's dream. You control your reality. You control your freedom. If you let the collectivists get you then you've lost, my friends.