Sometimes There’s Nothing

Sometimes there’s nothing 
you can do but scream.

Rage against the losses:
   loss of eyesight and hearing
      and strength;
   loss of interests;
   loss of love,
     or  loss of
     love’s attention;
   loss of energy;
   loss of ideas;
   loss of dreams;
   loss of the erotic;
   loss of appetite;
   loss of those who care
      for you, and those
      you care for;
   loss of mind,
      loss of mind.

Rage against the
   impersonal universe;
rage against the 
   lack of justice,
   lack  of merit,
   lack of luck.

Rage against regret
   as thick as molten tar,
rage against the arctic freeze
   of heartbreak.

Rage against the plutes,
   those hungry ghosts
   sucking the rest of us dry.
Rage against the whores
   of commerce.
Rage against the loss of ideals and
      that feeling of
      being bamboozled.

Rage against a higher force, 
   if you believe in
   that diabolical jester
   who deals the cards
   and rigs the games.

   there’s wisdom that comes
   from getting old,
   deeper acceptance 
   and even a flash
   of it’s really OK;

but sometimes there’s
and all you can do
is to goddamn scream.



Stardust dreams of immaculate perception
holy hymns of sacred friendship,
and reclaiming long lost love.

Chrome-plated memories of pickles,
endless cups of coffee,
long conversations
of  constructing identities
and apprehensive realities.

Booth recitations
amid clatter and grease:
intimacies shared,
promises made,
loyalties sworn,

the unobstructed purity
of infinite possibility.


That low register monotone growl,
emanating from his gut,
menacing oscillations of grinding gears
command you to move the fuck back.

Stay still,
give him space enough 
to assess your spirit.

It’s always personal with them.

That eloquence of duty,
heightened senses in overdrive,
the visceral gauge of your essence,
smelling past fear for any bad intent;  
wet nose story construction, 
merely the first stage of judgment.

Then the stare; not into your eyes
but through your flesh and marrow
to a hidden nature
you might not even know,
painful mutilation leading to annihilation.

Lastly the ears perked and directed,
scanning for any suggestive sound
of weakness or threat.

Best stay calm and still.

With a favorable verdict 
you can relax
and enjoy membership
in his pack.

But then again, he does look malicious,
and just may be wired 
to toy with you a bit
before he takes a bite
out of your leg.

You’ll find out soon enough.

So These Things

So these things
washed up or
put away -
patterns of solace
within the lesser seasons.

Dreams ascend the cold bones,
rising with the virtue
through ethereal channels,

while physicality is
or denied.

of the broken
is a charity
unto itself.