Month: July 2019

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,
       especially
       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.
 
 Sure,
    there’s wisdom that comes
    from getting old,
    deeper acceptance 
    and even a flash
    of it’s really OK;
 
 but sometimes there’s
 nothing,
 and all you can do
 is to goddamn scream.

Stardust

 
 
  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.

GRRRRRRRRRR!!


 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
 avoided
 or denied.
 
 Repair
 of the broken
 is a charity
 unto itself.