artful suicide

an artful suicide
this . my revolving year
etched into a mashed
mental . unrest.
being here
before . not being.
mere sight or
sound my bones
rattle within . my place
is not inside
me . beyond
or through. surpassed.
this crowded arena
I burden . crammed thoughts
warring fraying
feelings. the victorious
historian lies
dead.

in no way is this an excuse.
not in these
words . symbolic lies.
all
words . hijacked
planes and the flaming
Tower of Babel.
an artful suicide
as this is spelled
out in poetic farce . force
of habit.
like revolving
around an indifferent
star . burning.
my heart?
it obeys
this physics.

serial monogamy

who is this I am
me to practice arts
like this
deception, a killing
silence to graves
of sorrow’s regret.
with this heart
the ego. who
leads whom? within
this season we
are all murderous
agnostics, climbing
skeletal ladders
the backs of fellow
enthusiastic
romantics, hopeless
the ones who believe
in this beauty.

what misinformed this
notion of the companion
but what can
the serial monogamist
attest to?
the everlasting struggle
of evol against
itself. way(back)ward
words painted to
dead lips. deaf
poetry of helplessness.
when do we begin?
the road to salvation
under
construction. but we live?
today or another day.
they all pass
with heavy luggage
the scorned
lover cannot un
pack.

I am only here.
already
silent.

meaning/less

I look to you
and see death
yesterday. hoping
for life tomorrow.
what time or place
I find my
self in. where all
I have is fancy
and these
thoughts or dreams
halfway to reality,
or not real,
or beyond truth.
this is an echo?
rebirth of something
cold and nearly
alive it kills
me. me with this
pathetic moonlit
restlessness.

why would I want
to think this,
love you
when love isn’t
my way but selfish.
in what terms not
uncertain
could I find
your unfound
skin touching
this heartful confusion?

I think, though feelings
are meaning/less,
meaning: I don’t
fucking know
anymore.

motion less

motion less
like movement
than
waves of crumbling
seas. this heart
mismatched
in its tattered wardrobe.
I don’t speak
those rosy thoughts.
only watch
petals shorn
with winter.
that you I
cannot speech
with unthought
reasons.
as of late.
we come and go
and I already
disappeared
from there,
wherever
you stand.

but with what
standard
is the future measured?
yesterday
didn’t happen
though
it bears my scar.
that
confused heap of fallen
sand.

every day I am
less.
sure of this.
certainly
more like a fatal acceptance.
warped reflection. yet
kindling a distant fire
in the bones of ashen
echoes. remembering
all that death
I am
brought back here
to this blood-
worn sea. tangled
rooted silent
driftwood, I pitch shelter
over those grave
yards I exhumed. to dance
with random bones. and talking
marrow til the sun come up.

Coffeeshop blues

Titular head of this charade,
ego parade on days wet with wind.
Salty spray and veins drowning in caffeine.
Who says I am this love, forlorn
weeping at the stones not knowing
which way the one-way street runs.
We last as long as any life,
dead the way we fear we can be.

But then guilt. Outlast memories
laid bare in the stretched out sun.
Seeing the same road. Where was it seen
before. If I lose my way. Truncated
body then falls apart to your masterpiece
misery. Karmic finale
a capella before the firing squad
filling me with blankness.
Me and my mind overloaded with judgment.
Spilling stained coffee the old women shun
for the rain-needled window.
Do you know what you’d like? As if
money can buy that kind of confidence,
that misleading self; my life choice
on the menu out of order.

As slow a meaninglessness this. This life
to eulogize these dreams.

If confusion then order got lost
in dead air. If cowardice then my heart
found comfortable prisons without walls.
This heavy darkness.
Self untold.
Not willing to know that feeling
wet waterless waves sharp stinging.
Still I live. In this shed skin.

Somewhere it’s fog. Those are mountains
ominous and belching out the sky.
Even the sea.
Murderous to reach my bones.

Meat Market, Part 1

And there it is, the everyday
fumbling of our sparse
lives, repetitive
echo of dysfunction
like history and its natural
humanness full of blood
and the shadowed
disgrace of trading
lives for economy. Truth is,
living is
a euphemism for work suffer
scrape and murder
your inner savage heart
leaping around its bleeding cage
on the marbled steps
of your fairytale
dogmatic duty to democracy.
Living is
the sound of sucking
your soul away,
making fat the Wall
street meat market purgatory.
Stack high the bones of dignity.
Your rusted hopes mortar the walls
of the ivory tower that pisses on you,
towering over your cowered head
while you pray for tax breaks
from a broken system
that broke your ba(n)ck.

Meat Market, Part 2

What be history but the
narrative of a planet's obituary?
The evidence conspiring against
powerless masses who yearn
only to live for themselves.
History's thousand year shackle
bonds us to duties and
dowries owed to
them masters who
grant us graces enough
to be a pittance of
existence, as if
they so kind
to let you wallow in
shit and cut
you to the bone
when you need
the meat, but
you far removed from that source,
that necessary umbilical cord of life.
Your mother's planetary breast.

What?
History?
Footnote of circumstance
pointing to primal circumcision,
the excision
of your dependence
upon the land supplanted
by the smooth
talking feeding hands of
emperor king pope president
sucking on a silver
spoon: feeding you bullshit, you
chew your educational cud,
take it like bitter pills and wash your brain
white like a lily, colorless
like lies.