Posts Tagged ‘Modernity’

You step outside for some fresh air.
The crowded room
has been polluted by agreeable dreams
enough to choke on,
sweet and addicting enough
to go broke on,
so to clear the air, you step outside.

You rushed ahead, still holding your glass.
One last attempt at saving,
strategy or cowardice
frothing in your cup.
My hands grab your trailing coat
that elusive checkerboard
and you turn to yell, to scream,
to raise the hell from underneath us all.
And instead you will find yourself crying
uncontrollably. Like a baby that doesn’t know
that hungry feeling, that dreaming feeling,
and who cannot feed itself, or clothes itself,
without a little help.

My words lay down on infected streams
the venom of which
feeds the roots of a tree
whose seeds are smoked
for agreeable dreams.
What was once wild is now
processed and synthesized
and underneath the lights of a bill board
we kiss in a slight rain.

I finger the buttons of your coat
as I pull you tight
overcome by dizziness
and confusion, and pain
I’ll make you feel alright.
We’ll share a cigarette
while placing bets on when
lights would go to bed.
The babies, the kids,
and adults of all kinds,
share the same inclination
to pull sheets over their heads
and search for agreeable dreams.


Read Full Post »

The Rider

Turning the corner we see a rider
moments before an altar
we spent with his face
wiping his dew drop mirrors
as they run
down his quill and onto sheets
an echo to put clean linens on.

It is our turn
to reflect
on the water bed surface
where we used to float,
our backs turned on Hell.

O pinion plucked from Pegasus’ wing!
How you view the world,
your head dipped in black
standing, your end toward heaven
you see upside-down
your master has given you up
swinging like a pendulum
for certainty
you can run free
like a whirling dervish.

Read Full Post »

The unfortunate truth for those who hide themselves behind ration relativism is that what they are really looking for is justification, for ethical orders, for a completely irrefutable fact amidst a sea of turmoil – they are looking for truth. Oh sure, like the sophist they can speak around this issue but they cannot hide forever. They use the metaphysical nature of words against it. They turn her and make her cut her own arm off. They say she is limited because she speaks above the reality of the senses and then timestamp her body with the word “philosophy”. The one-handed, ravaged, dirty language of man is no longer something within herself she is nothing higher than a whore being used by every self-defined genius who aims to be novel by undermining all previous assumptions. They push her around a circle of bloated, unshaven, brutal men each taking there turn at removing her garments; imagery, metaphor, meter, rhyme, symbolism, and finally the jewel of her navel: poetry. They condemn her by calling her a liar, and justifying every vicious act they perpetrate on her with envious and insidious logic. Her once mirror-like eyes are too dirty to reflect the ugly faces of the darkened madmen who now parade her naked body through the streets calling themselves by the names of forgotten deities.

A boy sees her from the windows of his family’s house. He blushes and weeps for shame. In the innocence of his childhood he still knows to avert his eyes. But does he know to fight back? He blindly screams out the window to the crowd but their chanting is too loud. They carry her past the boy who never sees her go and to the church where they force her to stare at her shadow.

Read Full Post »

“I do not forget the ill affects of such mistakes
I merely let my brain filter out Aztec pitfalls and much
of the year spent with malaria. You see a life is not spent in history
it forsakes plain facts in favor of context and narrative.
The mind makes pilfering into excavation using
the same justification as a priest at an alter;
a still beating heart aloft in his hand. Call it profane
if you must but do not assume you do not do the same
when you lie to your children. At least my adventures are heroic
and their name will spread as fast as its mystery –
that is to say, at least I tell the world my lies.”                               

“I disagree with your premise kind Explorer. Man has no uniform
to put on or take off. History is neither fact nor narrative
but pedigree and convenience. Lies are only vicious when there is a truth
no matter how you justify. It is a pity that your genius
was so exaggerated. You may know much of nature but nothing of man.
I attribute much of your errors on the misfortune you had
being entrenched in ancient texts devoid of recent advancements.”

“You say such words with some authority which strikes me odd.
Don’t we share things with those ancients –
enough that they may guide us?
We’re nothing but clay – free to take shape, no two the same
but still clay.
Dissimilarities can be found among all things
only by first assuming they are common in some way.
Take the pyramids for instance in both Egypt and South America…”

“Do not try to assert yourself as an expert on people because you have
examined the affect they’ve had. Have you explored the brain
have you number the electrons, followed the neurons, and surveyed
the remains of a man long dead. Have you divined how to detect
the quantity and quality of man? Then do not tell me how to weigh
genus, species, and family because they are nothing but convention –
words that would cease to exist if we did so also.”


“Well if you think such of words
then we cannot have this discussion. Toward what end
would we continue to pontificate if tomorrow
if we all died and took our words with us.
Such an absurd thoughts brings only sorrow
to anyone with children. What cause would bring
you to this hell? That you would sooner remove
the power of your tongue then admit
to something beyond you – whether the thread of history
the endless grace, timeless nature, or the promise of words?
Why do you even speak? Why offer such grief to those
of us who respect words enough to use them with responsibility
rather than selfish charity – giving away only that which
you wouldn’t keep in your own home.”

“It is my duty, as it is with all mankind,
to seek the true shape of things.
Then to emerge with it in hand to send to all too weak of mind
to discover the same.
Call it the burden to knock down the wall. Doing
so ensures that our progression from apes was not for nothing.
We have emerged to tare the heavens down and finally unveil
reality for what it is –
a sham the scale of which astounds me
even as I prepare for bed each night. For even in the midst
of my deepest mind the universe still tricks me into thinking
that something is out there.
That my bed is soft, that my wife is happy,
that my children enjoyed that bedtime story.
Such experience doesn’t belong to me no matter
how many times I recall them. 
Despite my longing for them to be true. 
Memories are just useful fictions to
allow for sleep at night.”                             

“Then why do my memories frighten you
and my refusal to forget them? Why do you
care if I fabricate some details for the sake
of a good story – if all are untrue?”                            

“Because I care for you, dear explorer.
We are all in this despair together
and what would we be if we didn’t lend
a hand to those less fortunate than us.
Besides I can’t have you spreading such lies
around impressionable children. Heaven forbid
my own children would fall for such a line. I would
further discuss this matter, but we’re out of time.
Perhaps we can continue this later over prime rib and some wine
I know this secluded place down by the docks
perfect for such discussions.
Perhaps I could catch you coming in from another adventure.
Until then, dear explorer, do not forget what I have told you today,
it might serve you well.” 


Read Full Post »

Watch the clockwork children play,
two pupiled place holder eyes
long for the path of the freeway
that their forefathers criticized.

At night, they sleep, without fear
of snakes and monsters under the bed.
Mom’s comforting prayer
“You can’t die if you’re already dead.” 

Bravery is only a virtue if you have something to lose
but all that can be lost is the nothing they are
brains in computers, programmed to choose
between options too real and too far.

They are the new Achilles, born in the Styx,
walking zombies that death cannot fix.

Read Full Post »

“In line with protocol seven, two, four, two, three,
In the light of evidence presented to me,
and the congregation of equals assembled here,
by the power invested by the supreme and austere,
His Eminence the Executive, so endowed by the equal citizens
In reference to the God they once worshiped, I sentence
you with removal, with no chance of appeal,
As stipulated by the case Crick versus O’Neil,
of your corporeal extensions, including but not limited to
Those eyes, which were used in the crime, to view
that heretical work, banned in 2010
By the initiative of the equal men and women
of the courts of Athens, which references a man
Killed for his impiety and his foul plan
To corrupt the children.”

“Did you, or did you not, use this book
As a blueprint. This same text which we took
from your apartment room, while you worked,
as the lovable yet utterly incomprehensible clerk,
of the local movie rental establishment
adjacent to the store, whose underground basement
served as the launching ground of your so-called revolution
to re-instate that odious institution
Whose former universality was stripped
by the Immanuel act, of 2007,  for having gripped
the hearts of too many future elites
with such nonsense as a life more complete
beyond this one, such an act, so signed
removed that foul communion and any of its kind.”

“Also, in order to prevent you from further crime
we remove those lips which pantomime
a silent set of words, passed down in another heretical text
Whose name, so vile and so hateful that in such context
it would be a crime to even mention here,
In the hall of his Eminence, the supreme and austere,
Executive, whom pontificates such notions, which you hold dear,
So we do not have to. Then, having sacrificed the greater portion of a day,
He promulgates the laws discovered to Magistrate Grey,
Who then informs the equals, for their own good,  of what to say
In response to impious questioning. The same questioning
which brings you before this council, and upon this reasoning
we will also remove your legs, which were used to transport
the foul ideas with the help of your loathsome cohort,
as seen in diagram A.” 

 “Next to be removed, by public demand, are your arms
Whose slow and deliberate motions have caused more harm
than a sea of bombs, a rain of bullets, or an army of men.
A clean blade will be used to sever your left, and then again
to remove your right, in accordance with the Humane Treatment Act,
so written after a man prematurely died of a heart attack
During the open stages of that days festivities.
We have planned for such activities,
so that your sentence will not be expedited, and be fair
To all those who will gather there
In expectation for the final blow,
which, as you and I both know,
will not come until the ship returns from Delos.
Which will take a month, even if the strongest fellows
are working the oars.”

“Then finally, after that month, you will be burned
and your ashes, according to the punishment you’ve earned,
will be fired from a cannon into the plain.
With no epilogue or tombstone to remain,
to preach your vile form of heresy
You will be buried with your philosophy
so that your followers will see
what destiny awaits those who follow your path,
and in the light of the people’s wrath,
Whose equality demands such reverence
that any formal act of severance
Such as the continuation of your sect
Would be declared a diseased insect
Whose continued existence cannot be allowed,
and having already vowed,
To sacrifice their lives to fight against such foes
It would become the magnitude’s duty to overthrow
That attempt at tyranny.
Such is the sentence for being found guilty
of the inexcusable crime of treachery.”

Read Full Post »

Some things are made out of glass
Like old man clinging to pointless life
Having been replaced by a plastic class
Both cheap and disposable.

Flower vases on the sill remain
Feeling the window’s pane
Transparent, fragile, made to show
The roots of life which in water grow

Burdened by this fragile caste
Two lovers can never last
Their savior from fiery miracles
Now fills an old man’s spectacles

Read Full Post »