HAVING MET THE DIRECTOR I WEEP

Your life is a like a cable channel popular series
The characters in it are worshiped by the masses
Come Monday let’s all gather by the water cooler

And talk about some shabby shit ass script more interesting
Than anything we have ever done in our existences
And so you lament

The queen character in the first season
Had been killed off by a plague
Only to return in the third season

Wherein she laid waste to the kingdom
Once again
But you loved every minute of it

Every shallow turn of the story
You could not keep your eyes off
Of her platinum hairdo

In the second season the jester in the court
Was turned into a nightingale
That could grant wishes to anyone

Who might capture it
In a cage woven from the hair of a virgin
Born of a genie and a sorceress

Once in the cage the bird would grant
Anyone their greatest desire
Knowing that at least

If that granting still did not appease
Them then the mere wishing for it
Became the thing which was important and would

Lead on to season 6 and a parade
Of new useless characters
About as interesting as broom straws

In the 4th season a cousin of the king appeared
Out of nowhere
A cousin who should not have existed

Because they weren’t even hinted at in the previews
Of the still to come planned prequels or even the WE DON’T
KNOW WHERE TO GO WITH THIS CHARACTER next

File that explained nothing about the direction
This phony script of your life was taking
And yet all along you knew the story was fiction

Just like your sad empty life
The one you live strictly in your cerebellum
If it could be said that you lived your own fairy tale

Without any commercial interruption
And that no sponsor would sponsor
Your ridiculous life tale anyway

Then you could live with that
But along came the summer replacement series
One in particular one being no false kingdom

To be sure there was royalty in the script
But these new royals wore denim and rope
This show was called “reality”

They killed Indians freely in each installment
They knew that they were God’s chosen few
Yes grudges were held

Swirling grudges but still
The storylines got strung out
Like fine spider’s string

And stretched to the nth
And woven into a doily of the universe
An intricate weave pattern that seemed

To imply so much
The producers hoped that
You would fall asleep on the couch

And that before anyone could notice
That tonight’s episode was just a dribble
Of the episode before it and nothing more

Barely an echo of something that the previous
Episode could not even approach being what
One might call original, interesting or even more

Than just another stale piece of crap
That flew out of your horrible channel head
As you spun the tv wheel changer

THE RITUAL BEGINS AND ENDS

Driving through the parking lot
I see the raven perched atop the lamp post
It’s blackness emphasizing a wounded mystery

Is it the same bird I saw last summer?
Maybe not
But still it reminds me

You were sent to be my punishment on this earth
For all my sins real and imagined
Life is a vise

It holds us firmly in place to be shaped by
All the events of our existence
The rough edges sawed off

Words are a rasp as well
The  teeth cut into us
Removing large chunks of our hopes,

Fears, hates, loves, imaginings
of that which will never be
Life is a vise

It crushes us
So that a song spills out
Of our cracked heads

It is a key that opens up the
Parts of us we have pretended
To have forgotten but with the melody

Here is everything that was
And ONCE UPON A TIMES
Spill out onto the ground

I can hardly bear to stand
Upon a ground that shifts and sways
Beneath my feet

As I recall all the long afternoons
Of past mistakes
Yet also her golden body

Worth worshiping
A mirage she appears to me as someone
Spoken of in legends

EPIC FAIL ME WHY DON’T YOU

Now that the worst has happened
All of the would be prophets
Come crawling out from under
The rocks into the pale day

All saying SEE I TOLD YOU SO
I told you this would happen
See right there in that article I wrote
Way back in ancient 1998

And wasn’t that just so helpful?
Just like Nostradmus’ prophecies
He predicted everything that would
Ever happen and I mean ever

Except the continuing interest in
He and his useless crypto prophecies
A changed letter here an off syllable there
Oh yeah what a quatrain he wrote

He almost told us about all the coming crashes
Of ships at sea and empires and economies
He almost told us we would become stupid and
Apathetic about our lives and each other

Like we needed a prophet for that
All we need is a mirror for that
A magic mirror
The one in the bathroom will do

Just stand in front of it
Gaze into your eyes
Search the depths of the soul
That lies behind them

You will see if you look
Long and deep enough
Your future in this place
How things will go

If it is not clear at first
Just keep looking
Your past, present and future
Are here

They were imprinted in their wholeness
Before you were born
Almost everyone can see
It if they just look

But most of us don’t like what
We see or get it at all
So we just brush our teeth and smile
Hoping for the whitest and brightest

Smile that will get us through
All of the things that are coming
For us the good
And the bad and the ignored

NOT GOING GENTLE, NOT A GOOD NIGHT

Sometimes late at night
When I am all alone
(Well the TV’s on
But that is still being alone)

A small visitor, a ghost, appears
In the doorway of the living room
He comes to visit me again
I try to ignore him

But in the end I cannot
So strong is the presence of one
I never really knew
But whom I still love

I do not blame him for his visits
Perhaps he is looking for validation
Absolution maybe for leaving unexpectedly
At the moment of his birth

I whisper that he has nothing
To be forgiven for
That my penance is required
Not his

Finally when he has left me
I try to go to sleep
But I know the demons are out of the corral
And my dreams will not be good

They say that hating someone is a bad thing
But loving someone can be almost as bad
Both are mysteries dwelling in the human heart
Which I now know will never be revealed

HOLEY RELIC

A life mask of my face
Made years ago
Fell off a table
And broke the other day

I could feel the life force
Tumbling out of me
Perhaps I will be luckier
With my death mask

I won’t be around to notice when it breaks

Gurdjieff On Toast

Another day in the prison yard.
The sun feels good on my face and bare arms.
My peripheral vision is on high alert like an animal that
waits.

I work to keep the guards and other inmates at bay.
Lash out when I need to. They are the same to me.
They intrude upon my existence.

Each believes that they are somehow in control of their
never ending situation of shit. Last time I checked
we are all inside this place together.

The handwriting is on the wall.
And it ain’t going anywhere.
Some try to scrub it off or paint over it or ignore it.

But it has this magic way of bleeding through again and again.
Appearing always. Always appearing.

With each appearance the words are the same:
To plan your escape you must first realize you are a prisoner.

Damn.
I’m working on it.

HAMMERING PLOWSHARES INTO SHARED PLOWS

Massive transfusions will continue until the intuition of the monkey tells us to stop.

Thought processes eradicated while trying to make sense with a hammer.

What if we ARE the accident?

Not knowing our names we resort to labels.

Dulce bellum inexpertis. Hiccup.

Absentum laedit cun ebrio qui littigat. Belch.

The individual is the old.

The universe is the new.

We must strive for an eternal unity in Life, Art and Culture.

Then we must strive to let everything collapse in on itself.

Walk until your feet are gone.

Parturient montes, nascetur ridiculu mus. Cough.

Legum servi ut liberi esse possimus. Fart.

Castigat redendo mores. Fall down.

If there is but one reason that you live then you better find one more.

Seek truth even in lies.

All bleeding stops eventually.

Love is just an excuse for war.

War is just an excuse for pretending.

Pretending is an excuse for not knowing.

WHY SPEAK OF LOVE

Everyone worth knowing is dead.

We are stuck with each other from here on out.

Those who are gone took all the good ideas with them.

We are but sorry echoes, empty boxes, made into puppet faces.

Our colors have run dry as we walk gristled paths

that lead only to our shabby selves.

Wishing to hope; hoping to wish; speaking only

to fill the empty hours. A clock screams.

All the great thoughts have been used and then discarded.

We don’t even bother waiting for Godot anymore.

A hexagram of possible scenarios happens all at once in a

simultaneous blitzkrieg of apathy.

Like the squalid conditions down on LOVE ME AVENUE

where grows the pygmy redwood forest that catches errant

dream bags, blown about by putrid winds, in it’s branches.

My ID hides from my EGO just to give Freud a punch line.

As he sleeps the cold sleep of the demented.

Standing in a stormy night, in a lighthouse, a lost ship signals for help, from the sea.

I flip the switch of the big light off. Ask the damn sturgeons for directions.

Life is like an art competition. I’ve submitted my proposal, kissed the curatorial ass

of God, and giddily await my rejection letter.

It feels wrong to be here and deaf ears hear my failure as a Black Ops mission unfolds

in my brain. I attack myself and surrender to face charges of merely stupid.

Knives are drawn. Dolls constructed using dull, fragments of raggedy, chewed No.2

pencils as limbs, the now leathery skin from the face of the girl in the Coppertone ad

who has stood on the beach for over 60 years while successive generations of that

damned dog pulls her shorts down revealing a white peeked butt crack, is harvested for

the faces.

Why speak of love? It never talks about us. Her naked body transcends any fantasy he

might hope to imagine and he is thrown down the stairs of desire.

HOMAGE DE KAKA

BUT REALLY LIFE IS STARTING TO SUCK

I AM SO SICK OF LIVING AND OF COURSE THERE’S ALWAYS

SOME SMART ASS TO TELL YOU “ITS BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE”

BUT WE REALLY DON’T KNOW THE ALTERNATIVE

WE DON’T KNOW AND THAT’S THE HONEST TO GOD TRUTH

SO HOW ABOUT A BIG BOWL OF SHUT THE HELL UP

TONIGHT I SAW A YOUNG HOMELESS

WOMAN IN THE 7-11 PARKING LOT

HER SHOPPING CART FULL OF ODDS AND ENDS

I SHOULD HAVE STOPPED AND GIVEN HER SOME MONEY

OR SOME FOOD OR SOME GOOD WISHES

OR A HANDSHAKE AND A PRAYER

SHE HAD HER DIRTY BLANKETS, TARPS, EXTEMPORANEOUS CRAP

AND BOUCOUP OBJECTS DADA DE NADA

AND A BAG FULL OF LOST GOD PARTICLES

SHE STOOD PLEADING

ARMS OUTSTRETCHED PLEADING HER CASE TO SHOPPERS

EXITING THE STORE BEGGING FOR CHANGE I SUPPOSE

BUT SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN BEGGING FOR HER SANITY

FAT LOT OF GOOD THAT WILL DO HER

THE PROBLEM WITH BEING SANE IN AN INSANE WORLD

OR VICE VERSA IS THAT THEY DON’T MATCH UP

EACH CANCELS THE OTHER OUT

AND I WANT SO BAD TO SEE SOME SENSE MADE

OUT OF THIS DAMNED WORLD

AND THAT IS A SICKNESS RIGHT THERE

FROM WHICH FEW EVER RECOVER

NOT THE EXISTENTIALISTS. NOT SHAKESPEARE.

NOT THE CHRISTIANS. NOT THE BUDDHISTS. NOT

THE DADAISTS. NOT THE COWBOYS AND NOT THE INDIANS.

NOT THE YOUNG. NOT THE OLD. NOT THE HAPPY. NOT THE SAD.

NOT THE ONES WHO CARE. NOT THE ONES WHO ARE CARELESS.

NOT THE DREAMERS. NOT THOSE WHO LOST THEIR DREAMS.

NOT THE WOMEN AND NOT THE MEN.

NOT THE HOPEFUL. NOT THE HOPELESS.

NOT NOBODY NOWHERE NO HOW.

NOT THE POLITICIANS. NOT THE THIEVES.

NOT THE PRIESTS. NOT THE BELIEVERS.

NOT THE LOVERS. NOT THE HATERS.

NOT ANYONE RECOVERS FROM THIS LIFE.

AND THAT IS A BIG PART OF THE PROBLEM THAT ADDS UP

TO THE QUOTIENT THAT IS OUR LIVES

WE ARE GIVEN SECRET NUMBERS

WE ADD THEM UP

TALLY THEM AGAIN IN DISBELIEF

WE GOT A MEDIAN AVERAGE OF ALL MOMENTS

THAT WE HAVE LIVED AND I TELL YOU WHAT

YOU WILL BE VERY LUCKY IF IT ADDS UP AT ALL

AND THIS THEN IS THE LIE OF LIFE

THAT THERE IS SENSE TO BE MADE HERE

THERE IS NOT AND THERE NEVER HAS BEEN ANY SENSE

AND NOW WE KNOW WHERE ALL THOSE DUMBASS ZOMBIE

MOVIES AND BOOKS AND TV SHOWS GET THEIR INSPIRATION FROM

WE. ARE. THE. ZOMBIES

DADA DE NADA

IF YOU GET A JOB

YOU GET MONEY

THEN YOU CAN BUY STUFF

IF YOU GET A BETTER JOB

YOU CAN GET BETTER STUFF

BETTER SO MUCH BETTER

TV TALKS ABOUT STUFF TO BUY

YOUR FRIENDS TALK ABOUT STUFF TO BUY

MAGAZINES TALK ABOUT STUFF TO BUY

THE PRESIDENT WANTS THINGS TO GET BETTER

SO PEOPLE SHOULD START BUYING MORE STUFF

BECAUSE THEN THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE STUFF

WILL PROSPER AND MAKE LOTS OF MONEY

THEN SOME OF THAT MONEY WILL TRICKLE DOWN

AND IF YOU GET A JOB YOU WILL GET THAT MONEY

IN OUR COUNTRY PEOPLE GO TO SCHOOL TO

GROW UP TO BE SUCCESSFUL STUFF BUYERS

LAWS ARE ENACTED TO PROTECT EVERYBODY’S STUFF

ON SUNDAYS PEOPLE GO TO CHURCH

AND THE PREACHER TALKS ABOUT STUFF

AND A GOD WHO MADE THE FIRST STUFF

GOD HAS MAGICAL STUFF

HE WILL SHARE IT WITH US

BUT FIRST WE MUST DIE AND GO TO HIS HOUSE

BACK ON EARTH WE HAVE ARMIES

THESE ARMIES PROTECT ALL OUR STUFF

OUR SOLDIERS ARE HEROES WHO DIE FOR STUFF

ART IS MADE ABOUT STUFF

STUFF THAT HAPPENS TO US AND TO OTHERS

SOMETIMES THE ART IS NOT UNDERSTANDABLE

BUT IT IS ONLY ABSTRACT STUFF

ABSTRACT ART IS STUFF ABOUT

OTHER STUFF THAT IS NOT UNDERSTANDABLE

THANK GOD FOR STUFF

WHAT THE HELL WOULD WE DO WITHOUT STUFF

I WILL STUFF MY STUFF IN THE STUFF BAG OF REALITY