Political Sonnet

I Speak to God. God Speaks to Me. (put to music)

All is quiet on the Western front;
All gets quieter when I’ve come undone.
But nothing’s ever as still as still can be –
I wear the suit and the suit wears me.

And all is raging in the Middle East;
And it all rages more when the war will cease.
But nothing’s as checkered as checkered can be –
I speak to God and God speaks to me.

But what you are missing
Is your wretched dealings and ploys.
But once again,
The president will send
To the Middle East more wretched boys.

All is peaceful on Capitol Hill;
And it only gets more so with each vetoed bill.
But nothing’s as rabid as a wolf can be –
I’m a politician – politician’s come to me.
But what you are missing
Is your wretched dealings and ploys.
And once again
Our president will send
To their grave more wretched boys.

All is pretty in the memorial cemetery;
It all gets prettier when more soldiers are buried.
But nothing’s as dead as a dead soldier can be –I shot the infidel and he shoots at me.

Tribute Poem

A tribute to Allen Ginsberg.

Tribute to a Writer on the Same Dreadful Typewriter

Bookshelves of
dictionaries
classics
visionaries.
Poets of probably tomorrow
now we will allow them
to bow in admiration
before those writers
in their underrated glory.

Cardboard boxes of
useless dictionaries
stolen library classics
ignorant visionaries.
Poets of everyday alcoholism
never will the schisms
of a lord risen
or a void forgiven
be in such overrated glory.

Let us police our blockbusters
and raid the
porno
blood
in-case-you-didn’t-know.
Screen-writers of any day but today
always will we find pleasure
in Hollywood’s treasured
minds of nowheres
all ground up in concrete.

Classrooms of
nobles
peasants
rebels.
Learners of maybe yesterday
but probably not
we will unite in the fury
determined to protect prayer and crucifixes
while curriculum consists of shit on a page.

Factories of
convicts
mutes
derelicts.
Geniuses fucked on a daily basis
our taxes are paying for
their trauma desolate and vague
nurses and doctors responsible
for the AIDS epidemic in America.

Families of
mis-loves
incompetents
lovers of fuck.
Children raised for eternity
now are irrelevant
because now is irrelevant;
now is what those capitalists
are praying for
not the future.

Socialism is not scene.

Weapon Made of Paper

Roped up like a towed-away truck.
Fucked up like I’ve never believed in luck.
Even though I can’t breathe,
I can still see, and
I can still think.
The deed no longer merits finishing.

Passed out like I’d been at work all day.
Blacked out like eternity is finally here to stay.
Even though I’ve run out of life,
I still believe in the power of time, and
I still believe I will, one day, feel fine.
My life no longer is mine.

Liked it like I’d fallen in love.
Write it like no one has ever done.
Even though my pen has run dry,
I still feel that the rules of the unsaid still apply, and
maybe things will get better between suicide and I.There is still a very substantial divide.

Crying like I’d fallen from my mother’s arms.
Striving like I’ll eventually be out of harm.
Even though I’m always on the edge of a cliff,
I still know I’m throwing another fit, and
you, dear, reader, should by no means give a shit.
I often mistake a ridge for a cliff.

Rediscovered like I’ve found the same chest of treasure.
Recovered like this is some new kind of pleasure.
Even though I know the first names of all the ER nurses,
I still know I can defeat my curses, and
my weapon may be found somewhere within these verses.Each day, it seems my opinion reverses.

Delivered like Jesus really actually is my savior.
Triggered like I must correct some unhealthy behavior.
Even though I’m a victim of psychotherapy,
I still know they don’t have all of me, and
I still know suicide and I can create some kind of treaty.
After all, I am well-armed with soft words and good deeds.


Technically, Yes, It’s Legal

I know the undying dream
of slipping on one of the attic steps –
One .moment. categorized:
Accident.

The categories range from
intoxicated
to
suicide.

Most are boring.
Suicide, however, is interesting,
mostly because it’s intrinsically attractive.
It appears in numerous old folk narratives,
but hell, those people never really lived,
unlike Elliott Smith. Suicide he did commit. But that’s enough about him.
I have attempted this unpunishable sin.
I was preoccupied with it,
at least for .moments. that seemed infinite.
It took its time for the fuck of it
for a lack of other important business
like killing off the president.
That motherfucker needs it. But that’s more than enough about him.
I was obsessed with it.
I was more in love with it –
by me it was undividedly hated.
But it had hate for all that lived,
almost as much as I had for it.
Me, like the kid who lost his best friend…
He was confused with it. But no one talks about him.

Suicide almost took me from my best friends.Because of this,
I am more than determined
to keep it from happening again (the almost, that is)
I’ll fight it with my blue bloody hands.
It will not steal me from my best friends.
The thing about suicide is,
it only takes one fuck-up hit
and you’ve done yourself in.That’s it.That’s the end.
No more “’round the fuckin’ bend.”
Immediacy has become your sole friend.Yeah, this is the end.You’ve known this since you were ten,
since you were lost in a blood-bath bed.

End.


* Manifesto Nihilo *

Two poems

Both of these were published in a literary journal based in ft. wayne, in. I read them both aloud at the journal's reading. It was quite the experience.

Twenty-Seven (A Collapse of the Knees)

Simply because we are both sad
like autumn trees,
we want no room to breath
just space to bleed.

Slit the wrists –
one hit, two hits.

Simply because we are both lying on the tile
like collapsed knees,
we want no air to chill us
just medication to fill us.

Shoot the shit –
three hits, four hits.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have dreams in our slumber,
put out the welcome mat for death;
step it up, take a number.

Simply because we are both sad
like summer breeze,we want no t-shirts untucked,
just some reason to fuck.

Rip the stitch –
five hits, six hits.

Simply because we are both sad
like skeleton keys,
we want no standard protocol
just whiskey, some vodka, lots of alcohol.

Taking shit –
this hit, last hit.

And with our end-all get-a-fix,
we’ll have fine dreams in our slumber,
put out the flowers, welcome mat for death;
step it up, they’ve called our number.


This Is Your Baby Speaking

Caught his pants on the door knob,
lost her dress due to heart throb.And the soldiers march again,
filed up, hundreds of them.

Remarkable.
That was the kiss up.
Phenomenal.
I do believe we just saw the hit up.

Caught his hand on the bed frame,
lost her innocence because of her shame.
And the parents march again,
secret police, too many of them.
Unmistakable.
That was the fuck up.
Holy shit!
I think we witnessed the touch up.

Caught his kid on the dollar,
he wouldn’t have tried to stop her.
And the CPS march again,
legal thieves, a pair of them.

A poem

This is a poem written while at boarding school.

While Attending Church (Involuntarily)

The candles representing
the lives born twice
are burning unevenly.

This church building is
filled with blue light
and tears.
I sense justification.
And the cliché artificiality
we love to bitch about.

There are hands outstretched here,
arms crossed there.
But there are a lot of
mixed emotions everywhere.

There is a common thread here,
“I am incapable of change alone.”
“In Christ alone.”
The religiosity is strangely
ignorantly
disgustingly
appealing.

Who is this god to whom they pray?
Who is this Jesus to whom they give
their fears away?
What is this building that is filled
vacant
with pain misplaced.