cellular device, for lack of a better name

your single tattoo is fading,
your thick black hair
still short like high school.
your heart, cold as death

my body's aching,
my mind restless even thru
the medication percolations.
my heart, warming up to her.

i'd have paid your bills,
i'd have given you friendships
you'd never dreamed possible.
our union, supported.

not right now is never,
not right now is with him
until you know i'm with her.
it's juvenile, your drama.

untitled poem

it is not advisable
to go up and down
the same street
looking for new
shops
&
houses.
you will only encounter
bums asking for cigarettes,
dogs barking viciously,
neighbors watching
with concern
for their children.

nor is it advisable
to attempt to venture down
multiple streets simultaneously;
pieces of yourself will be lost
for the bums to rob
the dogs to eat
the neighbors to report
to the police.

whether or not
it is wise to
search each street
high, low
for whatever it is
you are searching
is not known to this
traveler.

ideally,
we should sit at
each corner
waiting to catch
a stranger's eye.
prostitute our
needs
&
gifts
whilst
danger lurks
in the night
&
the sun glares
upon our misconduct
for the duration of the day.

solace can only be found
with the rats
in the sewers,
with the drunks
in bar booths,
with pretty girls
in university tees.

C.G. Jung Parts I & II

Part I

I theorize about the sequence
of our days together, and
the decreasing probability of
those days continuing consecutively.

Consequently,
each day's connectivity
to the next
is a mindfuck ubiquitous
in each aspect of my routine.

Speak your will
in regards
to the direction you wish to take.


Part II

One chance in a number
fifteen sobering digits in length.
One quarter of the world's
circumferance in distance apart.
One young man.
One scientist.

One feeling middle-class male
argues
the possibility
of synchronicity.
He argues for his sanity.
He argues for his stability.
In the name of all things comprehendable,
he argues.

Even when his
quasi-normal
existence defines discomfort,
he argues.

Twenty-five playing cards.
Five square shapes on five cards,
five circle shapes on another,
etc.

One quasi-normal middle class male.
One misunderstanding scientist.
Twenty-five soulless playing cards.

on cummings

Cummings staggers on
for sixty-seven stanzas.
It gets to us.
His candor
pleasures us.

His intentions are clear,
but suggestively
indecisive.
Confusion abounds
where concise patterns
do not.

There's no pleasure;
I'm sure he is
a wonderful individual,
dismal living conditions,
pinatas and expression.

A revolutionary
whose cause
is represented as undesirable.

perception

"History is generally written
by those who saw the Light
rather than the Dark."

I guess that could be true.
Perception
is
Important.

Nevertheless,
would it be unrealistic
to suggest that the
reason we have not
learned from our mistakes
is not be choice,
but
because these
blinded-by-the-proverbial-light
historians?

Perhaps it is unrealistic,
in which case,
I withdraw my question.

near death experience

No one can explain something
that stretches the limit of language.
Fine and fucking dandy,
he says.
Marianne Faithfull
says otherwise.

It's funny;
when you change the channel,
all the other channels
continue broadcasting.
But you aren't watching them.
And for you,
it's as if they are there for
you and you alone.

Reality:
Earth is constantly turning
even when you venture
to another planet.
Reality:
It's my world.
It isn't yours.

Brother

Wish you were next to me
as these stars embrace me
as one of their own.
Things are coming to a close,
and yet the painful unfamiliarity
is pointing my eyes
to the road
as my home.

Wrapped in blankets and cold truth,
this chill night brings warmth
to my spine.
I look ahead, down this line,
to the highway that
has blessed me time
and time
again.

Wish my brother was next to me
as the sound of cars on the interstate
takes my breath away;
and, consequently,
I am suffocating,
I am clutching,
for ground beneath my feet,
for reassurance to befriend me,
for the Wild's arms to surround me.

My child's mind is the face
of the convict in the chair,
and I don't care what's next.
My mind is elsewhere,
by a fireside,
with my brother
next to me.