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.

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.