February 10th, 2009


new stuff

this is my new poem...


it'll be quite a shock
to breathe this air
to discover loss
so I'd like to make some changes
before you arrive
so when your new eyes meet mine
they won't see no lies
just love.
        conor oberst

a gangland guatama
glistens in the streetlight
silhouetted by
the fear of an unending decade
where the streets never get clean.

but that don’t matter, they all say
because city ave ain’t no place
to talk philosophy,

and moksha doesn’t matter
lookin down a glock.

ain’t her place, anyway.
a fluorescent bulb flickers
and dies
on a tv screen
a cathode ray american dream where
curiosity deemed whole recedes
at the point where my ‘i’ perceives
the privilege i receive.

a birthright of cubist realities
cheapens words to trite syllables
and distorts dictionary definition,
cookie-cutter huts of extravagance
to cavernous cathedral-ceiling castles.

She sits reciting
Cyclical mantras
As the pinnacled buildings
Perspire melted snow
Onto the ground below her.

Before her echo ridiculous
Masses chanting fractured
Syllables her way.

She tries to order and achieve
Each dying call, but all slips through
Her half-handed grasp.

the masses fade and a snake
slithers silently to her side,
presses against her skin,
and announces his presence
in her contemplating ear.

all that she has worried has found her
at last:
all was he.
ramparts of clarity buttress basilisk bases,
appearing so banal and basic,
whispering to announce our presence.
days defined by downing glenlivet  and walker,
simplistically providing proof of our
potential prowess for achieving
an absolut absolution, only appear
as opportunistic failures of
promethian foresight.

blades we once used
to physically manifest our
constant distress
now guide us to lines
of charismatically enlivening
sneezes between drags of a
skullfucked cigarette.

time reminds us of reluctant regressions
to those capitalist dogmas we define
as contrary to complete commune/ication
so we bend its hands and mail ourselves
to distant lands
with acidic postage stamps.

but burning holes in our tongues
is no substitute for burning our lungs
with the sole ingredient of an ethereal
existence, soaking our souls in dopamine
dragons, antagonizing our alveoli to
agonize our angst.
the cloud bloomed so effortlessly from her lungs;
a word isolated in the distance between
now and the tip of her tongue.

the syllable glided endlessly
among gossamer webs connecting
vast galaxies and far-off stars

the thought mingled with
emperors and celestial kings
and dined with euripides
on saturn’s rings.

the light weakened in time
and became tired,
forgetting it’s destination

the pen glided endlessly
on the page where her life had become
a trite entertainment.

a mere echo of a story.

i blacken my lungs and pick up a pen
to poke holes in this hellish pinnacle
of postulation, praying to provide
proof of providence
until we must satiate our hunger and
saturate our fat and doze off in
idyllic Sunday romances.

i’m changing the bulb in my heart,
the blacklight’s disorienting my daze
and defining my days in metric and
tippecanoe titans.

but razor burn turns most replies
to regressive stutters of something
slighter than jugular release
to a staggering symphony of
judicial legalism.
the day begins to rumors
of a plan which never hatched;
well-thought out under the shade
of the night before.

but each day learns this lesson
with such staggering aptitude
that it’s hard to even think
this path will break.

a final destination near is
a shade of the world to be.

echo on, like the prophet said
to future greatness, and added she,
plentiful progeny.

my desire does not flush with the borders
of my ambitions, disjointing my days
with manic manifestations of
my machiavellian manacles, swiftly
sanctifying a santerian soliloquy i
have been writing in this forest dark
bordering on the tigers domain
quarter-way through life’s brief journey.

everything is illuminated in the
lightness and the happiness habitating
in the cores of our hearts
cold and dark.
the mineshaft collapsed today:
burying her burning love in the
caverns between her heart and brain.

we suspect foul play.

seen in the shadows fleeing the scene,
witnesses say,
was an insidious looking snake.

we see in our futures rural car
crashes after
hedonist paradoxes.
we see in our futures the only uncertainty
certain to puncture psychically perrenial
we see in your eyes every question left
with vague replies.
we see in our futures our pasts.
she only had to relieve a little pressure,
let some oxygen in for the miner’s,
they’ve been trapped for eight days.

the must be drowning by now,
so she cut the main valve.

the blade illustrious bade no ill will,
calling forth from the darkness
an unebbing flow, accepting all sins,
and bearing their yoke, let grow
two seeds planted within untended soil
buried just beneath the surface of her wrists

twin rivers break at epidermal estuaries
and pool in the valley vaguely cupped below,
filling it with life.
holding and realizing such power, she realizes it leaves just as quickly…
bleeding out under 95
loses it’s glamour
when the only thing your eyes can see
is the emptiness you’re trying to escape.
a good samaritan would be too easy—no
no happy endings in last second fortuities.

i’ve got a triple-coil pickup
in the (francis scott) key of
g (drum) major recalls his
corporal (works of mercy)
from the 82nd floor of
a cut-time tragedy
with a quarter note leading tone
to set the mode for future major-
minor choices.

it hasn’t yet resolved.
why did it have to be so cold
i should have waited to feel
spring’s first thaw.

the touch of the new air
inside of my whole--
ambulatory lights flash through a red light
dragging her resanguinating
corpse towards the temple bearing
moses’ crest
she tries to tell them
no, no, a snake is the reason, not the solution
but whispering from far away just loses its purpose.
the miner’s drown anyway,
sources aren’t sure
just how many
there were,

but families have been notified.
in other news,
the inexplicable power failure
that struck much of the east coast
is slowly being fixed.
teams are working around the clock,
to avert more tragedies.

“Prabhujee dayaa karo
o lord, take pity on me
Maname aana baso.
come and live in my mind
Tuma bina laage soonaa
it is empty without you
Khaali ghatame prema bharo.
fill love in this empty pitcher”
adi shankara no le conoció
jesucristo no fue al cielo
muhammad no oyó la tormenta
el buda no bebió el soma
k'ung-fu-tzu no supo la manera del fin de semana
they were on top of her
when she woke up.
raping her with
pvc and rubber tubes.

she didn’t understand
why they insisted on
being inside her now.
she screams.
one two three breathe for me
“¡uno dos tres, montó a ti!”
help me save me heal me
“¡rescáteme, tu hijo de puta!”
feel me touch me call me
“¡llámeme o coma mierda, cabrón!”
i take refuge in the buddha the dharma and the sangha
i stand at the gate of all mysteries
don’t act, contend.
don’t act, contend.
eso es el atman eso eres, shvetaketu
a major tonic.