Underground.

In the beginning… there was light. There was “life.” There were all these goddamned green fields and rolling valleys of dreams and hidden landscapes that would fade away into the humming past tenses of things and people we used to know. And then there was blood. A raging war of condescending ideas (billowy and fragile) that would hang like clothes on a wire, clipped with those wooden grass-hopper looking things.

We now live in a hazy backdrop of buildings, smog and populace. Ten meters, five hundred. Its as indistinct as the mountains in the distance that only appear every other month early in the morning when half of you are still asleep. The rocks that you’re standing upon start to roll away, uncovering dirt dirt dirt that is riddled with miles and miles of mazes and twists and turns that dig deep into the earth’s upper crust… a safehaven for earthworms and bugs and diseases and all of these crazy, pointless and disgusting dreams that people are too afraid to wake up from. Miles hidden underneath your feet. What would it be like, just for a second, if you could just suddenly vanish within all of it. Just close your eyes and plug your nose and step into that terrestrial nightmare of disturbing shit and mess and mistakes that we walk over on a day to day basis. Sink into it all. Vomit. You see your neighbor fucking that sixteen-year-old girl who walks her dog early Saturday mornings. You see your mother coming home late at night with less makeup on than when she left - an bitter latex smell lingers from where she walks and nobody notices. You see yourself fingering what looks like a mirror image of yourself five years from now. Watch as you come. Its all a giant swamp of these conservative life-sucking morals and mishaps and not-beens and has-beens and never-will-bes and God and Che and Dali are all smoking a huge blunt together, their leftover roaches falling left and right and you’re telling yourself to stop this fucking madness but it wont stop because its so real that you cant tell what’s life, what’s dream or what you’re not really seeing. But, its all the same thing. Its thick enough to eat with a spoon. It smells like burning wire off the telephone poles that are barely standing behind your house. You know what’s even worse though? You got these characters, these people, who are sitting up above your head, and they’re shooting things like methamphetamines and god into their veins and their eyes are rolling back into their heads as the ecstasy begins to pump through their blood like a machine once void of gas. And they’re breathing in all of this fucking air that we figure is clean. Its not. And they’re breathing out all this smoke and poison and but no one really gives a fuck. And they’re popping pills to stay awake, popping pills to go to sleep. Pills for anger. Pills for sadness. Pills to fix your life into what exactly? And there’s subways and train stations and bus stops and freeways and all these intricate systems of transportation that get you from one place to other, and they’re shooting us through these veins to get their blood pumping and their eyes rolling into the back of their head because meth and god just aint cutting it for them anymore. But you’re safe here below ground. You’re safe here with the psychos and pedophiles and cock-suckers because its insanity to think you’re sane in a world that breeds contempt and dissatisfaction in an attempt to achieve perfection surrounding a dream that is too thin to even catch. So you’re stuck here. Stuck in a fucking underground sewage waste system of disease and shit and dreams that people are too afraid to wake up from. Stick your head back into the dirt.

meditations

To say simply that “life is just” or “life is fair” or anything of that sort of neutralizing atmosphere… would be partially shameless and about three-fourths irrelevant to our (meaning my) realities here and now.
My question to God (to Buddha, to Thoreau, to Bush, to Ginsburg, to the heavens and cosmos and universes beyond conception, to this fucking speck of dust on my desk) is “what the fuck?”

Carl Sagan… pass me a fucking light!

I don’t really understand exactly what the hell happens between justice and injustice… I’m not exactly sure where you would like to draw the line, or mark the point at which such development becomes too advanced to suddenly abort…
I don’t know. But I fucking wish I did.
It’s a cancerous feeling, something like this, where you’re almost positive that you should know. That you should have at least some sort of grasp on this type of judgment, but you come to find that you really have no idea whatsoever. No opinion. No say.
No goddamn clue.
And excuse my extraneous cussing and deferment from all that is holy and pure. I don’t live my life that way.

I want some fucking validity. And I want it now.

another poem

this one i wrote my senior year of high school....

As in our evils, wherefore we stand unguided
to be to the other, a cause of misery.
And with that tremulous desire, our lust reminded
from that from which we fear for most
Let us make short then, this refute
But all corrupt - both mind and will shall
endlessly dispute

But faith comes not at call, not bound
nor with the echo from which soon learned
But simply to answer, and resound
amidst the proud fraud of a lover's words.
Mangled now, a founded belief, unmoved
where to not believe would simply be
vanity removed.

a poem

I had a coffee break with the devil.
A plan to meet his four girls.
I walked up to his apartment,
Sixth street, third floor.
I knocked twice, a mawkish grin on my face
He opened the door modestly,
Was it difficult finding my place?
He asked.
And before I forget,
My daughters, Cruelty, Jealousy, and Secrecy
They each nodded with recognition.
Oh yes, and Terror. She’s in the kitchen making coffee.