Sunday, July 20, 2014

Host of Seraphim - Dead Can Dance

Soft Work

Perhaps the things we do in life
do not add to much
Certainly we try
to make it all pay

We try to be true to our calling
remember our calling is true

But we change
the world changes
even the universe changes

You've changed.
I've changed.

I've decided.
To grow out my hair.

This does not count for much.

I've decided.
To play a game obsessively.
Sometimes until I pass out.

People will not be impressed.

I've decided.
Even though last night.
I threw up when I awoke.

The taste of acid was rough.
My stomach felt better without
its contents.

I'm tired of being a blimp.
Again, this doesn't count for much.

Fat Americans are not something unknown.

The angel descends
to your dresser
and knocks over the blessed virgin
so you know
to obey
your mother

And still you don't.

My car is wrecked.
My life resembles broken glass and splinters

I cling to the supercell
of dark hope and driving rain
and lost wishes and pain

And you.

And further. Away.

I dig.
The ley lines coursing beneath my village.


The evening brings the mosquito
with soft wing
and sharp tongue
and I know I will need to stop him
and so my eyes return.

And now.

And one by one.
I make them pay.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Jennifer Government

I remember
doing bong hits
on the hill
overlooking the factory
behind the golf course
or maybe it was acid

Maybe nothing at all.
I was sixteen.

It was a quiet night
The stars were out

The running lights of the machines
lit the sky sodium arc lamp
and washed the hillside
with an offshade orange

Everything looked perfect
from far away

Industry, and the night shift
helped everyone to get where they were going
within a socio-technical system
of poetry

Helped along.
By Google and Wikipedia.

I guess I was wondering what it was like to work
Being that I was stoned.

I wondered if it was better than what I was doing
above the loam

I guess now I can imagine
Jennifer Government
Barcode beneath her eye

Do Not Revive.
Across the Heart.

For How much could I sell my entire life?
How much you did you get for yours?

I made it home
Cutting Donuts across the Putting Green

In a beat up car
Through seven shades of teenage gray
And the sodium arc lamp haze

I made a B+ that summer
Even though I got an A.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Number 13, Baby - The Pixies

Because I look so incredibly cool

It suppresses appetite
acting as a mild stimulant

The smoke rises in curls
and helps me to ask.
Where is my mind?

But mostly.
As Woody Allen said.

Because I look so incredibly cool.

Let's get off our white asses.
Or whatever color you ride.

Let's do something worth doing.

Friday, June 20, 2014

The Difference Between A Vocation. And a Job.

He Answers for Her.

He answers for her.
He takes her calls.

He decides what she will do.
What she will say.
Where she will go on vacation.

She is the father of his child.
He takes a photograph of them all.
He puts it on his social media.
This is who he believes.

He is.

She keeps her back against the wall.

One day.
Before her.
He will stop and wonder.
His child will have grown old.
He didn't notice.
Until it was too late.

The day he realized; his children no longer want to go
to Disney World.

Maybe he will come up with a cheap substitute.
Senses working overtime.
But all too late.

He will get old.
His cock probably will not work.
Someone will try to sell him a pill.

He won't buy it.

And slowly, dumbfounded.
He will walk toward the woods.
Not the desert.

And he will face the beast with so many arms.
That he avoided for so many years
It will find him . He will name it Mr. Dark.

He will feel its hot breath
and burning eyes
It will strike
just below the throat
close enough
that he will feel rough callous
and skin.

The strength will bring memories
and he will be helpless
in its grasp

His first thought will be
Of a time when he played to win

And then. Maybe he will try to kill a mosquito.

He spent his life answering for her.
Telling her what to say.
What to do.

She spent her time regenerating.
Biding her time.
A new tattoo.
A girlfriend.
weaving flesh and bone
into a tapestry of calm.

Two cars are parked in the driveway.

His. And Hers.

And she will keep his truck. Because it looks good
In the driveway.

And she wants someone to think.
That there are two people at home.

Someone else will want it.
Perhaps. Her Son.

But it will stay.

Lines from the sun trace.
Like the broken glass
of a sacred phone.

That dropped from his nerveless grasp.
In the middle of the forest.

His hair. Had turned from black

into bright white.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Blade Runner - 8 Bit Cinema

Clash of Clans

The Drums of War are beating low

The Giants
Lumber across the battlefield
set your traps

Witches cast their dark spell
summoning with black magic
the undead

Black men just broken out of prison
(they've still got their handcuffs on)
riding wild hogs

Archers, Lads.

Will come to breach our walls
Knock out our security cameras
Take our Gold.
Smack up our Elixir.

Open the Castle.
And send in the Dragon.

And when they cross the rubicon.
It will be death they find.

Enemy, mine.