Ultimate Truth

I am going to die.


You are going to die.


Forget faith,


forget politics.


That is the ultimate


truth we all face.


Act accordingly.

the days become a senseless river flowing into the ocean

The Way of the Bear

Create Reality.

Death of the World's Greatest Solipsist: A Novel Not In Progress

I.


Born During The Reign Of A Bastard King.
     
     a. Bedlam In The New World.


II.


True Stories Of A False History.


     b. Every True Fairy Tale.


III.


The Penetrating Stare Of Loneliness.


     c. The Solitude Of Understanding.




Post-Script: 


Every Life A Pattern, Every Pattern A Place

Unfortunate Love

I LOVE YOU


THAT IS PRECISELY WHY


WE SHOULD NEVER


BE TOGETHER

...dying.

mental recap kneecap treesap running my mouth
can't say why or know yes or jest maybe just but
no ice please broken heart or spinal realignment
take you feet and place them in your hands free
right write goes easier than planned pursuits of
suits dressed in old button down blues its easier
for me to say i told you so remember when you
asked me if you should date him or not nothing
much has changed has it the accusing hand of
our own choices is tired of its job whats the use
this exercise in futility diarrhea of the mind spills
easily and stains your clothes we would if we
wanted to and we want to do do the things that
we shouldn't do I want you I want this I want
everything I am a greedy human being the day
will come I'll be a human was no longer being
a transitional state from here to there but where
is the destination or perhaps its a state unknown
to us on this lonely plane of mortal isolation you
were so pretty and i'm so homely dear why do
you still wander we never settle until we do then
its only because we're tired we're sick of the game
of everything then there isa solution of surrender
and we give in so easily always so so so so so so
easily god why oh why do you lament your life
its so hard right now i know you always say that
the needle is skipping on the record you should
take a look you can't escape the fate you make
for yourself change it can you can I are we stuck
trying to try and trying to live to die trying all the
time try baby try cry baby cry lie baby lie it's all
you can do to keep from crying it's all you can do
to keep from lying it's all you can do to keep from

scene in progress

Her hands were folded neatly in her lap.
He tried to not let his heart burst through his chest.
She looked over at his hands
and the way they fidgeted
trying to find a place to rest.
They had a place in mind
but couldn't go there without
traversing a space of internal measure.
They decided upon
his lap, palms down, to wipe
off the clammy sweat.

Things I've Been Meaning To Say To You

Stop asking me if you look pretty,
you do.

Breakups are inevitable,
yours bums me out.

You're an awesome person
regardless of what anyone says.

I've always thought we'd make
a good team.

Keep trying to get your life
together.

I think about you when we're
at work together.

Don't be a passive aggressive bitch,
be honest and direct.

Love


is inevitable,


eventual.

As She Wakes

A pale arm emerges from the sheets,
the fist stretches its fingers and reaches for air.
She pulls the sheet off her body
revealing skin like freckled porcelain.
The cold morning has left
her nipples to point the way forward.
Her eyes scan the room
and find a pair of boxer shorts
and a t-shirt too large
for her frame. She pulls
the shorts on, and soon
the t-shirt drapes over her chest.
Her bare feet step quietly into the kitchen.
The dishes have piled up. Empty glasses:
pints, tumblers and shots
are scattered all over the counter
and the cluttered dining room table.
The broken body of an empty fifth sits dead
at the base of one of the table legs.
Sunlight reflects off shards of irregular prisms.
She approaches and backs away
and towards the fridge. Inside
the fridge she looks for her iced coffee
from yesterday morning. Looking over
to the trash, it sits on top.
Another victim of last night.
A smoke, she needs a smoke.
She finds her purse and opens
the pack of cigarettes.
Only two left.
She looks for her lighter,
it too has gone the way of the iced coffee.
There are matches in the bathroom she remembers.
She strikes the match against the box
and brings it towards her face. She takes a drag
and lets it fill her lungs.
She steps out her apartment door
and finds most of the parking spaces
downstairs to be free.
It must be morning she thinks.
She can hear the faint sound of street traffic.
The cigarette smoke floats and dissipates.
She leans against the rail, wondering.

As She Wakes

As She Wakes

A poem/prose piece written and recited into my digital recorder today.

Loneliness won't get me tonight.

resonance

my voices echoes

back at me

in the dark,

i become

a hall 

of mirrors.

The Ballad of Everyone

Fervent Faith

Night of the Dogs

The dogs are barking outside

and no one is sleeping.

The dull roar

of the planes overhead

softens their barks

for only a moment.

Their agitated

conversation continues

with no end.

This thesis


argues with 


a faulty


sense of analysis.

Unlikely Celebration

Sitting next to each other
talking like people do
when they go out to bars
cigarette smoke
loud voices
formerly beautiful bartenders
drunken broken hearted
people singing
along to melodies
familiar but butchered
in late night hours
ruined by life
living all the same
parking lots semi filled
a mortuary sits nearby
the dead
lay as aged as top shelf
whiskey on gurneys
human sized
popsicle trays
soft long hair
i touch it
like silk
i think to myself
its the first time
we ve done this
i wanted you close
i wanted you closer
we kept buying
drinks for each other
we both had
to get up early
the next morning
we said to each other
get close
get closer
we left
and found ourselves
in the same place
once more

Your Morning Rapture

Conjecture

Surely there must

be more


she said


Doesn't mean

there is


I said


We  could both

be right


Silence

what there is to feel

darkness drains into light


the unsteady hand

reaches for the window


the cold kiss

rushes in


morning

Feral

Peel off your skin


to find 


the fur


beneath.

Making Sense

Rip the pages out of the book

until only the tattered spine remains.

Cut the lines out,

reorder them.

Make sense of the world. 

When To Listen

Everyone is telling you how to live.

Sense and common sense meet

from time to time

and hangout with contradiction.

Contradiction doesn't know

what the other two

are so upset about.

You watch them

and walk away, their voices

fading into the breeze.

The tree beckons you to rest

beneathe its branches.

Laying on your back,

staring at the leaves,

the moisture of the grass

cools your back.

The answers appear.

getting to it

the fat of these words

will be stripped away

leaving only an enamel 

hard surface.

there is time 

for nothing else.

SALVATION

It hangs off me

like the sum result

of every bad choice

and weakness.

A desire to feel

and inhabit

life more fully

has added

nothing but weight

to this life.

There is no salvation

for those not ready

to be saved.

These lips have serviced

the desire long enough;

stop waiting for the hand

to reach out to you.

Let your fingers feel

the hard, cracked surface

of the cliff face.

Salvation's path

is lined with small choices.

Life As A Transitory State

FYB, PM

Left in the Sun

I am not

worth remembering.

Lets do

our best

to forget

a fleeting past.

Twisting in your sheets

a mutual desire

remains

barren,

withering under

the sun.

ONLY WIND REMAINS

EX EX EX

The lights are out

and all

I can recall

are the memories

in your bed.

Are they

good enough

to remember

your name?

I've never

been that

good at lust.

The Forging of Iron.

Sounds of the Street.

You yelled my name

as I walked

into the grime of the city;

Like a child calling

for its mother.

I walked until

I couldn't

hear your voice.

What There Is To Talk About

Lets not talk about love,

we have better things to do.

Lets not talk about the world,

it doesn't worry about us.

Lets talk about this,

because there is always that.

Lets talk about the well

we all draw from.

Lets not talk about money,

it is more fleeting than our lives.

Lets not talk about work,

it drains the soul away.

Lets talk in dark places,

you found me in the corner,

my back turned to you

until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Bea

Bleary eyed angel,

you fall into my arms.

I draw you closer

and wonder what

words you have

for me. You toss

your hair back

and say

we should see

each other

again. I wonder,

will we remember

this night?

I hold you close.

The Tune In Tune.

Cold chamber of light


An unwillingness to be seen


A perfect place


to enact invisibility

A Pair of Unrelated Thoughts

Is it true what they've said?

Is it worse than I've thought?

____________

I'll dream this winter away
nestled beneath covers
remembering distant touches
that made cheeks red
we wander downstream
wishing winter away
winter go
winter go
winter go
for now
for now
for now

What the Mariner Knows

generalize memory

flows like a what

a dual nature

expressing

yet lacking

in the retelling

embers fading

but always

burning

the Mariner

knew this

to always

be so

All words are generalized 
abstractions of inexpressible 
thought.

a thought on the morning

Dreams fade as quick

as the morning dew

underneath the glowing sun.

Trees

I.
The Migratory Patterns Of Trees.


II.
Wandering Tree.

RE: Hype/Buzz

It is not always a rejection 


of ceaseless hype


but rather


a personal preference 


that is not being met.

Genealogy

How many


of our ancestors


perished namelessly


into history?

Everything That Is & Never Was

Stillborn memories

dot the landscape of the past.

Faces blend and bleed

together into a palette

grown muddy

and indistinct.

Paths have been traveled,

their knowledge given

and scattered to uncaring

arms. How beautiful

can the sunset be

compared to a total

eclipse of the moon?

A Statement On The Nature Of Time

Whenever 


you may be.

For Lilies Everywhere

White lilies in the vase


by the windowsill,


their heads bow


as the sun descends.

American Self Portrait

IT'S NOT THAT 


NO ONE


IS LISTENING




IT'S JUST THAT


EVERY ONE


IS TALKING

The Phone Is On The Hook

Waiting for a phone call that never comes.

Connections are in short supply.

Disappointment is a blossoming flower.

Open the living room door,

stare through the mesh screen

and into the street.

The sounds of evening

echo inside.

At the end of the day.

The sound of two boys running

echoed loudly through the room

of adults standing in line.

One woman worked the counter.

A mutual impatience filled our lungs.

The boys father told them

to sit down, be quiet.

They did no such thing.

His uniform was as exhausted

as his face. Only empty threats

remained as the children's voices

echoed farther and farther

into the minds of those listening.

If we were better people we could 
discard language altogether.

Self Portrait: Rejected Pop Song (after Dean Rader)

I am not the metronome

I am not God’s sense of timing

I am not the song stuck in your head

I am not the hit single, not the single

You are not the record company

You are not the music scene, not its artists

You are not hell’s amplified accordion

You are not the Billboard charts

Don’t tell me you’re the pitch corrector

Don’t tell me you’re the _____, the _____

Don’t tell me you’re the golden reach around

Don’t tell me you’re the new Motown

Just tell me you’re the spirit of soul

Just tell me you’re the perfect pair of headphones

Just tell me you’re the brown note, the brown note

Just tell me you’re the arpeggio

No one is the conductor

No one is the violinist’s bow

No one is the Grand Ole Opry stage

No one is the soloist’s anxiety

We are the inspiration

We are the groove

We are the sound, the sound

We are this the

Garden Flower (part 1, draft 1)

Bettie used to live next to live door to us. She passed away almost a year ago.
As far as any of us knew she wasn't married and didn't have any children. I 
don't really recall seeing many people visiting her either. Oftentimes I
would see her in the front yard tending to her small garden. She seemed to 
take special care of the chrysanthemums she had. I never really saw the 
attraction to that flower but she loved them. In the years that we lived next 
to each other, we rarely spoke. The times we did speak tended to overshadow 
the long stretches of silence between us. The first time I saw her was a week
or two after I moved in. As I was walking to the front door I saw her tending
to her flowers. I decided to introduce myself and walked over to her. I introduced
myself and she extended her gloved hand and said her name. We exchanged 
basic information and made polite chit-chat. As I looked at her, I could see that
she had been marvelously beautiful when she was younger. Her eyes were
deep brown pools tinged with hints of hard won understanding. They also spoke
of the kind of hardship that those of the older generation find it better to hold
inside like a precious stone. I couldn't help but wonder what led her here. 
It would be another year or so before we would speak again. 

Why

do you worry if life

is passing you by?

Shouldn't

you be more worried about

where you end up?

He would only speak in past tense

even though he clearly lived in the present.

It was a habit he gained

so gradually that no one noticed

when he spoke.

It just seemed that was the way

he had always spoken.

Elusive

Senses are lost

as we wade through the hours

hoping to find

the elusive answers

that elude us all.