Friday, January 2, 2009

an old poem for a new world

an old man
stands in his front lawn
beating an old dog
tied to a tree.

he beats the dog
with today’s newspaper
slowly and steadily
without anger or pleasure.

the dog lies quiet
in the dust.
it is dead
except for the rhythmic
wheeze
of its breath.

the old man
and the old dog
heave in unison
in time with the rise
and fall
of the newspaper.

both are sweating
and panting
under the same ancient sun.

Pax Americana

We paid them with crumbled dollar bills and spent down pavements past marching bands and flags and storefronts and insects and riot cops and horse cops and firemen and policemen and gaymen and goat and sheep and cow and horse and horse cop and beggar and leper and addict and a fallen star, cooling in the car pool lane.

Intuiting the center of the Universe is close, we link arms and stomp and yell and demand grand masters hold blank canvasses to the sun and illuminate the heavenly bodies floating inside our eyes.

I offered a bee my hand to sting and it swells. I hold a blade of grass between my thumbs and blow, filling the Void with the sound of saxophone and tree branch and dead leaf and window and gas station and gas rag and milkshake and garden hose and burning house and cricket and brother and sister and whimsome nobody and my violent vicissitude. I break my cheekbones and hold a pistol to my chest and pretend to be a roman replica of a greek statue. I hold the mediterranean to its word.

We all hold out our palms for the bee to sting. We learn to play the typewriter in pastures and shoot toy cap guns at passing comets and hold mannequins for ransom and shock diabetic baboons to death. We scrape our teeth and wonder if it really is the year the history books say it is. We play russian roulette in my bedroom and hurt my baby seal and stare at pictures in the encyclopedia and look up all the words we don’t know.

As the ghost of Robert Johnson pours across the 35th parallel, our skulls bloom like tiny solariums and we begin to rethink the 2000s and the 1990s and the 1980s and the 1970s and the 1960s and the 1950s and the 1940s and the 1930s and the 1920s...

Etcetera, etcetera. Forever and Ever. Alleluia and Amen.

bob dylan, king of the jews

the state of the union is not given by a television president

it is written on the walls of bathroom stalls

it is whispered in steam rooms and confession booths

it screams naked from our public foreskin:


we want our kinky freedom

we want our black jackie onassis

we want our box and our drug and our big nothing

we want fluoride in our tap water

we want words that mean and breathe

we want a poetic death for history

we want a capital t truth that goes down easy

we want a thoroughly cleaned and ghettoized pop culture

we want our badges and diplomas

we want our sacred minority and nuclear arsenal

we want our heathens and hedons

we want our robber barons and rugged individualists

we want our self-hate prophet

we want our bean curd minstrel

we want our free speech cage

we want our good cop and bad cop and white cop and black cop

we want our sexual predator and his yellow star

we want our mark chapman

we want our catchers in the rye

we want an apologetics of capitalism

we want our flat tax and castes of sin

we want our karma and jurisprudence

we want our hypothetical christian zion.


we want a homeric epic other than this horatio alger propaganda

but this is not greece

and we are not greek

if our generation has a bob dylan

he will be a plagarist or slandered as one

and we will make him wear his crown

and we will march him to golgotha

and we will lock him in a concrete mausoleum

engraved with his christian name.

Monday, October 13, 2008

learning to type

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Wednesday, July 9, 2008

hark

it’s me me me
in my shell, in my hole
blending in with gunmetal
thin skin gone grey

left for leper
bred for predictable
falling backwards
through atom and (black)

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

pictures

I.

drop out of school
drop out of society
go homeless
carry a camera on a strap around your neck

take pictures of sleeping squatters
take pictures of broken houses
take pictures of your naked holocaust body
take pictures of your skin scraped off on the bricks
take pictures of the holes in your feet
take pictures of the cat you killed
take pictures of yourself curled up in a dumpster
take pictures of yourself turning to dust
take pictures of gravestones with no names on them yet
take pictures of empty whipped cream cans
take pictures of rubber cement pots

take pictures of your invisible skin
take pictures of your fragile bones
take pictures of your crumbling teeth
take pictures of your infected gums
take pictures of yourself going blind
take pictures of yourself going bald
take pictures of yourself getting fat
take pictures of your matted pubic hair
take pictures of your flabby gut
take pictures of your penis withdrawing into your body
take pictures of your swollen joints
take pictures of your sunken ribcage
take pictures of your purple pimples
take pictures of your degenerating brain
take pictures of everything until everything is just a picture

take a picture of yourself being left behind
take a picture of yourself being forgotten
take a picture of your friends moving away
take a picture of your parents moving on
take a picture of your blank future
take a picture of everything that is ruined
take a picture of everything that you ruined
take a picture of the bruises on your arms
take a picture of the blood on your clothes
take a picture of the snow and the ice
take a picture of the empty bottle
take a picture of the empty body
take a picture of a lullaby

go to sleep
go to sleep
go to sleep
go to sleep

II.

you’ve fucked everything
you’ve killed us
you’ve killed yourself
you’ve fucked everything
you’ve burnt down the house
you’ve molested your little sister
you’ve flunked out of school
you’ve forgotten your address
you’ve made us hate you
you’ve made yourself loathsome
you’ve made yourself ugly
you’ve screamed at everyone
you’ve written with shit on the walls
you’ve eaten all of your mother’s pills
you’ve pissed your pants
you’ve laughed and spit on yourself
you’ve gone insane
you’ve been sent to the prison for insane people
you’ve forgotten how to think
you’ve forgotten how to talk
you’ve forgotten how to wipe your ass
you’ve forgotten how to bathe
you’ve hurt yourself again
you’ve made us tie you up
you’ve made us lock you up
you’ve hurt us
you’ve made us hurt you
you’ve hurt yourself again
you’ve forgotten your name
you’ve lost your TV privileges
just sit in the corner
just sit in the corner
and think
about what you’ve done
about what you’ve done to us
about what you’ve done to yourself
about what you’ve done to us

III.

take pictures of everything you fucked up
take pictures of everything so you have a picture of it
take pictures of everything until everything is OK again
take pictures until everything is OK again
take pictures to take away the sickness
take pictures of your sickness
take pictures of anything
take pictures of everything until everything is just a picture

take pictures until they stop coming out wrong
take pictures until you’ve gotten good
practice makes perfect
take pictures until they’re worth something
take pictures until you’re a famous artist
take pictures and maybe someday you’ll be good
take pictures and maybe someday you’ll be rich
take pictures and maybe someday you’ll be make your parents
proud
take pictures and maybe someday you’ll be able to afford a doctor
take pictures and maybe someday you can get out of here
take pictures and everything will be OK
take pictures and maybe everything will be OK
keep taking pictures
don’t stop
you can’t stop now
where would you be
if you didn’t have your pictures
everything else is gone
everything else is fucked
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re disappearing
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
everything is ending
everything is over
everything is ruined
everything is fucked
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’ve killed us
you’ve fucked up
you’ve killed us
you’ve killed yourself
you’ve killed us
everything is fucked
you’ve fucked everything
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dying
you’re dead

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Masochrist

the True masochist
does not allow himself to feel pain
because the highest pleasure
lies in abstaining from all pleasure

thus, he lives the life of a sadist
tortured by sacred envy
of the pain he selflessly bestows
to False masochists