Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Monday, June 15, 2009


What shall i tell you?
Anything but the truth.

He walked behind me and said:
i can't believe
how honest you are about your life.
And he laughed in a strange way
that i did not understand
even though i did.
and he turned his face away so i could see no expression
just an ear turning red made more intense by the silver blonde
pulled away from his fragile pale skin
braided crooked and tight against the sun worn creases of the nape
of his slender neck resting tenuously upon strong shoulders
that slumped from the weight of his life
he laughed in a way that faded into the hot still air
the mirthless sound getting lost in the quiet of a dying day
In that silence he suddenly turned
and looked deep in my eyes with angry piercing black pupils
surrounded by the deepest blue of a cloudless summer sky
that glowed with the intensity of a nuclear explosion
We were locked in that moment that seemed like forever
His angry defiance at the world met with my own...
a melancholic smile acknowledging the truth

a scream filled the air from nowhere collapsing the vortex
the moment was broken
there was no meaning left to be found anywhere
but it did not matter. we didn't care.

we sat back wordlessly
watching the flames burn to dust
when night fell the universe stopped the insult
and mercifully ceased to exist


Thursday, June 11, 2009


.....(to whatever place you will)

So I was reading Burroughs
and he was talking about what compelled him to be a writer
the accidental shooting of his wife
the one that left her dead
And in that act he met the entity that possesses
....to him the Ugly Spirit

which it is. It is the hungry void
the bottomless black
that draws the silent scream from the soul
tearing at the throat like a wild beast
eyes wide open about to pop
and you can't look away
just deeper
until nothing surrounds you but the infinite nothing
that dark angel of evil

and maybe you pull away when you are on the precipice
there ready to lose yourself in the insanity
that eternal hell
but it leaves its mark
and you know, you know
that it can reach out and find you at anytime.
Filling you with itself
Possession of the cruelest kind

But some of us are not ready to surrender
and we have in some sort of perverted cowardice
planted our fingers in the dirt of our thoughts
Our past, our encounter
our flirtation, unwilling as it might have been
some of us don't ask to be participants
in the circus of human degradation
But there we are
ready for the taking

We write in ritual
as some protection from the ghosts that haunt us
those small evil things wanting to drag us
to our bloody cold grave dug at our birth.
that embryonic swamp which washed over us,
drowning us, expelling us into the filth
our nostrils filled with the stench of people
all the people who with bad intent adorned as angelic
that illusion that passes us in the street each day
attempted with every calculated sadistic action
often mistaken for stupidity
to crush the last glimmer of light in our eyes
the fragile love guarded in our heart
that only the purity of innocence could ever hold
they wanted to see it drained from us
because it was never theirs to own

We write as ritual
To make sense of it all
Maybe God is there listening
nodding in agreement at the effort to understanding
what the fatal error in the garden was really all about
and as we read back
we see the caveat to all the temptation
the ease of being like all the sickened others
not caring not seeing not moving in any direction
but the one that requires the least effort
with the greatest indulgence in the rewards
garnered by the perversion of flesh and mind
not to mention some remnant of soul that fades
with the memory of what might have been
if they had only barely tried.

Burroughs in his genius plain spoken way
said he had no choice but to write his way out of it.
I understood as it hit me in the solar plexus
That breathless overwhelming pain when lightning strikes
the flesh burns,all the nerves in your body catch fire,
detonating an explosion in the brain.
Revelatory vision in the most human sense.

I have to write my way out of it...
It is the truest forced thought I have ever understood.


Thursday, June 4, 2009


Why don't you ever seek me out
when you are moving along the night streets
along the paths of here I am?

I like walking in darkness
alone with someone who is alone
eyes to the sky
hoping to avoid the sleeping masses
that lay huddled
in rags and dirty discarded soiled sleeping bags
on the cement sidewalks they call home

I look to the trees
whose branches take on another form
waving in the slight cool wind
that blows in from the restless ocean
Murmers of life from another place
some other time

I know you have quietly passed by
thinking inwardly of a question
to which you fear any reply.

For that could lead to the path of who knows where
that might end at perhaps forever