“15 Songs”

 

 

I got a gas tank that’s damn near empty,

barely filled by my girlfriend’s love and money.

 

Thursday before spring break,

Sunday after Easter break.

 

Adalena gave me “Drown”

after winter break.

 

Someday I will be in your book.

You scar me sacred

like the naked sun.

 

Light shows us

a brand new being,

a genius

state of mind.

 

 

NOTE: The following poems, from “If the World Rotated Backwards…” to “Cleansing the Universe of Destructive Intent” were written many, many moons ago…probably when I was only 13 or so. What I am trying to say is BEWARE because they run the gamut from mediocre to insanely bad but I felt that, to be honest with myself and to anyone who reads my material, I had to present the lows as well as the highs. Then again, maybe if they are TOO bad I will just take them down and delete them forever. At least they had their chance to try and shine.

 

 

“If the World Rotated Backwards, Would Everyone Do the Same?”

 

 

What if the world was a lie?

What if I were a lie?

What if Donald Trump was a lie?

What if everyone was a lie?

What if the world rotated backwards?

Would we all play along with the game,

and would we try to do the same?

 

Don’t become a lie,

as insignificant as a fly.

You will be used and abused,

but there will be

no one to recycle you.

There will be nothing we can do.

We won’t make it past the reporters.

They will not follow our orders.

We cannot stop the freedom of America,

so clench your fists for the camera

and hold your pride like Excalibur.

 

What if the bomb was a lie?

What if death was a lie?

Watch your tongue until you’re sure

it won’t go anywhere.

This is what we fight for.

This is what we die for.

Try and tell me something I don’t know.

 

Now you can spot all the lies.

Wipe the tears from your eyes.

It won’t matter who lives or dies.

The sky is your god,

the ground is your devil.

Keep looking up

and make sure your cup

is always full.

Don’t look at the sky too long

or it might fall on you.

Its guarantee ran out ages ago

when it dropped the snow.

It was an image to behold,

a peacefulness to share and keep.

We were always destined to be God’s sheep,

but now we’re trying to be Him.

He will show us His strength.

We cannot fool Him.

They cannot trick Him.

Yet they must

            feel the tragedy,

            get stricken by poverty,

            fail each task miserably.

Forget all the others.

Fend for yourself.

Fill up that space.

Carve the memory into your face

and wonder:

if the world rotated backwards, would everyone do the same?

Would you do the same?

 

 

“Not If You’re a Politician”

 

 

The rain may stain

the way you think, but

not if you’re a politician.

They are the gods moving

among all these vipers that

strike if you touch them, and

they don’t care if you’re a writer

or a rock and roll band

or an anarchist on the run.

They don’t care and

don’t believe in

society at the Garden of Eden, but

they believe in the land

on the Garden’s other side

which never sees the light

and never will,

but you don’t have to go there…

not if you’re a politician.

You never need to worry about

the way things are or

the way things will be or

the way things used to be.

 

Now you know about

the lifetimes we waste

dreaming about being loved

when we aren’t loved and

all the hands that will

never be ours to hold and

imagining a world where

we don’t have to kiss the Grim Reaper

or touch the vipers,

but you don’t have to dream about this world…

not if you’re a politician

because you live in this fantasy of everyone else.

We are all strangers in a strange land

who can’t even catch a bus.

 

Politicians don’t know

the pain and sorrow

that we all share.

The pieces we get are so small.

We’ll pay for our pain sooner or later.

Our punishment won’t be quick.

All the politicians will laugh at us

while the frustration builds inside

with our arms tied down

so we can’t lash out at those

who would rather have us dead

and perhaps that would be good but

I’m not so sure we would

get away with murder since

we are not gods with

the strength of death right at our fingertips

so you can forget about

killing a god because

you will pay, even if

it’s sooner or later and I

hope that your thoughts have changed

because you will die otherwise.

 

Now you know of the pain you receive if

you are not a politician, and

I hope you have listened.

I hope my words are magic,

and that they’ve convinced you

not to be a fool

because you’re only a tool

in the game of the politicians.

 

 

“I Know What I’d Do With a Million Bucks”

 

 

We have played the Lotto.

We do not win.

They always rake in the dough.

The game is over before we can begin.

It’s more frustrating because we know they’re dumb.

They have spent millions on things that are free.

I know what I’d do with a million bucks.

I’d buy some land.

I’d buy a farm.

And when I’m finally free,

I’d start planting those money trees.

 

We have played the Lotto.

And today we finally win.

They are now the losers

whose game was over before it could begin.

I bought a new house.

I bought a new car.

I bought the galaxy-sized stereo system.

I bought suns and moons and stars.

 

Now I step on the pedal.

To others we are invisible.

We can see the bright lights of heaven.

They favor us.

They savor us.

We share them with the other millionaires.

 

The TV store is only a block away.

We fade into the street.

Others can see us now.

There is a commercial on the TV in the window.

I see the face of a dead child.

I see the withering, ignored skin of the elderly.

Even though I am on the street

I feel the poverty,

I feel the pain.

Then the mourning sets in.

It will not leave,

and I wouldn’t dream of letting it depart anyway.

The poverty paints a mural of sorrow,

yet my money holds open the door to tomorrow

and it is there I wallow.

I cannot swallow my pride.

 

I thought I would know what way to go.

I thought I understood this situation.

Now I know I lied…there was no recognition.

I never said I couldn’t make mistakes.

For everyone the bow must break.

For me it happened when I realized

I didn’t understand the rich.

I didn’t understand the poor.

Now my blinders are removed.

I can see the shore

that signals the end of this ocean of misery.

 

Leave your treasures behind.

Join those people dancing on the beach.

I knew what to do with a million bucks.

I let it slip out of my life

like sand from my fingers,

and now I stick my oars in the water

to start rowing toward the shore.

 

 

“You’re Supposed to Play This Song Backwards”

 

 

And now you’re unhappy because of your age.

You chose the draft over Canada.

The world disappears around you.

Your trench has turned from brown to yellow

and you have done the same.

You thought this was just a game.

An oblong metal object grows heavy in your hands.

“What is this for?” you ask yourself,

but you didn’t know the answer last time.

A flash of white light, then nothing more.

You’re supposed to play this song backwards

because that’s how its hidden message can be revealed.

You will be sorry when you find it

unless you take that message and use it

to try to make the world a better place.

 

I am scared for this world.

And I believe I’m not alone,

but no one else will show they feel this way.

That hard shell won’t let feelings through.

Maybe if you saw the accidents,

maybe if you saw the pain,

then your mindset would change.

That iron casing would break.

Your feelings would no longer be fake.

Trust me for I know it’s true.

You can stand up now

for your legs have been strengthened

by the weight of your bones

as they settle into place.

There are no more empty spaces.

And as the dying rate slows down,

we all find our feet planted on common ground.

We will paint the White House red,

avenging all our beloved dead.

You’re supposed to play this song backwards.

Otherwise this plea cannot be heard.

We are crying for the dying.

We must speak for them.

Their windpipes have closed.

We must coax them open to feed these poor souls.

We are the towers of love.

 

This song…

this song isn’t too long,

yet is has spoken of death,

but it leans more toward life.

I hope that’s what you realize.

We do not mean to offend you.

We want to preserve and save you.

This is why our forefathers braved the sea.

This is why they made history.

 

 

“The Kids in My 5^th Period Class”

 

 

Without each other they are nothing.

They are like ants in the dirt.

But with each other they are something.

We can take no action…only sit and wait.

Wait and see what they do.

You adults believe this is my fault.

You are dead wrong.

I’ve done nothing to offend them,

the kids in my 5^th period class.

I’ve never disturbed them.

If adults would only watch and listen,

they would see the mayhem they’ve been missing.

They would see the truth.

They would see the truth.

 

Now that you’re not a teenager, you don’t have to take it.

Adults, I envy you.

I can’t wait to be one of you.

You have the freedom to say.

You have the freedom to do.

I can accomplish nothing.

I dare not risk drawing a breath

for fear that the kids in my 5^th period class

will notice me.

They poke and prod at me.

And there’s no one to help me fend them off…

only me, and I’ve proven to be too weak.

The teachers never notice,

not until the torment is over.

After all, it’s my fault anyway.

So I should be left alone in this misery.

At least that’s what the adults say.

Adults have busted eardrums.

I cannot wait to be one myself.

Then I will be deaf too

and I won’t hear the world’s problems anymore.

Perhaps I’ll die of cancer or a heart attack,

and then there really will be no more problems for me.

 

Now my decision has been made.

The hour of judgment has come.

I have done myself in.

No adults were there to stop me.

Perhaps they never cared.

Now they cry as they walk past my body.

I know they still don’t care.

Then I see them in their entirety:

the kids from my 5^th period class,

crying over me.

This is really too much.

So I sit up and jump out of my casket.

And I scream at them,

“You didn’t care for me in life,

so don’t care for me in death!

Leave now so I can rest in peace!

It’ll take an eternity to forget

all the torments you placed at my feet!”

And they said something in their lame defense:

“We didn’t want you to die…we want you back.”

Yes, they want me back because

they weren’t finished tormenting me,

not by a long shot.

So I climbed back into my coffin.

I shut the lid behind me.

Felt myself being lowered into the ground.

Heard the dirt hit the roof of my new home

and the kids from my 5^th period class walked away.

 

 

“The Slop of Lunchtime”

 

 

Actually, there is no poem here because the one that did exist was so bad…I couldn’t bear to let it see the light of day. Still, I wanted you people to know it was a reality at some point in time.

 

 

“How Would They Feel?”

 

 

Sometimes I wonder how they would feel.

What if I made fun of their faces?

How would they feel if I hit them?

Or maybe if I made them feel like dirt,

the same dirt through which the ants crawl…

the same ants we so casually step on.

Just tell me: how would they feel?

I would love to make them squeal.

I want to make them depressed.

Maybe I’d get lucky

and drive one of them to suicide.

That would be my greatest victory to date.

I wouldn’t hesitate to take the credit

(or the blame)

for their untimely demise

because there would be no point in lying,

and I’m not lying when I say I really want to know:

how would they feel?

 

You must be one of them.

You do not answer my questions.

All you do is walk away.

Have they brainwashed you?

Aren’t you ever hurt?

No one has felt my pain.

I don’t believe I’m sane.

No, not anymore

because you don’t know how I feel

yet you tell me how to deal with it.

You have no idea what it’s like

so shut your mouth and sit down in that chair,

the one with spikes poking out of the cushion.

Oh how I hate you and your kind!

How would you feel if I were king of this land?

My soldiers would arrest you.

My guards would guard you.

And my executioners would execute you.

I would never hesitate to drop the guillotine

or pull the trigger

or drop the match into the river of gasoline

winding toward your sniveling figure.

 

Now my story is told.

And I am feeling old.

You weren’t even paying attention

because you are one of them,

no matter what you say.

You are one of those who want me dead.

I can’t believe how blind I must be

to not realize it before.

But even though you don’t hear,

I ask for the hell of it anyway:

How would they feel if they weren’t popular?

How would they feel if I stepped on them?

How would they feel?

 

 

“Teenage Legend”

 

 

Marvin feels and

Marvin hurts and

Marvin says they don’t like him so

we should help him but he says no.

He says he has to go since

they are coming over and besides

he has plans anyway.

What those plans are, he won’t say…

not today anyway.

 

So now we figure Marvin is in his room

trapped inside his gloom,

planning traps of doom.

Marvin plans to kill those who tease him,

and the list is awfully long.

They don’t see his hurt or rage

because both are hidden from our sight,

kept out of the light.

To others they aren’t important anyway.

To him they are his life story.

His feelings are torn, bloody and gory.

Marvin says they aren’t human beings.

They don’t have any feelings.

And now Hell’s fire has ignited inside Marvin.

He will see those murderous plans through and

Heaven can’t prevent Marvin from becoming a

teenage legend…adolescent myth.

 

Now the terror has spread.

Sanity’s walls are torn down

as Marvin delivers death.

His face is strange, statuesque.

It expresses no more emotion,

no more hurt,

because there’s no more pain

coming to wash over him like rain.

He has steered away from the shores of rationality,

never to return.

 

Now they can’t (no they can’t)

believe it at all, and they

can’t escape him.

Marvin, they can’t escape you…

the ultimate

teenage legend…adolescent myth.

You hold that steel with pride,

the steel on which so many have died.

 

Marvin has now made himself

and ten other children famous.

They were his enemies and

now Marvin has taught them all

life’s final lesson: how to look into death’s eye.

These ten victims learned well

and they pick on no one in Heaven.

There is no Marvin there or anywhere anymore.

The real Marvin died a long time ago.

His soul died but the shell of a boy lived on.

And with no soul, no conscience,

the shell decided to kill.

He’s ground them into nothing but

images and memories which are

hanging in the front of our minds,

always out of reach but close enough to

disturb our sleep.

And on top of that we know

that we also picked on him

and we know we hurt him.

It’s too late to turn back from our fate.

 

And so now you shiver in your bed.

Your hands cover your head.

A knock comes from your bedroom window.

You look outside and see the moonlight

shining off something metallic.

Now you see Marvin’s smiling face as

he smashes through your window.

You know it’s the end now.

This metal has claimed so many lives.

Now it will claim one more.

 

Marvin hurts and

Marvin cries but

that is almost over because

Marvin lost his pacing and

now his final hour draws near, and

the electric chair looks like a god and

Marvin sees his life before him and

he sees the blood of those he killed

as he smiles and remembers with

a memory that is not his own but

that grin quickly fades as

the boat of his life steers back

toward the shore of sanity.

He knows what he has done, and

he breaks down in front of the priest,

begging forgiveness from God.

As he is strapped down Marvin hears and

Marvin sighs as the priest says

God does indeed forgive him,

but this is the price he must pay

because of the way he chose to become a

teenage legend…adolescent myth.

 

Then a switch is thrown and

the smell of burning flesh fills Marvin’s nose.

And he knows

he knows

he knows

all about

God’s forgiveness.

 

 

“Snow”

 

 

Back then there was only one

who could fill the catacombs of death

and rid the world of anything harmful,

but that one is gone,

replaced by millions of followers

who were made in his likeness:

good-hearted yet far from perfect.

And now we must refill the catacombs.

He did not leave us the answer.

It’s right in our faces

but we can’t find it.

So for a while we must search

as the snow comes down

to freeze our souls

in the heart of December,

leaving you forever cold.

Yet the feeling of treachery

has not been frozen.

When the others leave you behind,

treachery tortures your eyes.

You have to look up to the skies

because there is nowhere else to look.

The snow covers all

and everything is bright and white.

 

So now the millions

have huddled in masses,

protected by their rain-glasses.

They exit their classes

and they wait for unknown reasons.

They march barefoot through the snow

and they do not feel the cold.

The sun has gone black

but light is still there

as we march along after them,

but we are not barefoot.

Still they march on and on

like there is no end to it

nor a beginning that ever believed

in peace through prosperity,

love through charity.

And now the snow comes again

to isolate your thoughts,

stranding them up in Antarctica.

So you say, “To hell with it!”

And you give up

on ever finding your thoughts again.

 

Now the sun has arrived

and the millions stop marching.

A figure falls from the sun.

It is that one

who had been replaced

by all these evil clones.

He’s coming back down

to show us the answers

while keeping the grand plan secret

so that we may learn it on our own.

He is not our God

but the closest thing to it

so we must listen to his words

and we must see through

the actions that must be taken,

or he will not forgive us.

As he floats back up to the sun,

you notice the snow has

melted around you,

but it isn’t long before

the sky goes black with clouds

and the snow comes again.

 

 

“18 Years”

 

 

They said, “Reach out for the sky.”

And he said, “Reach out for the sky.”

We said, “Reach out for the sky,” but

don’t hit the mountaintop

because it is unforgiving

and we don’t want you to die.

Now you’re no longer in the land of the free

or the home of the brave.

Instead you’re in some country

that you don’t know the name of

and it’s so small you feel constricted,

a microscopic country that is folding up.

It was eighteen years ago that you were born.

It was eighteen years before the war started.

It was eighteen years later you departed.

Now you’re here and they are there.

Bind your chest in strips of iron

and hope for the best

because autumn has no meaning here

and neither does winter, spring, or summer.

 

Now as the sky is torn apart

you dodge the lightning and thunder.

It seems to be everywhere

yet it seems to nowhere

and it confuses the eyes of many,

the eyes of few,

some of which belong to people

younger than you.

And those eyes…they distract you

but that doesn’t happen for long.

As you reach the red river, you know

the sky has been falling for some time now.

There is only one way to make it rise,

but you don’t have the answer

because you have the wrong question.

 

So the drumbeat increases

even though the drummers are dead.

Now you feel that same old compressed feeling

that nearly squeezes the eyes out of your head.

Maybe you even feel your heart in your throat.

Eighteen years was a long time ago,

but it seems just like yesterday.

Oh, if only you’d been born

one year later

you wouldn’t be in this mess.

So you pretend you’re back home

where love makes love to you

and destruction like this

was nowhere in your life,

not even as a nightmare.

As the church bells rang at the edge of town

and the ring slipped on to your finger,

your life was eternally joined to hers.

Not so long ago, it’s true

love was all there was.

 

 

“Made for Myself”

 

 

There really is no truth

yet not a lie is to be found.

Have they all fallen to the ground?

And when will they rise?

These heavens are ours, not yours.

They belong to anyone on our side.

So if you join us the heavens are yours to borrow.

But this hell is never to be yours

then it must have been

made for myself,

never to be shared.

 

I will try to find the answer,

but until I do this hell was

made for myself.

 

So now the end is near.

There is nothing left to fear.

We shall die and make them cry,

and in our memory they will create a lie.

That is what we cannot prevent.

What has happened cannot be changed,

but the future can be rearranged.

Now we are no longer rebels without a cause.

What we do not need is help.

You will never understand.

This hell was made for myself.

 

And now the air is tearing us in half,

tearing through the sails and knocking down the mast…

but despite all this I keep my hand on my belt,

as we ride through this misery that I made for myself.

 

From across the shore, the two dangers strike:

one man with greed and power in his eyes,

the other one taking a different breath.

He wants only despair and death,

but there is another choice for us to make,

one little chance to heal or break.

The land floats closer as we being to roar.

As the two men topple we jump for the shore,

leaping right into a unknown paradise.

 

And now we are free to be totally free.

We don’t have to argue or plea,

but there is a feeling of uneasiness

as all the holy sinners confess.

There’s still one chance we need to take.

Now we’ve traveled across the lake

with one little boy and an empty shell

and with a bit of hell that was made for myself…

made for myself.

 

So now you’ve changed and joined our side,

but there’s no plans for you to spend the night.

The secret will never be mine to tell,

but there will always be a hell,

especially one that was made for myself.

 

 

“The Catcher in the Rye in Person”

 

 

And so now Holden sits.

And so now Holden waits.

He has not asked for this.

Now the time has come

when a man becomes a boy

and the boy forgets the man.

Holden’s shadow reaches every corner

so love may spread and depression disappear.

And you and I shall run through the rye

even if it’s only for a fleeting glimpse

of the catcher in the rye in person.

 

He is not what he seems,

doesn’t believe what he’s supposed to believe

for the land of the dying

is where Holden lives.

 

To all the children his voice calls

and they hear,

and they respond to their own fear.

They run to him covered in roses

as the rye and the sky merge into one.

You know no joy.

You feel no pain.

It’s like nothing you’ve known before.

His teenage hand reaches out to you.

No one can stop you now.

Even they realize it’s too late.

We watch as the catcher in the rye watches us.

It’s the end of another wasted year,

another time of drinking beer.

Holden waves hello to us.

He knows we’re not getting on the bus.

Now we feel as if we could fly

as we meet the catcher in the rye

in person.

 

So here we sit and there they stand,

dancing forever.

Too far away, too boring a day for me.

Holden talks of Pencey School

and we would never call him a fool

because his words are chosen wisely,

not in any kind of rush.

We still cannot say it.

We still don’t know who this is.

It’s the catcher in the rye in person.

 

They have found us,

but I have a plan.

They have trapped us,

but not for long.

We can charm them with a song.

Holden waves goodbye to us forever

as his picture fades from sight.

We realize we have the gift of flight.

 

Maybe someday we will return to the rye

and once again we will learn to fly,

so we can meet him once again…

the catcher in the rye

in person.

 

 

“The Press”

 

 

I admit I’ve made mistakes.

They do not strike me as obscene.

Yet they like to twist my words

so much that not even I know what I said.

From the sentence, “I have no idea”

you blast over the news that the President said,

“The whole world can rot in hell!”

When you came by I knew there’d be trouble.

I better leave before your numbers double.

But you corner me before I know where to run.

Guess I’ll see my reputation soon start to burn.

 

Nothing stings worse than a scorpion

except for the words of the press.

They distort your statements to mean the exact opposite.

Instead of argue you should just confess.

 

Oh great…they’re back again.

I wish I’d died and gone to Heaven.

Please get the rake out of my eyes

so the press can see my blood,

and they may realize I’m just another human.

I am bound to make mistakes too.

Maybe then they would let me through.

Please take your fist from my chest

so they may see I have a heart.

Maybe then the masses will depart.

 

Far away from nowhere,

I don’t know what to say

but I better think of something.

The press is on the way.

Keep the blade from my tongue

for if it is cut, they will suspect something.

They will spread lies

and the only place to go

will be up to the sky.

 

I’ve finally succeeded.

They’ve left me alone.

Nobody is here to bother me.

My heart can be replaced,

but they put it in backwards.

Now I can sense something’s been lost.

I can never know exactly what it was.

All that’s left for me is Heaven.

But how can I get there

when I’m too busy

trying to forget Hell?

 

Then, for one day the situation changes.

The loneliness comes,

and there’s no way to escape it.

The press will hear of how I feel,

and they won’t help any.

That’s what they do.

That’s all they do.

Get what they want

and vanish.

 

 

“This Heaven”

 

 

And oh how the thunder splits your eyes.

The lightning eats up the withering skies.

No one can tell you about pain or joy.

These feelings were made to annoy.

So we need you to come, and we need you to see

you can help solve this mystery.

We aren’t dead, nor are we alive.

I have to catch train number five,

the one that shoots across the sky

and it brings a tear to my whitewashed eye

for somehow I know I cannot die.

Now it floats above the sea.

For the first time in years I am free.

 

It is a little while before we reach Hell,

but the future gives us hope.

All we need to do is grab the rope.

And  we’ll find out if God is holding the other end,

but either way this Heaven isn’t ours to defend.

 

So now the train slows to a halt.

The reason I’m here is not my fault,

forever held deep in my heart.

These chains of Hell will tear me apart.

Now my soul is pierced by hot spears.

I’m assaulted by all my worst nightmares and fears.

But then they leave me alone to sulk in my personal Hell.

I own a secret that is not mine to tell.

Somewhere in the distance the devils are ringing bells.

Now they take my soul and leave an empty shell.

Forgot the heat, ignore the smell.

Lose track of the bruise that I got when I fell.

 

No longer does this Heaven exist.

The rope pulled so hard that it tore skin off my wrist.

For those of us in Hell, there is no more sky.

But in this Heaven they’ve learned to fly,

and in this room I begin to cry.

 

If only the ruin would come,

it would wash away the muck and scum.

My torn eyes would see train number five.

But now the danger has come alive.

So many millions torn and cut,

and the gates of this Hell slam shut.

For a while this Heaven is blocked from view.

Maybe it was your destination too.

 

No longer does this Heaven exist.

The rope pulled so hard that it tore skin off my wrist.

 

The scars go deep as we try to sleep,

but it’s for those in this Heaven that we weep.

There is no more God and no more sheep,

no more of this Heaven.

 

 

“Cleansing the Universe of Destructive Intent”

 

 

You all thought you were God.

Now in Hell you scream.

The blackboard cracks as the mouth-wall opens

and it releases a mighty roar.

“But no more!” says the stranger on the horse.

No one listens to his words.

They throw him to the mouth-wall

and it swallows him whole.

Once again it growls for food.

No, it’s never in a content mood.

We rode close to its edge

but we didn’t fall in

like angels with broken, torn wings.

Oh if words could only tell

the emotions we all felt, but

there are no words here and

we can’t create any because

the light is too bright now that

no one’s home in the sun, and

it’s too hot for any mortal to touch

or hold, and I feel like a mountaintop,

swelling and swelling until

my eyes open up and I see

all the land around me

ravaged and blackened

by the monsters of some forgotten dimension

while the soldiers of Heaven fell like flies.

Others laughed while we were destroyed,

but now our murderers are the ones who scream.

Yet we are not born again because

God has fallen from His holy throne.

And no one has taken his place because

they’re far too nervous to attempt

to cleanse the universe of destructive intent.

 

Now I’m falling down laughing because

I forgot how to cry, so I had no alternative.

The others believe I’m ready to leave,

but they’re dead wrong because

I’m not crazy even though I’m not sane, and

it’s too hard to explain to you.

Maybe I’ll try when I have more time.

Right now my arms are bound.

The walls are soft; they’ve turned to a light pink color.

But that doesn’t change my situation.

God has not risen, and

no one will take His place.

I’ve tried to float up to Heaven but

the ceiling is cushioned and

I can’t drift through for reasons unknown.

 

They still don’t love me here.

It’s for their lives I fear.

Heaven is finally drawing near, but

only because the sky is falling.

Like everyone else I’m trapped underneath it,

but I could get out of it

if only I could reach God’s throne.

Oh, it’s just out of reach!

The throne has fallen to the beach of insanity,

the very edge of calamity.

They won’t let me reach it so I can

cleanse the universe of destructive intent.

 

We might as well die because

the sky is a foot above us and

we are all trapped here,

but there is a way out of it if

I could only reach that beach.

But they won’t let me.

Even though I’m tied down,

I can still fight them with my mind.

I beat them back with thought-punches

and I lunge for the beach,

pushing the throne upright and

sitting down on its velvet cushion as

my bonds magically disappear and

I feel so strange because, for a moment,

destruction seems appealing

but I fight back the feeling

as the others gather around me

and I tell them how to

cleanse the universe of destructive intent.

 

 

"Katherine Moennig"

When I'm looking at this face
I'm collapsing.
Look into these eyes, so incredibly alive,
and see no mystery,
no mistaken identity.

It should be considered a crime
that I can spin
sweet tapestries of tragic poetry
for someone who has never
spoken my name
or seen my face
while projects dedicated
to the ones I love,
to the ones I see, hear, taste, and touch
lie unfinished
in some abandoned
warehouse of the soul.

I fear it is their proximity
that overwhelms me because
you can never be right on target
with words or actions
that aim to please.

But in the swirling mist
of this fantasy
everything is perfect.
Every word is spoken right on time,
every gesture of kindness comes
long before it's even requested.

Your life will never touch mine,
and I will gladly stay
forever in the shadow of this misery
because no one can count the infinite ways
that my brittle heart would break
if the glass house of this fantasy
was struck
by rocks
of reality.

 

 

“Forever”

 

 

I could sit forever

in this self-imposed exile

as long as when I emerge

I can still see your smile.

 

 

“Val” 

 

 

My Goth goddess, angel, lovely woman

breath in my lungs

eyes the color of pale blue summer afternoon skies

skin like porcelain

an angel in my heart always breathing

breathing March across an AOL connection

you vanished like the perfect dream

disturbed the stillness of my life

like a pebble dropped into a pond

evaporating like a mirage in the desert

I never lost you to the sand

you were still here in my heart

in the embrace of others

I still saw your face

even when your presence

in my arms

had been replaced

goddess please be with me again

stuck in a rut, thinking too much

trying too hard to make this fit

too hard to make it cryptic

why hide my message

I have so much to give if you’ll accept

I love you, I love you

angel of the desert,

haunter of my days,

object of my dreams

 

 

“Revision” 

 

 

And when stars collide,

you’ll open up to show

all the scars you’ve earned inside.

Bury the shining truth

of your spirit in the sand.

When you reach out to take my hand,

I think I can finally read

all the writing on this wall.

To find the truth I never had to move at all.

 

And now the sun and moon have been knocked out of place.

Temples to you forgotten god have all been disgraced.

No one recalls the old days

when they were bound in chains.

Your followers don’t even remember the sound of your name.

 

As the shadows bled dry,

I unfolded my wings and

traveled to your garden in the sky.

Cobblestone paths and ancient baths are

leaking through the distance. They’re trying to convince us

there’s nothing on the other side.

 Leave your promises out to dry in the sun.

You can’t give these treasures away to just anyone.

 

 

“Hope” 

 

 

You’re the one who helps me

rise out of gloom and doom.

You help me find the courage

to step outside this room

and see there’s a whole world

waiting there for me.

 

If you ever thought

I wanted more than I really did,

then I’ll apologize

from now until the end.

 

 

“Celebration” 

 

 

Open the wine cellars.

I’m coming home.

 

You gotta fuck me up,

gotta take it out on me.

Well, I am sick of

all this kind treatment

and the fact that

you never let me be.

 

I feel it now:

your strength burdening my bones,

seeping into the marrow

and awakening my moans.

 

 

“Chinese Philosophy”

 

 

Once again I have to wonder…

yes, I have to…I cannot stop myself…

how much boredom must I wade through

in this ocean of misery,

watching these two

like Laurel and Hardy,

until we finally reach

a fleeting moment when

something they say

actually has meaning,

when some word or phrase

they decide to mention

has any substance to it?

When are we going to hear it?

When will they make me

want to pay attention?

And my classmates…

they aren’t any better.

Just look at them!

All of them have their smugness

constantly set on high.

The pretty girls: no surprise when I

discover they are all attitude…as usual.

But here’s a switch: some ugly bitch

with selfishness keeping her soul closed to all.

Just look at yourself!

Your face, red and

covered by so many mountain and craters!

The epitome of ugly!

What right do you have

to give anyone an upturned nose?

I can see…I can understand

being arrogant if you’re pretty,

but this is not an adjective

fit to describe you.

If I were to search for the proper word for you,

I’d find it safely nestled

in the name “Acne Woman.”

And speaking of women,

we’ve got God’s gift to them

up here to my right…

we got your clichéd painted whores

adding more horrible defects

to the genetic makeup of this room.

Give me your bullshit and dirty looks, will you?

Your snob disease and 5 dead shadows

driving their spears through the sun, one by one,

extracting the illumination

like ripping fruit from a tree.

Your lies and promises are so transparent

and vacant, respectively.

This ugly hippie wannabe is giving me the creeps.

His grin is like a smiling skull.

Oh, this is one of those hippy skunks

who loves to wear his sandals,

but I can guarantee you

the west of the world does not

show the same enthusiasm in this footwear.

The rest of us look at his feet

and wish sandals had never been invented.

The only mental content I share

with all these other people is

the one command we all want to

beat into this neo-hippy’s head:

BUY SOME FUCKING SNEAKERS, ASSHOLE!

This is the hypocrisy,

the shame, the sorrow,

the tragedy

of the modern college classroom.

How greatly I miss the fantasy I once had

about how it would be

when I finally got here.

Now the illusion has been shattered.

It took four years for it to break completely.

Now I see the truth,

and there is no turning back.

 

 

“Pained”

 

 

I think I’d better die today.

There seems to be no other way

around this pain.

The machine that churns out purple elixirs

thinks my mind has decayed into life.

My words are scrawled in blood on the backs

of the tortured souls in Satan’s den.

Knives come alive in insane hands.

I burned myself out while

touching the coat of reason

which forced me into metallic perversity.

It appears to me that earth is ready

to shake off man

like a paper knocked from a desktop.

Just like my mind’s crumbling rate

the words float downtown

on the trolley for free.

Time’s emptiness consumes us all

in a black hole of worthlessness.

The assignment was to read quickly,

but the words have disintegrated

in our hands.

Pistons pump to work my jaw.

Screws tighten in my ears

to keep out the words

of a degrading society.

God’s angel of sight nears the edge of infinity.

And we lean on forgotten rhymes in our time.

“Don’t worry, Carla,” I said. “Don’t worry.

It’s only the time we have left.”

The time for circumference has arrived.

The lines float together, drift apart,

before they make their magic touch.

They fall apart

like decayed lovers of Egypt

blasted down into the sand.

We slip into stones that compact our dreams.

God-vision is obsolete.

Rancid odor is your manner of betrayal.

Touching hot melting rods

with the effect of a ghost,

I watch the demon weave his microchip fingers

and wave his electric tail

in destroyed photographs.

It rained gods and devils yesterday.

What can I do?

I walked the path to electric high.

We cornered a villager with latex ears.

We jumbled his thoughts

with a spray of saliva,

and the ancients turned to crimson tones

beneath my prized possessions.

Broken flesh in a new world of lime,

angels crawling toward a replica of time.

I’m buried beneath it all.

They took away the drilling tools

that had penetrated my thoughts

and helped me to survive

when God wouldn’t pay attention.

Perhaps I will x-ray myself today

just to see the disease

that inhabits my brain.

I was wounded by the metal bindings

that cracked and fell apart.

So much sin

behind all this skin.

Open the door within.

Let my rage begin.

Time blows out the gods of light.

Talking guilt with the robot messiah,

I took my life on the railroad tracks.

Gave it to a train

for safekeeping.

Now I exist at an angle parallel to time.

None of God’s instruments can measure it.

The nails of Christ are fired from a gun:

one,

two,

three,

(Kennedy)

but they never touch me.

The cross in her eyes

mutates into maggots

that eat her flesh.

Her mind swims in disease.

Her mind says you have no soul.

Her mind says you come unglued.

It takes the precision away from me.

Mysteries and miseries form a mist

that surrounds this world, shaped

like the word “disease.”

Man is like brittle sticks on a tree limb.

Sprinkle my feet

with the ashes of children.

 

 

“decided to go”

 

 

As ugly as ashes-I fade out of this world-twist my head around so I can’t see society’s evils-all of us find magic in death-and we scream-I look at my name-scrawled on yellowing skin-and realize it means nothing to me-cipher wench-I kissed her lips without a yellow god-and all forms of rage developed statistics on paper not made yet-we searched for a party that wasn’t planned-we all looked for things before they came into being-weaklings all of us-we crumble beneath the weight of a feather-what made us this way?-we wish we knew-enlightened by the teachings of an insane mental creature-the boy went and shot himself-repetitive sounds grind into my ears-this substance feels like it came from hell-his monster edged its way out of sand and metal corruption-always room for correction or addition-the herd of vampires penetrate the skin of lonely souls-one golden eye exists in time-there’s nothing here for you-so get the fuck away from me-you tramp you slut you wasted bitch-the hangman’s noose is a lover for my neck-let it hold me-let it caress me-let it draw me into the realm of death-which it knows so well-I think you should realize before I lay low-that you are the reason I decided to go---

 

 

“A Death”

 

 

I drift away-through the cracks of sunlight in my living room-asking you for a September kiss-then going on my way before I even receive it-drips of buttermilk form a dotted line across your face-the cover of Heaven is scarred by clouds-I love it when you turn to dust and drift lazily inside me-that’s just fine with me-just as long as you don’t get stuck there-you can leave a trace of yourself to prove you exist-but please don’t take me to your home-I need someone to sign me out of here first-I need someone to quench my thirst-you can’t do it by yourself-and neither can I-so we need to stay here for a while longer-the pouring out and mixing in are activities that I can’t follow without help-control of my physical self is no longer mine-I can’t control my own body-and it seems someone else is making the sky turn gray---

 

 

“No Parole”

 

 

Pretend you won me over, but I was only dreaming.

I was only screaming                  in and out of my head.

Particles corrupted and shattered across the cosmos,

music sleeping              too dead to dream.

Tiptoe my way to Heaven’s door,

knock 3 times then turn away to see

a dozen keys floating before me.

Unlock            the shutters, the doors, the windows,

                        the moans, the groans, the bellyaches,

                        the cabinets, the ceiling, the sky,

                        the oceans, the mirrors, the walls…

all the deceptive dreamers in their magic crypts,

lurking…creeping their way gently around the universe,

their burdens so very invisible as they

cross our paths to steal the shadows from us.

They seek to steal the shine from our eyes.

Give me the strength, beloved thieves

                                    of doves and angels, to cross the

                                    naked wisdoms I’ve been fearing.

I have been complaining, and my friends have been hearing

all the echoes in your shyness-tree

could never be enough

to dig you out of the hole you’re in now.

                        Clutch at a distant, vague hope

                        just as the brick hits me

                        in the side of the head.

Crawl…crawl on your hands and knees…my God, you are beautiful.

            Avenues open to me…kings fall.

Single-hand Steve comes along, nice as you please.

Cokehead Clark, always busy wrestling sharks.

                                    To free me, you must be me.

Wait around; this time the anxiety will pass.

In one hour the raven will speak,

but there’s no guarantee I will understand him.

 

 

“10/19/98, the Sequel”

 

 

Waiting waiting waiting

The word the action

Going straight for my sanity

The gestures the posturing

One façade after another

Too many to knock down in one lifetime

BURN BURN BURN

Not even fire can pass quickly enough

                        To tear all these lies apart

I have to rebel

So much bearing down on me

My skull is cracking

My eyes are squeezed shut                    tight

The last 2 barricades I have against the surrounding madness

I cannot give in               cannot break

Cannot let their demands and qualities

                        And their fucking values               rule my world

---THIS IS MY LIFE---

The belt on my waist could be a noose around my neck

But that would be fading out        falling out of the race

Giving up           surrendering                  telling them they won

Won by default

But I am not going to let it happen

Ain’t gonna let it go down that way

YOU AIN’T TAKING ME ALIVE

                                    AIN’T SETTIN’ ME IN MY GRAVE

                                    WITHOUT A FIGHT, MOTHERFUCKERS!

 

 

“Capt. Mustard and the Internal Fire Brigade”

 

 

Losing out on life-living?-there is no such thing.

I feel the ages winding down in me.

Spend centuries debating-

I have unfastened my creations

from this world-

I have broken no one-

spoken with a beauty so elusive-all my own-

created a longing where before there was only

this majesty-shining electric dreams down on me-

 

 

“First Day of Class”

 

 

We stand barefoot in the rain.

I could feel the shadows growing within me,

            could sense the darkness eclipse my spirit.

Your umbrella was too weak

   to shield you from the storm rumbling within me

   and the rain that burdened your skin,

the thunder that shattered your ears,

            the lightning that singed your soul.

In a flash the illumination is gone.

                        We are left alone again,

our eyes symmetrical and locked in place.

            The light comes and goes again,

     extinguished as quickly as it began

                                    like that lantern we left out in the rain.

 

 

“Eliot”

 

 

In the rooms

I dream, I dream of wasted seas.

My systems collapse.

My brother on his knees.

 

The angels crippled his spirit

with wings of flame

set to unravel

his soul, his love, his name.

 

I whisper in vacant cities

where the buildings all cast

crimson loneliness upon me.

One visit…but not the last.

 

The victims know my heart.

They know the map.

They explain to me the joy

I should be feeling.

 

The harpies tear my flesh from the trees

which scream out their memory

of the days when they didn’t burn.

Street urchins scream my name.

 

 

“In the Margin”

 

 

Too full of fear

to make contact.

Mouth is petrified.

Can’t unleash sound.

My heart is nothing,

and nothing burdens me,

holds me down.

Why not just a word?

Too frightened to turn

as if turning meant death.

Eyes…eyes…can you

feel their stare? Only wish

it could be focused on me.

Wish it could find my life

as the genesis of its joy.

Laughter never tortured me so much.

 

I don’t know what to write.

Could I ever submit this to her?

Notice me, notice me

and say my name

to give me power.

My tongue always fades

out of existence when I

need it to speak…to

make the air shine with

dialogue. Could it be returned?

Would I be favored or left to

waste my time on old fantasies?

 

 

“I Must Be”

 

 

I must be dead.

This is my life:

sitting here in a classroom

with a woman I am attracted to,

with a big “R” on my paper for “reject.”

WHAT A WAY TO IMPRESS SOMEONE!

GET AN “R” LIKE A MORON!

That’ll help you win

acceptance into her heart.

Jackass, clown, fool!

No one to blame but me

and that is what burns the most,

that the only person

who holds me back

from getting what I want

is me.

I keep my own spirit in chains…

my own hand

the one that pins me down.

Someone else is

pushing the buttons for me.

My fingers

squeeze shut

on air because

these days

everything is slipping away

like clouds passing over the treetops.

But the fire…

the fire that comes to burn me,

to break and hate me…

that       always  remains.

 

 

“Wrong”

 

 

There’s nothing wrong     with mixed signals.

There’s nothing wrong     with forcing your way in.

Hey I’m evil, but it’s not hip to be otherwise.

Give the porch monkeys all your dreams.

Grab the chalice for divine inspiration.

Follow the arc of the cup to the lip.

I’d cut off my arm,

I’d split my lip,

I’d slice out my tongue

just to touch some beauty.

I’d remove my lungs,

I’d chop off my head,

I’d rearrange myself

just to be called beautiful.

Ages ago, when you wallowed in the mud of this aching throat,

you were always curled up like a fetus, dreaming.

 

 

“Mondays”

 

 

As I gaze down on the crowded streets

blinding me with endless concrete,

my tears leak out a distress call

from this tower of monotony.

And I wonder why my beauty

never seems to show,

and I live in fear of all the

things I’ll never know.

But still each day I walk into

the cold strange chambers of your heart,

and I ask, “Why must you torment me?

Why must you bury me?

Each shovel-full of sand

burns me like acid.

Why must you harm me?”

Angels, hanging in silence,

choke inside this vacuum

with all the other cherubs

whose diamond eyes went cold,

who felt love collapse in their hearts

so far from God.

Collapsed.

 

 

“Forgotten Name”

 

 

Plastic reality measured out in whale oil

Traced out in the shape of your face

(is this true beauty?)

Your worth determined by the value of lotions

Your inner depth reflected in shades of rogue

(fake throughout)

(why can’t it be me who never doubts his worth?)

When all the skin is gone

And the wind sifts thru yr bones

Tell me which one of us will be alone

Tell me who will sing prayers for you now

w/o yr face you’re a forgotten name

 

 

“Muse”

 

 

I am the basis for a song,

the ins and outs,

the ups and downs.

I want to be

the earth and sun

for everyone.

What’s wrong with that?

To want to be everyone’s dream

or trigger their release.

It’d be so easy

to slip inside this blade

because it’s been custom-made

to fit my wrist, to free the veins

from the failures of yesterday.

But I want to be the one

you reach out to in the dark,

the one you hold when all other sparks

have flown from your heart.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

My dreams

are just as valid

as anyone’s.

 

 

“Blue Distance”

 

 

You motherfuckers!

You’re not gonna get away with this.

I’m gonna break the chains.

I’m gonna be a star,

gonna climb the majestic ladder

and rise up above you all.

Gonna shine my light down

to splinter your sarcasm.

Blinded, you can no longer mock me.

 

Mind’s eye crushed

like flowers in your photographs.

I take what I can breathe

from the tears you released

to hold my tongue captive.

When the snow comes you tease me.

My life is wide open to your scalpel.

I am dreaming of rain

washing me away.

 

Your fragile fingers are not mine

to hold or protect.

I caress your image with my mind.

If I time this fall just right,

I could land

in the grip

of your heart,

possessed by it forever.

 

You may polish this sorrow,

but you will never

wipe away the memory.

I may be gone now, but I will return

to save you from sleep.

 

 

“Starlight Shoegazer”

 

 

How can I be sitting here,

turned away,

my limbs acting

like broken sunbeams?

No right to move,

no emerald to release me.

I am denied.

I am a wasted mongrel of a life,

branded “loser”…

one word

forever held

in your heart.

 

 

“Turn Away”

 

 

All these dreams I have of you

burning bright,

the flicker of temptation,

one hundred fireflies destined to stay,

to steal the night.

 

Don’t tell me the word has echoed

out of time.

Which reverberations could steal your soul?

 

Androgynous mirror, give me the time again

to stare into space and

let the spirits dance around me.

They ripple in crooked rainbows.

They tie me down.

 

Don’t tell me the world has echoed

down this pipeline.

Ruin your eyes with visions of going blind.

 

Mystery serviced, cardinal burdened.

I walk through the forest to wash it all away.

Memory sinking, freedom dissolving.

Wait in line to wash it all away.

 

 

“9/30”

 

 

You shine outside

but I have seen

past your glare.

I have seen

the emptiness

inside you.

My grades and looks

are both below yours,

but at least I have

a soul…a spirit…

a sense of what it means

to be a human being,

you bitch…you dizzy cunt.

I don’t care

when I break

the mold of eloquence

because, to you, my

words are worth

no more than mud anyway.

Sinking down, down, down…

deep inside I feel

a piece of me fade away.

When this inner segment

is deleted I can almost

forget myself enough

to be cruel and

arrogant like you.

Here comes your

Staten Island and

Manhattan perfection.

No space left in this room

for any ego other than yours.

 

 

“Opposite from 10/7”

 

 

self-important

echoes

no drinking today

every line must have a life of its own

you have no tears to share

no you are not human

how can we skip the cosmos

we cannot answer now

the truth must be uncovered

swallow the constellations

they will burn your stomach like acid

devour the clouds

they will make you giddy

limbs are too swift to break

young women are too slow to bare their breasts to me

all of you with young flesh, bow down before me

bend over before me

give me access to both passages simultaneously

deviance of mine equals so much zero

recall all the perversions of the day

then you will realize my desires are normal in comparison

 

 

“My 2 Weeks”

 

 

Need some excitement

to wake me up.

This class sucks.

Cannot move.

Cannot think.

Look at everyone else…

those who have their

notebooks open,

their pens scribbling away.

What are they writing?

Do they honestly think

the words coming from his mouth

are worth writing down?

All I want to do is

go home, sleep, wait until work,

then give them my 2 weeks.

 

 

“10/13”

 

 

Now I am tired and it’s

all my fault.

Stayed up too late

doing nothing really.

This one…hot, or not?

I would have to say yes.

Despite all these

burning, twisting strands

and a face

that falls short

of cherubic glory,

still I would love to

absorb her ecstasy

dripping with joy.

I would love to

spin her around

and let my arousal

find firm placement

between her buttocks.

She has a set of cheeks

which are so delightful

they almost sing.

Let me hear that forbidden melody!

Oh, if only I could join in the singing!

 

 

“Culture and Anarchy”

 

 

What do I do

when I find myself

seated behind her again?

Catch the scent

that is only hers.

What do I say?

Where can I find the words

that do not sound

clumsy and unfocused?

Perhaps I am getting

too romantic, dreaming

too much. Maybe she

does not deserve

such long hours

of lonely debate.

My tongue cannot rise

to meet her in any way.

No matter what method

it desires to use

to greet her, I

cannot move. I cannot breathe.

Frozen in time, why

can’t I at least

maintain my youth until

words come to me

to share with her?

Laughter, skin, history

covered in fog

and dreaming.

Images of Gilmour

trying to start

a disintegrated lie

which takes shape

in Roger Waters’ car.

“Just one minute,”

I said to David.

“That’d be long enough

to hold her hand in mine.

Jesus, the stars would

break joy over my head.”

But he made no reply.

I expected none

so I was satisfied,

but not completely.

Her pleasure eludes me.

Even in my dreams

it’s impossible to have

the nerve to ask her out,

which is sad because,

if nothing else, at least

my fantasies

should be

fantastic.

 

 

“Life, Give Me Strength Today”

 

 

Life, give me strength today

to heal no wounds and fade away.

Let not the fingers pause

or the mind unwind.

Gruesome visions disappear.

Mind seeks shelter.

Psychedelic tones highlight

a sea of nowhere.

Godless beauty,

you don’t know fake pride

from distinct dreams,

lost in the heavens and

forever cursed to love

someone

who’s already married.

 

 

“11/4”

 

 

Now look what I have done:

acted like a fool, and beauty

slips out of sight behind me…

always turning when I

swivel my head. Please

come back to me soon.

Or is the conscious mind

swimming in your skull

of a kind that would deny me

access to your life?

Ah, she spoke behind me,

and her aura invaded my senses earlier.

When she walked by me,

her vision and lovely scent

temporarily raised my spirits

until it all faded away.

If only she could accidentally

brush against me, I might be

able to smile on rainy days.

 

 

“Cadallwader”

 

 

Always come along at the wrong time,

stumble through life too late.

At least this time

it wasn’t my fault,

not my delay or

hesitation

that crippled my dreams.

So I can still walk and

carry my head high above the sun

with no tears falling over this loss,

my head spinning as if there were

a pinwheel inside my skull.

Sunlight flashes off its tinfoil leaves,

There’s a kaleidoscope inside my heart,

twisting violently.

I hate the patterns it displays.

And now she rests before me,

all the power drained from my face.

If only my words could blossom into

beautiful shapes, figures that all people

could consider lovely, including myself…

including myself.

 

 

“Out”

 

 

Influence this.

Influence that.

Time to go!

Time to go!

Release us

so we may

face the

responsibilities

of our worlds,

because we all

know different worlds,

different lives…

let us out!

 

 

“First”

 

 

first words

always the hardest

always the ones

with which I

have to grapple

the longest

I need a sentence

that will

break the ice

and lead me

into an opening

paragraph

which can swallow up

the entire first page

 

 

“Men of Mud”

 

 

Affection for her

is like wanting to

possess a cloud in a jar.

It is like wanting

to make love to Aphrodite.

Pins push through my fingertips.

When I bleed, the words are

corrupt and too full of sorrow.

I launch all my clones into the sun.

To some this sounds entertaining,

but to me the burden is hollowing.

 

 

“More Romance”

 

 

I have seen thee, Julie,

standing in my fields

of despair

where

you might be waiting there

for me to reach

as long as my eyes

refuse to open,

refuse to smash

all my dreams

against the sky.

A voice full of warmth:

it is yours,

humming in my bones.

A pair of eyes

erasing my sorrow:

yours again to possess.

These are the eyes that

put out their own illumination,

independent of the sun,

the stars,

the moon.

 

 

“The Terrace”

 

 

I saw my hands

distorted in the light.

Peter cut his face,

and all we could do…

no, all we wanted to do

was watch him bleed.

A spider came out

of someone’s mouth.

Johnny fell off the terrace,

but looking back I think I recall

that Julie gave him

a bit of a push.

I couldn’t see

the yellow of the lies

because I went blind to such sights

years and years ago.

Something had been there

swimming in my glass,

full of liquid sun and

pushing other realities

through my eyes.

My desires rested on my knees,

and we lied beneath the terrace

in more ways than one.

The men of rain dissolve the sugar ladies.

The desert tears me.

The freaks stare at me.

I fade out again

before Julie can touch me.

Her hands are red, and

all I see is blue.

Roger is here now,

so at least I’m not alone…

although I will be soon

because I can see

Julie has some ancient artifact:

an Egyptian blade in her hand.

Roger turns too late, and

Death turns with him.

I watch, my eyes melting

as a crimson ring appears,

juxtaposed against the blue sky.

The terrace drives us

into the earth.

Julie killed two

and tried for three,

but I knew her game

before she could play it.

Now I really am alone.

The streets hate me.

The freaks shun me.

And the terrace still hangs

its shadow secrets on my shoulders,

but I know it’s not dead.

The ground bursts wide open.

Six boys are on board

as the terrace rises

through the cloudless sky.

Julie sees my anguish

and I give in

while I go up.

Is this an exit

or just a sign?

The only truth I know

is an Egyptian blade

in my side.

 

 

“I Am Satan”

 

 

I am Satan.

You do not see

I am not of your sin

or your world.

Your flesh rebels against me

and my presence.

All these years I have

stabbed at your bodies

with silken scissors.

This day I found life

to suck out of you,

to lay on hot coals,

and carve into bloody squares.

I rip out egos and spines

and feed as you bleed.

You scream, hung on meat hooks.

My eyes are glowing

as I stand beneath you.

One of your tears falls,

hits my pupils…

puts out my flame…

and I wither away.

 

 

“No Demons”

 

 

We liked the pictures.

We loved the show.

Time to be feeding.

Right now, we must vanish like gods.

No one finds me funny

when they know I understand.

They will just ignore me

while I sit here cutting my hands.

The river is running by,

crashing from side to side.

Now the drowned girl’s body

is trying to hide.

Come into my eyes.

See the unreal.

I’m an Egyptian

striking an eternal pose,

hieroglyphics

carved into my soul.

In the center of my eye

the picture is still laughing,

next to my head

the wall still banging.

I have no demons,

nothing to complain about…

no monsters in my closet,

something to kill about.

We are the predators

stalking the old prey,

gruesome

yet holy.

There’s no food today.

Jesus loves me,

and God provides.

Drowning the victim.

Sipping the air.

Living

is unfair.

Finding out the nature

of my problem…

spitting at the wind.

You fell inward.

Leaking from my eye,

you spot the tear.

There are no demons,

nothing to hide from,

just a fear in the wind

letting the daylight come.

No demons.

We have no demons.

If there were ever any here,

they were banished ages ago.

No demons,

just the children of the sun.

No demons.

No demons.

 

 

“?”

 

 

In this name

I’ll find me…

find me a lover,

one that’s not too kind.

I ask you now to remember how enchanting love is,

            for in that instant I will speak

and you will hear of narrow,

     mystical lands

where the sheet of white clouds hangs

                 above the heads of all these fantastic creatures.

Say it’s okay and you’ll relax,

            believe me.

 

 

“My Review of Mirror, Mirror”

 

 

NOTE: Mirror, Mirror was a really bad straight-to-video horror movie from the late eighties or early nineties, and I decided to write a review of it in poem form.

 

 

After watching this movie

you want it to burn.

That’s one buck seventy-five

you’ll wish could return.

 

Though you may watch it once,

not ever again.

Who’d like a movie

laid by a chicken?

 

Avoid this film.

Spend time with your mom

or else you’ll be watching

a low-budget bomb!