Friday, July 30, 2010
Pot Helps pt. 18 (Sun-Soaked)
It's when I'm mid-west’d and sun-soaked, just going through the motions, when I can hear as clear as the shore water is after the sun breaks from the clouds and shines its justice through the murky brown, children's laughter, soon to be stifled children's laughter, my very own two half-cousins’ laughter and when I lay in a loft, dreaming of revelatory goodness and of grandparent's hugs and familial respect I let go of one more optimistic inflated balloon and peek out of the window nestled in a triangle to watch it soar. I am in here. Like when I was one part of one hundred thousand, a cog dipped in khaki clothing, crammed into a chartered jet to hear an intercommunication system used with disenchantment to praise the zeitgeist of military action with the power of magnetic coils and pulses of either light or electricity, pulses that inform us we are to feel proud; that the mileage-laden attendants of such a voyage towards perhaps certain death have informed me that they are at the first and very least grateful for our eventual ascension to becoming ghosts of uncertain death in the name of a now two-hundred-plus year old emptiness known as freedom, but if you were like me and translated what was coming out of those electric-powered magnetic coils you would hear: ‘I'm just glad it isn't me.’ Like when it's what might as well be one hundred thousand years later and I'm sun-soaked in the back of a car listening to, but not absorbing, constipated appraisals of my survival made to sound empathetic if only to put on a costume and act a certain way, the same approach they take to parenting when they do their best to assemble psyches for the purpose of willfully joining slavery, what with their contrasting use of negative and positive reinforcement that now justifies with perversion their stifling of the children's laughter, the only damn thing those kids have left.
Pot Helps pt. 17
Because I slouch in this chair
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.
Pot Helps pt. 16 (Things are ok as of now)
There's a spot that
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.
Pot Helps pt. 15
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want other people to hear it!
Because true love is in the eyeballs. It's in sweat.
it's in those moments you almost died!
And those moments you dance with yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
simply because there are no other suitable partners!
America is one big ole giant house with 2 1/2 bathrooms for one person,
and the notion that no insects, birds or rodents are allowed to share the same space!
America is calling yourself an artist because you want to emulate the notoriety
of previous artists, and definitely not the
one thing that made them artists in the first place: suffering in the real world!
America is watching those who like to call themselves artists get notoriety because
their only artistic talent was to inflate their worth. Tragedies are always the best stories!
And those moments when you want to cut yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
don't forget that you are my only suitable partner!
Because true love is what made me my mother's son, what made me an artist:
the moments I was suffering in the real world!
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want you to say it back to them!
they just want other people to hear it!
Because true love is in the eyeballs. It's in sweat.
it's in those moments you almost died!
And those moments you dance with yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
simply because there are no other suitable partners!
America is one big ole giant house with 2 1/2 bathrooms for one person,
and the notion that no insects, birds or rodents are allowed to share the same space!
America is calling yourself an artist because you want to emulate the notoriety
of previous artists, and definitely not the
one thing that made them artists in the first place: suffering in the real world!
America is watching those who like to call themselves artists get notoriety because
their only artistic talent was to inflate their worth. Tragedies are always the best stories!
And those moments when you want to cut yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
don't forget that you are my only suitable partner!
Because true love is what made me my mother's son, what made me an artist:
the moments I was suffering in the real world!
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want you to say it back to them!
Pot Helps pt. 14
What is it where, in the death pleasure of my life mess
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.
What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.
You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.
One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.
What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.
You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.
One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Pot Helps pt. 12 (Summer Heat)
I've assembled quite a collection of music over the years
but it's not enough
I must compete.
With your coloring outside of the lines that drives me wild with
apathy and timidity.
Earth quaking my 200lbs of meat.
Like when I'm suffering from acute acataphasia in
my computer chair.
Because there's a world out there.
Like when my tires pound the street.
and there's heat
and life
and
a desire to care.
I've wished secretly that we were kids again
if it weren't enough
but I must compete.
With the spectra I can and cannot see, so I feel
valid and complete.
The stinging anxiety of an apocalypse dream.
Like when I'm all nasolacrimal thinking about
that Iraqi sunshine.
Because someday I too will have to die.
Like I wanted to when I was your bel esprit.
and there was heat
and life
and
my open eyes.
but it's not enough
I must compete.
With your coloring outside of the lines that drives me wild with
apathy and timidity.
Earth quaking my 200lbs of meat.
Like when I'm suffering from acute acataphasia in
my computer chair.
Because there's a world out there.
Like when my tires pound the street.
and there's heat
and life
and
a desire to care.
I've wished secretly that we were kids again
if it weren't enough
but I must compete.
With the spectra I can and cannot see, so I feel
valid and complete.
The stinging anxiety of an apocalypse dream.
Like when I'm all nasolacrimal thinking about
that Iraqi sunshine.
Because someday I too will have to die.
Like I wanted to when I was your bel esprit.
and there was heat
and life
and
my open eyes.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
