Success

twittering sighs
whispering flies
the new mantra is
"buy"


cant help but stare
all this was so rare
when we valued "share"
instead of designer
"flair."

we lament our woes
as new, daunting foes
but from history's shadows
is where they
grow.

consumerism's rampant orthodox,
as infectious as chicken pox,
buys up junk, leaving nothing...
but our children in neck and arm
stocks.

Grow the pie is our game,
but not enough we complain.
So exponential debt swallowing
keeps us
"sane"
And bitchin that, relatively, times are worse
since Carnegie's reign,
well,
that's this generations only claim to fame.

"Success is in drought or has fled" or
"the American dream is dead."
This is America's new green eyed dread.
No more disputes of destiny about which we have read,
just small men bickering over who gets the bigger bed.


"Success" is a relative state
born of non quantifiable
echoes.

Alger never saw the "dream"
defined by material gained through
schemes-
in the form of tv screens
or gold plated limousines.


The "dream" is alive and well,
still yelling like crazy old Zell.
but how then is our debt doubled with each
day's clanging bell?

Is the money gone, or the spirit dead?
Was our wealth a mirage, born in the red?
Previous generations bode well,
but what in us makes the future a hollow shell?


Baby, Its that thirst for more.
Keeping up with the Jones's is the
score.
Back and
forth.

"Honey, call the neighbor and tell him about the new
Porsche."

Our parents Dream was to own a home;
support themselves by working to the bone;
saving to send their kids to college without a loan;
all their satisfaction stole from self reliance's dome.

This is the dream, breathing and living.
THAT pie is still lurching forward- always giving.

And while the average citizen yells "corporate fraud"
he puts his 20 dollar lunch on a near maxed out
credit card.
This mentality is not a class trait, but a cultural
mistake.
Spending money we don't have,
well,
that is the New American Way.

We have created the Napoleon class,
you and
I.
Whether
in a mansion,
or a double wide,
we are greedy by the masses;
our defining characteristic: Crassness.

And we blame only the "others" for our pains....
Derrida would be proud of his theory laid plain.
What a fucking joke, to outsiders it should seem we are insane.
But to which outsiders? Modern Capitalism has made us all the same.

splitting the night..

fear roams the rooms of this hollow dream
of which i stare into, ignoring the seam.
the stitches laugh in voices unknown,
tenors and baritones of the earth below.

I walk the line between the two: dream and earth.
my visions cloud the sky with a deafening silence
and light
touches
the horizon
where the clouds mix death with rain
and bleed
into the silent well.

The echoes of memories ripples the ocean,
flowing like tsunamis of nothing
until touching The door.
Signs lead the way,
but death is in the wake
of silence.
And life follows the thought;
the muse's touch;
the lightning eyes-
filled with music from the cloud God
i believe in.....

but also created.

How does meaning grow from cobblestone eyes?
Late at night, who whispers in the ears of the air?
Why would the Great One ask for passiveness?
Why not growl the thunder?

Why not touch ants with the prophet of darkness?
Why the promise of pain?

Naked light's voices roam the yard-
haunting,
all the while screaming
words of derision.
But silence is all that cools the grass here.
Forever.
Just voices no one shares.
No one can touch.
NO ONE

Memories..

Nostalgia
'tis my ethos
and my business
model.
but even with knowing you
and all
you
do
its difficult for my
grimy
window to the
world
to clarify
my dancing
nerve ends
tempo,
their song.
So i stare at
a the distorted mirrors
of time
and imagine
nirvana
in the human form
of a
syringe,
but sometimes,
when insulted by my
new chia pet,
i get real,
actual,
glimses of the dank
sunlight
through those
old, old,
clouds.
I smile
at these honest
hallucinations,
for i know they
are real
like Deepthroat was,
like the Jackal
was.
One might think
despair
is next,
but turning pages
is like
losing that favorite
passifier.
Sad,
but inevitable...

????

happiness is the scene

most of us live for in this dream.

Ugliness is the reality that happy

is a worthless shrine to idiocy thats sappy,

And beggin the question with world leaders

is an understood evil utilized by cheaters.





pain ridden eyes,

tear streaked thighs,

pulsing for a

goodbye

are the life

of

strife,

but

what?

You expect me

to hide,

to not ride,

to side

with a

unglorious,

uneventful,

non- engagement?

I still dont what your word-

safe-

meant.

Bent,

am i?

Slothenly draped

with morsels,

pics of

crepes and

drapes

hide

ubiquitous

snakes

who want

your skin,

your breath,

Its their life

through your

death.

But fear not

and kneel high

to chance and the

sky,

for they alone

cry

dry

tears,

and they leave

scars,

delicious scars,

that leave no memory

of origin,

but DO leave

the residue

of self-

assurance.

masochistic, fuckers

Esphixiation is so nice
When lying here in mee garden.
The strangling limbs
Of this beautiful, blooming rosebush
Are just as deadly
And ominous
To me
As overdose is
To the
dear
junkie.

A fist that
Grips
For
Life,
That grips for
A slow,
Nice,
Death,
Will
Hold the suns rays
In an incandescent
Hearn,
Which it saves for future dinner parties,
Of course….

I grind and bash and mash
Stained glass into powder
To flavor my lamb,
To sweeten my cake,
And then I relax
And enjoy the blood flavored
Spittle.

I have always been a little self-destructive
I bellow to the unsuspecting sky.
While
Admiring the shape of a mortar shell,
I attended a peace rally
And was thrown out on my
Ass-
The ungrateful bastards!!!!
Don’t they know that without
My appreciation of death,
There are no hippies
Or peace rallies……..


They just don’t know
How
To appreciate
It all at once,
It all for what it is,
it from both sides of the spectrum,
it as a sad, happy, daunting, exuberant…..
experience.

‘cause that’s all it is, really-
An experience I choose to experiment with-
And I choose ignorance of the ignorant,
Abstinence from acquiescence,
Absence from the domicile
Of
Obligatory love,
Faux love,
perpetually abstaining
from
the engagement.

Don’t get mad,
Don’t talk about it,
Play the normalcy game,
Play the ice game,
Own the reality game,
But never buy a club
Membership again.


I wont be pious….
But I will say
Preconceived notions
And established normalcy
Will
Lead to that most
un needed of
emotions-

Guilt.

ajkfont done

Oh the time will come up when the trees will rot and the world will cease to be spinning
like eulogy air floatin high from a dull stare, the hour that our train comes in
and the tracks will unfold like a pathway for the soul for your dreary eyes to devour
and the men living on the wall will scream from the hall that even Gods sometimes falter.

Oh the waves of grain will sing in the rain and they'll ask for the destruction of all thats unholy
like the end of fall when a fire is raging tall, the hour that the train comes in.
and the birds of prey will fight desperately to stay in the boxcar that holds deaths secrets
but the railman likes to fight and he does it every night so he checks for all the dirty numbers
and they know he comes, so they binge on lifes sweet rum and try to forget they're about to be trampled
but he arrives with a cane, to soften up their brains for messing with his bag of essentials
and they run and hide like coyotes in the night, the hour that the train comes in.
So now every hand is with hammer and all souls begin to clamor that the end may not be so violent.
And the sky's blue hue envelops and validates all thats true, the hour that the train comes in.
And the train's stone faced men will see the path of zen and will lock the brakes and walk into the field.
when they lay in the grass, history's shadow of death will pass, the hour that the train comes to a stop.

good friends

I feel this slow death creeping
creeping
it touches me with sincerity
with intense brevity
of all emotions

I feel alone in the crowd
this crowd, right now.
all crowds


and I dream of golden days
shining through dull windows
but i just feel sad
and alone
and know that all grass is brown- everywhere

My stars are fickle
my loves are obtuse
all my connections are
nothing more than burning piles
of newspaper
destined to turn to ash and
follow the wind
home
away

I fight for my hands and feet
but they tell me to
grow up
to understand these impish
insults
but the torpid, latent reaction
of analyzation
is quiet and certain
as death by drowning
and is my weakness.