The Formation Of Middle Class Ideals

One person,

bottles up another person,

who bottles up that other person,

and nothing real ever gets in

again.

I Think It’s Time For Scenery

when i walk down the

dark rusty streets

of my mind,

i feel some peace.

i understand the brooding smile

of the dark skinned

brunettes

who look at the world with

brown

tired

eyes.

When i’m there,

the dusty doorhandle

never chalks my fingers,

the dim lights hide my scars

and turns

flourescent the night.

glowing radiant sparksleshowers

of fantastic adventures

fill my head

and i am off.

It’s a world i hate to hate.

i envy their hollow holed eyes

staring at the walls of their

pasts.

i want a shoulder of sorrow

to carry.

i want a ton of grief to

fill my skin.

It won’t however.

When the sparks

hit the ground

and their light rampages

into the darkness,

and as that world of failed sadness

begins to disappear,

no disaster is that beautiful,

i just

can’t

fail.

The Crimson Hours

roses,

are the crimson spokes in the lovers

wheels

as the rusted car belts it’s off tune

down the desert road.

each stick of red flower

thieves to hide away what the brain

knows

as

truth.

this morning will not last

longer than the next oil change.

you enjoyed buying the rose,

but knew it was only a purchase

to purchase

time.

and when the day comes just let the petals burn

away.

when their fragrance leaves the room

the truth comes whistling back,

and do you really want to be there

for

that?

Life Keeps Sleeping While We Knock Furiously

death is the only end that

actively seeks us

all.

life,

doesn’t even come

when your fists pound on

it’s oak front door.

living is a warm cup of water

that everyone passes up

for

the cold one.

accepting life is accepting

spastic sporadic moments

of unknown disasters

but death,

is the same way across the world.

we are here

and then

we are not.

it’s plain and true.

we will mourn, we will cry, and

we will

move

on.

but life,

life is the card dealt last.

it begs to ask,

“is this really what you want to do?”

and we cowher for a moment,

wondering,

“why wouldn’t we want to?”

and then we live a little.

and we lose people.

and we lose powerful invisible

truths.

like the innocence of a strange friend

on the playground

when your three

and wide eyed.

we love

and we lose love

on rainy nights,

in dark cities

of our empty hearts.

we are in a blender,

it’s set on high,

and the only ingredients

are the memories of

what can be

what should be

and what is.

and we’re asked again,

“why live this life, why live any life?”

and were mute,

we cant answer.

here we are at the edge of

the world

burning on fire

and we can’t think of a reason

to put ourselves out.

thousands of people burning

aimlessly.

we don’t reply.

we can’t yet.

our lives move forward slowly,

more meticulous than before,

avoiding the spots

that have held us in fear.

we walk, and walk and walk.

more people crumble around us.

more lovers come through our

rusty doors.

our joints grind us forward to

THE

goal.

we are tired,

we are worn.

it is a long time past from the

day

we

were born.

finally,

death is coming.

it knows where i have been all

my life.

it’s passed the grocery store

and it’s gliding towards my house.

and

when death totes it’s head through

the blinds in my room,

i

won’t be

there.

“why do you want to live?”

i can hear it ask.

“because i don’t know

any

other

way,”

i can finally answer.

We Are All Bitten Apples

when i bite an apple,

i reconstruct

what should be there,

and deconstruct

what is.

and it works much like my life.

young,

energy without supplements,

imagination,

without smoke,

love,

without questions,

possibilities,

without doubt,

a world,

without boundaries.

people begin to take bites

out of us.

no longer do we live

and let live.

its a 55 in a 55,

two hands on the wheel,

eat three meals a day,

be normal or you’re wierd

type of world.

the bites begin to brown.

we grow older (we think wiser).

we have money

and

everybody else wants it.

greasy scams,

false claims,

large neon lights lit on lies,

expose more of ourselves,

tear away our red skin.

we’re naked,

we’re paranoid.

people shout from above and below us,

“give up your dreams,

it’s just not worth it.”

and that’s the bite that finishes

us

off.

the dreams,

that once held

hope

that the brown rotting bites

would grow us whole again,

are gone.

all we end up are

brown

rotting

cores

of what we once were.

Giving It All Back

heres a twenty

for the peace inside

as the soft dusk light

melts into the trees leaves.

and another fiver

to dip my finger into the red water ripples

reflecting

the sun’s final moments.

here’s a ten

for the humility attained

through only myself and

a

mirror.

and here’s a buck

for every minute of solitude

i spent on the porch

at dusk.

in fact,

take it all.

it’s just not that important anymore.

Madness Incognito

rise up with the flame

and back down with

the

ash.

save the dragonfly from

the spider.

tightrope walk

red horizons.

eat the musty stench

from the sun’s light.

look out the blinds and

into the sky.

you’re not crazy,

but,

you’re getting warmer.

Women Are Easy Metaphors and Impossible Humans

it’s like slowly walking into

the ocean

for hours at a time.

the water chills your knees, your waist

your chest, your cheeks, your ears

and you can’t stop.

it’s taking the record from the top

shelf

and losing your hearing.

it’s pork lo mein everyday

and

you can’t even smell it anymore.

it’s a sad song(against all odds)

and

a tragic one(thunder road).

it’s pressing an open sore

repeatedly

to feel the small pain.

to feel any pain.

it’s cold fridays in cold corners

of empty rooms.

it’s watching your life take the bus

ahead of you.

and sometimes,

it’s a rope when you’re

over

the

edge.

 

 

 

The Sun Illuminates Pigs and Grass

The sun shines in hell

And into

Sewers.

It creeps through cracks

In disappointing bedrooms.

It shines on trash in the

Can

And

In the yard.

It beats on shoulders that hold

Up

Several lives.

I’ve been told you can’t get too

Close

Or it kills you.

But as far away as I am

What kills me,

Is what it can’t shine on.

Like the mundane speeches

Of the dagger toothed,

Speed talking,

Riders of societies boundaries

Who moan,

And groan,

The insufficiencies of their lives

But cowher

To change it.

It never shines on

The twenty dollars slipped

Through

The system,

The nightmares of painful nights,

Or the poking

And prodding

And insisting

Of the something inside of us

That

Loses control.

And here we are,

Tired,

Ragged,

Clothes too old,

Thoughts so weary they

Sleep as their thought,

Trying to make the sun

Expose

Several million

half-assed ways of the world.

The Night Promises Heroes

the moon cries white beams

across the yard

on the last

night

the world will ever have to battle.

i’ve seen the twisted faces

of a thousand amazed souls

grimace through

the dark hours of the

day

looking to touch a feeling

that won’t be found.

the night promises heroes

and churns out

destroyed people/

i’ve heard the screams, the cries

the endless talking

about endless non-matters

while keeping their lonely

selves of their unfinished journey

at their back.

the fight is too great.

the stakes are too high,

and if tonight wasn’t

the end

of

it

all

these people would spend years

saying with their dying tongues,

“same shit, different day.”

if this wasn’t the

last tears of the moon

we wouldn’t have to watch

the bronzed statues

of the brave who tried

and the few that made it

melt down the

drain.

if tonight wasn’t

the

last

night.