1. Prelude To The Prelude:
He thrives in chaos. He thrives. He thrives.
“Same old demons, hello. I’ve slain this balrug before,
I’ll slay it again.” He chimes.
The dead gardener, having said good bye to the company of the gimlet consumed,
Lets out an exasperated smile– a weary that doesn’t reach
The eyes of the unproductive dream-killers as it does their feet–
The feel of their ankles that are stone-cold like more forks in the righteous road–
Only that the roads are cunning– Only that the roads are different.
The roads are ever such revisionists. So be everything tha ...Read more
I. Christmas Shell
I sit here again about to be an emptied man,
With my menacing keyboard and a full stomach of cheerful food, (Hurrah!)
And the mostly passive clock, silently ticking, hurrying up the reintroduction
Of the re-hollowed man, is the one honest company at this hour.
I could care for some company. I guess everybody's busy during the holidays,
Or at least, everybody's pretending to be busy; switching their phones to vibrate,
And looking every thirty minutes, or during commercial breaks. At least. the TV
Is never too busy for anyone. The TV is a well-drawn plan for the empty ...Read more
A stray enters the manor. Everything here was architected, down to the very Inch,
Grey but never stingy, flimsy but never had a carrot. The utopia goes underground
By one unwanted fly. (Every Inch has a name. Every fly, flounces and frills.)
Tap, tap, tap! The blast doors come a-banging.
Escalating devotions to the self-kickers and perusal of lumbar sentinels,
Brawling, gabbing like a nerve, a mutton on the relocated pier, skin-piercing seltzer;
Grey utopia's most humiliating–
You did make me happy but it was all deceit. Longer were the days spent in misery,
Lengthier, the counting o ...Read more
A stray enters the manor. Fifty to five-hundred thousand volts delivered through a non-caress.
I will leave the unimportant details out as I affirm my own. I will leave the manor to the test.
The legate against the soft quarantine, the legate finding new ways of letting me down;
Plodding and plotting from Small New Zealand; plummeting through
Cookouts, the unchecked tarmac, numismatics, schools, dander vestments, scarcity of the soulless–
I tell you: Emotional unavailability is so three decades ago. It's the Era of Vulnerability now, young hero.
Let it fill in or you're letting it be o ...Read more
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.
Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted.
It is good for the foolish that he bear the yoke in his early days;
Grief-giver ho, bitter-agent ho, now agitated-naked-in-decay tho.
(Nine-One-Four-Five ho, versa power top and tap!)
I try to contribute my many a bones to lesser known museums
Of seaweeds, of poisona skin, of reprimands and recommendations, of ballots of shallots,
And many more gore legendariums tussled, and gigantic screens awfully repainting civics
And never disparaging like my castle ...Read more
you spent an entire four months in an apartment ten stories high, /
living on the eight / floor, / surviving on cheap / noodle sticks and beer /
and cigarettes and / knock-off biscuits /
the elevator / was broken, so most of the time / you had to climb up and bring up /
your own furniture / 'til you started giving up /
on comforts like a good sofa / and new flat-screens, /
and your neighbors, they were no friends /
of yours, / you didn't offer any introduction /
they had lives built before you became /
a sorry tenant, a busy tenant / just another, just another /
so many had lived and ...Read more
"And on the eight day, God sang, 'Let there be gays!'"
good-spirited fast-track and fool of fracking,
leak and let leak, freak–
again, leak and let leak, the savagely beautiful–
Her name is the effigy I throw around to get
a little less attention and a little more fake sympathy–
O', you fakers, clear as the days of my caretakers,
are you good? fluid as the soul can be?
high as the revelation of some fortune stripped across your bow,
hammered like the Almighty oiled up and ready for a show?
good, good, let me tell you something, then–
every year, I find myself digging deeper ...Read more
"Unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem.
Noenum rumores ponebat ante salutem;
Ergo plusque magisque viri nunc gloria claret."
First-time listener, long-time caller. A lover. A lover.
Two aces of New Year's Eves like pinpricks refuting.
…Finding yourself entangled in the magic of it all–
Where the warcry needle is a fiery big hit, a beguilingly big minute,
Dotting my fiercely i's and splintering my e's,
Eavesdropping at any moment, in the red-eyed glazer like a synapse, like a sigh and a sign.
The gods of dogs never do tell you the reformative years are the dull ones.
They will h ...Read more
"Chief Tyrol… This is the Blackbird?"
"Yes, Ma'am… Madam President, this is an honor."
"No, the honor's mine. It's remarkable."
"Just a ship, Ma'am."
"Oh, you're much too modest. After what we've been through, it would be very easy to give up, to lose hope. But not here. Not today. This is more than a ship, Chief. This is an act of faith. It is proof that despite all we've lost, we keep trying. And we will get through this. All of us, together. I promise."
(– BSG S02E09)
Happiness becomes a sin we sought to overcome,
And though our lords and their lords' lords, too, tend to overco ...Read more
You are walking in the museum of now-humanity's ancestors.
You, the descendant, smiles in your crooked way. They are in jars.
They are displayed from a far and being made money for.
And the fire casts to all a long shadow, and the shadow veils on you
Perfectly and still functioning. "You failed," you whispered to it
Like a melancholy chub no longer a longer, apricot-eyed.
"You failed back," theirs seem to reply, the nefarious pointing and taunting,
From the cylindrical glass where chunks were preserved, the bullet-topped
Chunks of history, chunks of your avarice in a pollenated sweatbo ...Read more
I annihilate men with my godsent tongue, this godsent mouth.
My lip gloss are diamonds like I'm the diabolical that rose a rose.
My hips, my arms– they are godless but they climbed down from heavens light as rain,
As the snow McKinley has never known, never had a problem for, never worn…
"I wish he had a blog, so I can read his mind, so I can judge his thoughts accordingly,
The things he won't dare speak direct to me, but shouts at me, directly…"
It only takes one re-reading of Shakespeare to learn of love again.
I learn of tragedy again.
My dear tragedienne, would you come back ...Read more
Anarchy of the mind.
I wrote some welcome-to-my-blog remarks, which you can read here.