No, nonsense. Who doesn’t like soup? I saw a dog the other day. The tree was yellow. They kissed under the sun a dog walked by them. Cat’s aren’t fail proof. Just because they let you serve them, doesn’t mean they’re going to take any bullshit. The gutters have gasoline rainbows. It was about seven inches, maybe it was shorter in the past and I was taller but we grew by proportion and he remained an Olympic contender. Where do shovels come from? I think women are proportionately attracted to the amount of shit you can make them believe. Chess against a machine. Fuck Deep Fritz. I’ve never had any problem with rabbits. The pie is on the stove. Moscow, I think. Extreme Jenga, real buildings, fifteen packs of kool-aid and an assault rifle, the AR-15. I fucked this one girl when I fifteen. Mom called and I answered the phone, my dick still disagrees, but I told her, I’m talking FIVE DEEP on a 14 year old on a waterbed. I’m in the middle of something. Dropped my pants, you forgot something mesdames. I dream that shit is a vacant womb. Surprise, is this revenge? I have a ballpoint pen. It’s spelled with two R’s. Two, that—that’s it, just two. He hung the phone and no one mourned. 9 inches. I never saw that movie. Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the employment rate is going up. I’ve never eaten a sandwich upside down. Of course I thought about it. Who hasn’t taken a hit or two? Somewhere in Arizona I think. Yeah, they’ve been there for years. Intelligent design sign under the neck of a Siamese twin who shares his brother’s nose. Fuck, they smelled the same shit all the time. He died from falling off a horse. Nah, get back in the car. Fucking bums where you going? A pastrami I think. No. Well, I mean, if you’re going to put a thousand dollars on a dog you better know what kind it is it could be one of those little seizure dogs. Did you eat the fucking rice? Did you? I ate a bunch of rice. Two sentences ago the idea died. How old was he? Hit the fucking mailbox! Knock knock. Who’s there? Fuck you. 2:30 I think. Do you have change for a twenty? No, I heard it makes you see shit. Twists your brains around a crazy finger. The approval of the café manager’s sanitary work environment took home the PGA tour after somebody shot him. The jungle book is racist look at King Louie if that’s not roses tyrants live for nothing. The point is not to make sense. Justified schizophrenia by Sam. Is there any ice cream left? Why not storm Dracula’s castle during the daytime, or bought a flash light. Tom Cruise is 3ft 9” tall. At least his dick is proportionate profession obligatory tom cruise that yuppy fuck who won’t shut up. You know, in the early days of the industrial revolution, the mayonnaise was in great demand. Somebody accepted Jesus into their heart and three days later he burst out like the alien in that Ridley Scott flicker. Dinosaurs had gigantic brains but never a book. Oprah farts all the time. The skinny one dug a hole the fat one couldn’t escape. I’ve never seen that color blue. What do you call it? Coffee, like the name, and spelled like the name, this is promnesia from three days ago. I forgot to type the words. The page was not in the mood. Imagine a guy poking you in the face all fucking night. I lost my contacts. What’s Word’s email address? you would see the rise of the technological coup. The first day on the new computer. For what? I am posed as an alien who loves cheese. Fuck football . I’ve got another rug to use for when Steven comes by. WHAT? Braking news: somebody is on fire. An ice vendor saved his life. I like ice cream. Do you? I never saw that movie. Then fuck you too. I hate that band. Aids should arrive sooner than expected. abort! abort! subject is aware of the experiment.
With all his questions answered,
that massive stone,
he pulled forever,
finally rolled back.
In peace he watched the pebbles slide,
with no Hades on his mind,
nor dancing Persephone.
With his back,
turned to the hill,
he thought of memories alone.
To the abandoned rock he glanced,
and sighed, began to laugh.
With Sisyphus redeemed,
God Zeus, it seemed,
had been impeached at last.
No more purpose,
but to live, enjoy;
After further contemplation,
of the struggle he called home,
he started to lament—
the beauty of the hill, the stone,
grey skies and punishment.
Con niente di lasciato,
he sighed, and on sore legs he rose.
Peace of mind was not enough.
The stone pulled Sisyphus from the dust.
In tuo adventu,
suscipiant te martyres;
the stone on him took hold.
And once again,
so beautifully rolled.
No need for purpose,
just to be;
Sisyphus thought c’est la vie.
The Public Face of Fireflies, 2002
When we kiss each other,
with the formless masks we wear,
they rest on our private face,
to hide who’s really there.
Our lies and malice hide behind,
a smiling face carved out of wood.
A fake smile is placed, where once the face,
of an honest man once stood.
What could we ever even know,
about the complex creature man?
Who’s naked without that made up face,
and would rather wear a lying smile,
behind a phony air of grace,
when his frailty with a mask he can replace.
What could alike be said of the real
behind the mask—
animosity, confusion, and other human traits;
still clouded by a now evaporated past—
with a mask this face we can erase.
We hide the self behind blue curtains,
of civility and taste;
until nothing of the shadow’s past we could remind.
We must appear as shadows,
in a music box seen from space;
before like a song,
we right all wrongs,
smile and then rewind.
To cover up our human nature,
with a mask made out of glass,
for ourselves we make the good,
and for ourselves the bad,
to hide the animal in all of us, alas;
more hollow than the ringing of a silent echo could.
Oh, could our plastic kissing faces,
hide all of us behind—
before last year’s unpleasantness,
our present might remind?
Or could this porcelain mask today’s unease replace,
before we are forever trapped behind a porcelain face?
Could we helpless crawling creatures,
hear aloud the midnight sun—
before we’re washed away like chalk-lined phantoms on the floor?
With the mask undone our life’s no fun,
when ourselves we know no more.
But still we hide our eyes behind,
not the face with which we’re born,
but with a mask we’ve always worn.
The Hands, 2002
The first moment of our life,
dropped as a speck of sand—
from an hourglass over turned by
Drop by drop the pebbles fall forever;
we are grains amidst the strands.
Not always was the dying world so bad;
not always did man speak of have and had.
They place their bets, collect their chips,
They laugh until they see the hands.
No one saw the pebble fall,
and no one wondered why,
the grain of sand,
from unknown hands,
looked at our blue dot passing by.
Earth shrinks in the distance,
as another dot to pass.
From nothing into something,
so runs the hourglass.
It keeps on dripping, drop by drop,
moments forever fall.
They never stop, and never stall;
just smile and watch them fall.
With one stack on another,
so many piles of sand.
They lay together in their dreams,
and far away hold hands.
The Fisherman, 2000
No encore for the sun today,
it disappeared too soon.
But she’ll be back to shine again,
If in the end to dust—
we’re turned to be,
and that eternal silent film,
we’re forced to see,
let Old Man Winter,
in his robe,
lead us into the sea.
Only silence lasts forever,
this in the end we’ll know.
The world will be a silent place,
when our globe runs out of snow,
and has no God to shake it.
Even our golden candle Sol,
no longer will stay lit.
Down the sweet sun comes,
overhead it leaves a golden line.
A streak of light, to sleep she goes,
taking the spotlight off our show.
If we again into the sea descend,
and as a balance between the worlds suspend—
how little time to balance on the line,
before the fisherman rolls us in.
The Tower, 2000
Man runs forever in a gerbil wheel,
chasing cheese that isn’t real.
Piety, or so it seems,
is a self-fulfilling madman’s dream.
Piety, as some would say,
is the Tower of Babble in the way.
Whoever made the wise man made the fool,
and gave them equal pertinence and due.
Whoever made the candlelight,
made the oxen follow too—
another of the sun to lose.
Whoever made the force of love made hate,
with both of them to separate.
The conducting hands of angel choirs,
let Paradise be Lost.
The hands that gave us Mary’s Lamb,
made those who nailed him to the cross.
Whoever made the nighttime made the day,
and lay before us once a golden gate;
a golden gate between here and there,
to which all figures disappear.
Piety, it sometimes seems,
is a forever-recurring delusional dream.
Piety, the wise would say,
is the Tower of Babel still standing today.
Natural Mystic, 1999
A deaf man sings though cannot hear,
like a blind man lost in long blank years.
I see a sick man in the cold,
in the mud and growing old.
An elephant with a lotus, sings,
to Maya lost in twilight dreams:
to you a son will come, fulfill,
and roll stray pebbles up the hill.
Do not indulge, he says, don’t feel.
Serenity and harmony—still,
do not be taunted, selfish heavens,
white doves, four horses, seals, and seven.
Candle sticks flicker in the night,
to and froing as they might.
revealing one seal, two seal, three seals,
all of them opened with a door.
Beyond, inside now, prying still,
as pebbles rolling down a hill.
Like moths burnt by manmade light,
as Icarus burnt at the height of his flight.
Good and evil, one situation—
the rest is just interpretation;
there is no moral litigation,
all good works are inclination.
Evasive will up to the light,
struggling through the dark of night,
like snow dissolving in one’s hand,
like an hourglass without sand!
From some he takes,
to others, give;
to some gives death,
while others live.
Our voice echoes down time’s hall—
transparent paintings line the wall.
In each we see the same man laugh,
a public face behind a mask.
And man is but a pyramid,
each moment but a stone.
Memories in veneer is hid,
and in completion carries on.
Through tall hills of thick green grass,
reflected by a sky of glass.
Orange, flutter butterflies,
admired by some childhood eyes.
Spin you clock, and take me home.
Tick tock tick tock; carry on.
Gone like God and all the rest,
shaken off as though a pest.
Perhaps within this supposition,
with no one listening there, around,
a solipsist dies out in the woods,
does anyone make a sound?
Running nowhere, like running still,
just as ink flows from a quill.
Time is always moving, and,
it drags us like a slave—
to nothingness so soothing,
forgotten in a grave.
With clouds comes the prophet,
will he our dreams fulfill?
And answer riddles, like our life?
Or will he tell us we were right?
Nothing to say, no voice his own,
laid out in rags, silent, alone.
Alone with words, and just his mind,
he watches clocks and cries for time.
Time around him slips away,
as midnight beheads yesterday—
and then itself is conquered too;
that’s all miss destiny seems to do.
The day from darkness, midnight too,
is the light from me to you;
it was arranged for you to see,
if you look long enough for me.
In all my wonder, anonymous,
not dogmatic, or pious;
neither intent on destruction or hate,
intent to let man write his own fate.
We fritter all our lives away,
with little left to do or say.
Without much left to see, to do,
tomorrow comes to take us too.
The dew of dawn, the tears of mourning,
out on the lawn under the storming.
Under the lightning, and the thunder,
creation is a madman’s blunder.
Why waste time to wonder?
An answer doesn’t solve a thing.
Not one bit of peace,
can a simple answer bring.