New Years Eve

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it’s the end of the year and the rats are here
to feast on the carcasses left behind. what
a devastating year, they groan, you can
see it — seething in the eyes, the fear,
the monotony of ravaged lives jampacked
in shopping centers, defeated, trying to consume
their way out of their self-imposed bondage.

and the easily amused sit on couches
with sugary smiles
as they binge-watch their
own destruction.

the voices of dead poets’ float around
unheard, and the books of Dostoyevsky
collect dust while the prophecies of
Orwell and Huxley unravel as Nietzsche’s
Last Man sits comfortably numb among us
weak and tainted like the idle
blood in his elastic veins.

the frail, riddled with disease,
have found glory in their sickness.

frightened by life and fueled
by resentment
they prey upon the strong
and paint their own feebleness
as virtuous.

it’s New Years Eve, and a hollow
gaiety floods the streets
along with a heavy blast
of fireworks
to welcome in the
resurrection
of a new age.

i pack a few essentials in my backpack —
2 books
a flask
and a knife
and walk out into it.

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Along the Western Front

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Christmas Eve, 103 years ago tonight,
the world burns burns burns like
the furnace it is, but a hard freeze
sets in after an agonizing week
of wind & rain 
along the Western Front.

Tired and ragged soldiers on both sides
of a senseless, brutal war
emerge, with hands up,
from the trenches
harmonizing Silent Night
in unison
as the snow begins to fall.

For just a few hours, these war-torn
adversaries come together
as allies, as friends, as brothers.

They defy the rules of war,
ignore commands from generals
and politicians, and chisel out
their own peace. A peace not granted
by their masters. Two enemies, together,
under a bleak sky in fields of blood and bones,
laugh and sip whiskey and smoke cigars,
while sharing gifts as the grey dawn
gives way to the bloodshed again.

But for one night, just one night, these
young soldiers escaped the cage of honor,
the hell of their undoing, and lowered
their guns, and their goddamn flags
and found brotherhood through truce.

Let every night be Christmas Eve night,
1914, along the Western Front.

 

The Poet

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neglected of youth, high-heeled
whores strut their asses through
the crowded maze of the
barroom haze. cobwebs
of agony hang in the air
as the jukebox serenades
the lonesome. a fistfight detonates
between two drunks at the end
of the bar. everybody is sitting
around waiting to die as
intoxicated laughter
throws a guise over the
end of the world.

and there he is, death dripping
from eyelids, he takes a last-call
pull from the bottle, throws his coat on,
lights a half-smoked cigar & stumbles
out into the doveless night. the warm glow
from a lamppost throws shadows of serpents
against battered cobblestones. vagrants sip
whiskey under boxed shelters as they hold out
calloused hands for the gamble. the
moonlight careens up the seedy path
as the poet ambles towards the
dark den of his solitude. Continue reading

a lifeless shooter

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There’s no one more dangerous in American society
than an aging man
who has come to realize
that he pissed away his whole bitter life
waiting on politicians to save him
from his own discontent in life.

The shooter. A hollow man with weak ideas.
His brain politicized to the core.
Never became a self-made man,
or created something of value or
even conjured up an original thought
outside of progressive talking points.

He never possessed the courage
to be the man he wanted to be.

His deep-seated bitterness was amplified
over the recent election,
over politics-
that great delusion
that fills the void of the empty.

His discontent became rampant
as he looked to his redeemer—
the state — who, in his eyes,
has utterly failed to penalize the fruitful
at the expense of his failures.

On a midweek summer morning,
with nothing left, he finally took it upon himself,
aiming a gun as pathetically as he lived his life.

Humanity

Somewhere along the way we get tricked.
We fall victim to this conditioned idea
that humanity is divided up into teams.

This being nationality, race,
politics, class and religion.

We join a team,
usually one our parents or communities
have passed down to us.
And we become proud of our team.
We cling desperately to our team’s
philosophies & principles.
Traditions & symbols
become our security.
We hide in them.

And because we are led to believe
that our team is noble, we either ignore
or justify all the evil things our team does
while at the same time demonizing
the other team for their vices.
Even minor ones.

We will strongly deny any truths
that challenge the dignity of our team.

That’s when the essence of our individualism
dissolves like ice cubes in our morning coffee.
We begin to hate the other team.
We deplore their actions, right or wrong.
We want to abolish the other team.
We become bitter as our hearts fill with disdain.

This is the abbreviated story of humanity.
This is why the world is a constant battlefield.
This is why it’s so important to teach our kids
to read poetry, drink beer, travel often, hike mountains,
and most importantly–never ever watch the news.

This will shatter the deadly illusion of teams.

jehovah’s witnesses at my door

jehovah witnesses knocked on my front door the other day.

two old ladies, sweet and pleasant,
with beautiful southern hats
were standing on my porch as
I opened the door.

hair disheveled, shirtless,
my tattooed body staring
at them.

they greeted me with nervous eyes
as they talked to me about their god.

they smiled, made small talk and
read their cherished scriptures
written by unknown authors.

soliciting their view of salvation.

it took all I had not to expose some of the
fallacies in their belief system.

it took all I had not to remind them that
being devoutly passionate in their beliefs
is not a measure of their accuracy.

but I was quiet. I let them read
and I politely took their pamphlet.
I gave them a thank you smile,
figuring nice people are better off
left alone in their fantasies.

as long as it gives them hope and meaning
in this circus of life, you know?

as they left, I shut my door,
tossed the paper into the trash
and headed out back to my patio.

I sat beside the dead ferns and the stale leaves
that had fallen from my backyard oak.

I subtly sipped my whiskey
and sucked in my version of salvation
through a cigar
and slowly exhaled it out to the gods.

and as I sat back,
trying to find my place in the book I was reading,
my mind wandered and
I caught myself recklessly
bleeding nonsensical thoughts on
fate, eternity and immortality.

damn those sweet old ladies,

they got me.

untrodden

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there are no paths
that lead to truth.
that’s the splendor
and beauty of it. truth has
no set path. no absolute.
truth is alive, living,
breathing, meandering
through our cells, penetrating
our dreams. it doesn’t rest under
the roofs of mosques,
or temples
or churches.
it doesn’t die
in bitter hearts
or suffocate
in closed minds.
the truth is alive,
chaotically so,
and will continue to
thrive, whether we
want it to or not.
let it fill you with
vigor and passion
let it lead you
to say yes to it all.