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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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

Sainthood & Outlaws

 

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Socrates was sentenced to drink the hemlock
for corrupting the youth. Jesus was crucified
for rebelling against the Roman Empire. Joan of
Arc was burned at the stake for heresy. It’s pretty
clear to see that sainthood is often born of rebellion.
It’s usually the outlaws of a society, those most hated
while alive, who live forever in the hearts of mankind.

you’re not gonna change it, darlin’

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the world is in disarray, darlin’,
and that’s the way it always has been
and always will be. this is its normal state,
it’s tragic and fascinating at the same time.

the vast fields of gold & honey
are encircled by raging rivers
of blood and tears.

you’re not going to change it, darlin’.

I know your college professors have
plagued your mind with subversive ideas
of change; change at a cost of yielding
your essence to the false idol of “equality”,
but’s it’s a lie, darlin’, I promise you…
the unintended consequences will be far worse
than the evils you’re trying to eradicate.

you have animosity & rage
building up within you,
you’re becoming corrupted by your beliefs,
this sometimes happens
when a belief system is in doubt,
can’t you see it, darlin’?

can’t you see what you’re becoming?

instead of listening and pondering the rationale
of opposing voices, you want them silenced.
you routinely inject a dose of ad hominem
as a scapegoat to divert attention away
from the debate, you erect a strawman, lumping
your opponents into detestable groups
to muddy up their character instead of
dealing face to face with the argument.

this is what you’ve become.

they’ve molded you into an instrument
in someone else’s symphony. a pawn in
someone else’s game. refuse, darlin’
don’t lose yourself to some odious ideology
that breeds resentment towards the
hierarchical structure you find yourself in,
it’s a no-win situation.

I promise you, darlin’
you’re not going to smash the system
you’re not going to alter it
you’re not going to level it out.
your time & energy are too precious
to waste on such a futile endeavor.

because in truth, we’re all just thrown
into this chaotic catastrophe as lost
transients who take on a few
decades of its infinite expansion.

endless suffering, prejudices,
and inequity are part of the game
darlin’, they’re inescapable
in a world of duplicitous hearts,
where that fine line rifts between
good and evil.

so go ahead, clamor for more laws,
shun your neighbors and cling tighter
to your predictable politics, give up
a little more in exchange for the illusion
of security, write your congressman,
join the trendy campaign, hashtag
your way straight to utopia, darlin’

sermonize to us all on social media
like you do so well

keep it up

tell us the way of the world,
tell us what the philosophers
neglected to inform us
tell us our proper role
on this unforgiving planet
tell us your bland ideas
tell us your irrational fears
tell us your cunning pleas

however, darlin’, you’re not going
to change it, your groupthink,
herd-minded viewpoints are voiced
loud and clear, but it means nothing.

your resentment of the flourishing
makes you a victim of a deep-seated
nihilistic despair, and instead of trying
to rise through the muck, you yearn to bring
everyone down to your pathetic level.

you were taught this to be virtuous, noble,
you’ve come to despise the individual,
you’ve come to hate him, which is
why you mimic the masses and castoff
responsibility for your own miserable life.

you’ve been caught up in the cobwebs
of your culture, darlin’. you’re too weak
to push through. they’ve got you.

this is why you’re bitter and saturated
with an anti-realist belief system.
the way you perceive outer reality
is just a reflection of your inner world.

the only REAL thing you can do
is change who you are.

behave in little ways
to make yourself a
healthier, wiser
more creative
person.

you have to go at it alone, though.
the majority, the crowd, is never right.

think bigger, reflect deeper, speak truthfully,
take on a bigger load, put some skin
in the game. find out who you are,
fix your unlived, broken self
first, before you attempt
in some vain way
to save the
world.

it’s the only way.

Among the Daffodils

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My face is beginning to show
the battle scars of time. My heart
seems to care less for things
I once held as relevant. As the years
unravel, things make less sense.

The hangovers last a few days now
instead of a few hours. Beautiful
dreams once lucid are now blurred.
The idea of God weakens with every
atrocious deed I see in the world.

Politics is a hopeless endeavor
just like our obscene habit
of obedience. The debt bubble
we’ve swallowed as “prosperity”
is on the verge. The wars have
grown tiresome, nobody cares
about them anymore.

Everybody is trying to sell
a lifestyle; they want you live
like them; they want you to buy
their life-changing product
or get behind their great cause;
they have the secret, they say,
just follow them.

The church wants confessions but I think
we’re all out. The witless hipsters ride
vintage bikes on Brooklyn sidewalks
to coffee shops that were once
brothels and asylums.

Overmedicated & indebted men
find it difficult to have conversations
beyond their jobs or college football.
Women do yoga on weekends and gossip
on long walks about husbands
who’ve lost that intestinal fortitude.

The 88-year-old man, with his retirement
and dignity wasted away by inflation, bags
groceries at the corner supermarket
to pay for his myriad of medications.

The dogs have grown bored of their masters.
The cats gave up on us long ago. The sparrows
flutter higher in the sky than they used to.

The books of Whitman, Emerson
and Thoreau sit dusty on bookshelves
as the television scorches and burns.

Where’s the promise of victory?

We’re being led somewhere
by the outside far away
from the treasure inside.

As the tribes’ march in lockstep
to their ordered destination,
I lie in the meadow
just beyond the bloody streams
surrounded by golden daffodils,
as the rain rinses me of oblivion
I’m lifted from the hollow abyss
into the universal radiance
where the five senses
become one.

Between the Voids

 

_DSC3294“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

Just imagine an endless void,
infinitely dark and bound by no space
and time. A perpetual midnight
with no stars or moons. An
eternal blackness.
Then a flash.
A light, a breath, a life.
Milliseconds later another flash.
The last gasp, darkness, death.

Back into it.

This is our life and our death.
A mere flicker in the spectrum of time.
An instance in eternity.
What do we do in between
the mysterious voids?
What do we do
with the fleeting miracle
of the light?

After the first spark,
we soon realize that the second
spark is swiftly approaching
and we fall to our knees
in angst and fear
of the looming darkness
rather than celebrating
the impossible odds
of the first spark.

In the face of the dying
of the light, we’ve
allowed ourselves to be consumed
by the masses
succumbing to a maddening
9-5 routine lifestyle
of work, TV, bed, repeat.
With weekends filled
with other predictable normalcies.

No creation,
no exploration,
no diving into the depths
of the great works of
wisdom and art.
No effort to taste
the world beyond
the recognizable margins
of our own lot.

It just seems like an evil hoax,
a bad dream,
a soulless way to spend
the fleeting days
of a brief
accidental
life.

Most live it, or are conditioned to live it,
or at least endure it
because we have bills to pay,
cars to drive, and mouths to feed.

It’s an honorable feat.

But deep down we know
it’s a killer. As Thoreau once observed,
“the mass of men lead lives
of quiet desperation.”

We’re running around mad
in our own little mad world, always doing
something that brings no joy,
darting here and there
with no time to think or reflect,
no time to just sit under a sycamore
and ponder on the mere chance
of our existence.

The late great mythologist
Joseph Campbell recognized that
“We’re so engaged in doing things
to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget
the inner value,
the rapture that is associated
with being alive.”

Maybe this explains the lunacy and self-ignorance
we see around our bankrupt country.
Seems we’ve politicized our minds
and neglected our souls
to the point of hysteria
while hiding behind worn-out ideologies,
mindlessly swallowing the nonsense
we hear from empty suits
in positions of power.

We cling to the buoy
of politics
and religion
and cheap entertainment
to stay
afloat in the whirling
sea of anguish.

We know nothing
but our mouths
reason otherwise

It’s like we’re trapped in a theater
playing constant reruns of a bad melodrama
with no exit.

It’s a hell of a predicament we find ourselves in.
Sartre just might’ve been right when he said that
“Everything has been figured out
except how to live.”

Or as Oscar Wilde once said, “To live
is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people exist, that is all.”

Maybe we’ve lost what it means to be alive.

We’re not our jobs or the labels society pins
to us, we’re not the daily routine,
the lunch breaks, the clock-out time,
the bitterness, the lifelessness.

We’re so much more.

Life is a rapture, my friends.
It’s creativity,
the yearning to create something
of value or beauty,
like an average poem
or a photograph that captures
a moment in time, or a stunning piece
of furniture. It’s being
intoxicated on books and dreams,
staying infatuated with the mystery of it all.
It’s seeing things and going places, journeying
alone under burnt-out skies,
finding out what you’re all about,
and what its all about.
There’s just too much to know & experience
to settle down
in a little pocket of the planet
doing mediocre things,
thinking ordinary thoughts,
and speaking in common ways.

As Carl Sagan reminded us,
“Somewhere,
something incredible
is waiting to be known.

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.