New Years Eve

_DSC4760

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.

Advertisements

The Poet

poet-bob-orsillo

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

416B5BDA00000578-4604130-Hodgkinson_is_seen_above_in_2012_protesting_outside_the_United_S-m-74_1497457718006

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.

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

DSCF2073

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.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

henri-de-toulouse-lautrec

Moonlit nights in Paris,
the artist, tiny, staggering through
streets, dragging along
an easel
he was to set up
in the Parisian brothels
to bring a light of humanity
to these gals of the night
that was rarely seen.

The wind, tainted
with the vices of the gutter,
splashed his face as he made his way.

And the thieves, pimps and
street-walkers lurked at all hours
of the seedy night.

The artist strolled on through.

Saturated with drink, 4 day
binge, no sleep
living out the fate that he’d excepted
long ago.

His paintings captured
the bohemian nights in Paris,
the afterhours
of the most essential era for art
and artists.

The glory of 19th century Paris,
he captured beautifully.

But the whores, alcohol
and madness
finally got the best of
this postimpressionist
genius.

As it usually does.

Dying in the arms of his mother
at only 36 years old
under the blazing sun.

The sun,
which he’d spent most
of his
short days
days cursing.

Resist

Prejudiced eyes are blind
and hearts full of conclusions
are dead.
Love is the ultimate act of rebellion.
But they don’t want you to love.
They want you and I divided.
They thrive off of our hatred
and disharmony.
They know if they destroy love,
the essence of who we are,
they’ve got us in chains for life.