On the Spot

i wanted to say something profound
but i caught myself
they already said everything profound
and in so many ways, all had sufficed
the only brilliance left was in lies
but who wants to listen to lies?
i think an unconscious part of us
absolutely loves the sweet ones
but i don't like any of them, ever
not even during that split second
reaction time before thinking

so instead, i got behind the podium
and gave it honest and short
no long words or wordplay
just a jab
the brilliance in simplicity
always had amazed me
somehow it didn't them

some of them were disgusted
some of them booed
some of them coughed
and glanced at their watches
others clapped out of habit
a small din that faded quicker
than it had come

i'd like to say i didn't care
or i don't care
but i couldn't help it
had those five words come out wrong?
had i stressed the wrong syllables?
did i announce it with an unseemingly
sarcastic tinge?
i didn't know
maybe my opinion was flat out wrong
maybe it was just an opinion
just an opinion?
an unpopular one at that
i still don't know

and i thought about that saying
people like these days:
"liberty means the right to say things
that nobody wants to hear"
and in ways it was against all i stood for
but ultimately
it made complete sense

the grandmaster gave me a sympathetic
pat on the back as i walked off the stage
disillusioned but no longer doubting
no more one-liners, i thought
more speeches

Counterproduct

Some of us have the talent
Some of us, just perfectionists
Some of us just dwindle
Some of us dwell on it

Some of the time
I can reach inside
And pull out something
Beautiful and flawed
Most of the time
I forget

Bring me past it
This little room
Take me away
From this claustrophobic
House called home
Take me past it
The midnight parks
Where bums sit
Sleeping and coughing
Up today’s catch
Help me pass it all away

I am not begging
I am not afraid of
Doing these things
For myself
It's just that
Pride aside
I need help
I need a crutch
Like everyone else
And if it can't be God
Then what?

I am so tired
Of putting so little in
And getting so little out
And doubting it
With good reason

Just because you’re an artist
You think you shouldn’t have to
Know the meaning of hard
Hard work
Grow up and hit the road
No one wants to buy
What you want to do
Even if money is not
What it is you want
What do you want?
Happiness
But how do you get that?
I don’t know
How does one go about knowing?

theysaythatangelsaresobeautifulbuticantimagine
anythingmorebeautifulthanyousoyoumustbeanangel
orangelsdontexisttheidiotromanticinsidemesays
thatitstheformerbutthespiritlessrealistsaysits
thelatterbutthebiggestpartinmesaysheyidunno
goodnightbabytomorrowwellgetyourwingsclipped.

the inverse connotation of a popular passage is not overtly clever

she's electric
spit and shit shine
on her blouse
she hangs off
the side of the building
like some gaudy
misplaced sign

she's electric
meticulous in her
mismatched-ness
the sun sees her
but she doesn't
see it
cars race to smash
into her
spine and shatter
happy misery

she's electric
she txt messages
all the pricks that
said she'd never
make it
and proves them right
and sets up passing
meetings to
shove their faces
in it

the gas station
doesn't sell condoms
or alcoholic
beverages
so she stands at
the side of the
building and waits
for someone she
knew in highschool
or something like
that

she's electric
she shoots and misses
intentionally

Stay out of my house

My house is a place
Where everything's good
And the truth doesn't matter
Even these ghosts in my walls...
Wait, what ghosts?

My house is a standstill
For all confrontation
And opening for an endless
Concave wave of repetition
It is my haven
From the world at large

In my study, at my desk
I sit and read all the books
I always wanted to
And stare out the windows
At the little people
On the foggy sidewalks
And no one ever raps
Upon my door
Or disturbs my rest
Not a dog barking
Not a car's horn blaring
Not a single soul

My house is my world
So be careful of
What you bring into it
A part of me knows
None of it will harm me
But why take the chance

Stay out of my house

(One big, yet very unoriginal metaphor for "I don't want to become my dad.")

72 Nights

Everything looks good
Feels good tonight
Even these annoying
Sixteen year olds
Seem to make me smile

What the hell’s wrong with me?

The hill seemed so tall
When I was tired
Now it’s just what
It always was
A mound

What the hell?

Lily
I do feel safe
Life has not blown
A great big hole through me
And suddenly the one I had
Seems a little smaller
So miniscule
Not exactly empty
But adequate
or more

Somewhere out there
They’re having fun
I could be having fun too
And I think I will
At least for
Tonight

Fifty-Three Days

Wasted day
Waste away
Where the wind ends
And the bodies begin
Rolling down the stream

Why should I love you?
If it’s a lie

River red
Rain is red
Where the clouds part
There is no sun
Just the eye
Only the eye

Cuts me in half
Sews me back together
Sends me down the river

Wastrels cling
To material things
But I cling to
The river bed

I cling
To dear life

These Bones

The only thing that keeps me
From falling to the floor
Is these bones
And gravity will get me
Eventually
Regardless

The sky was once beautiful
It still is
It’s just that the stimulus
Wore thin
I wish I could find mere joy
In repetition
But I wasn’t born with a brain
Like that

So just let me melt
Into the floor here
And if that’s not good enough
I could just sink
Through the cracks in the surface
Soak up the dirt like an
Amoebic sponge
Meet the worms
Make new friends
Lose all the old ones
Even the good ones

The only thing that keeps me
From falling to the floor
Is your tiny words
That mean nothing to the world
But mean the world to me
To pass them on
Not out of pity
Nor to kill time
But because you want to hear
What I might reply
Some of what I say
May be meaningful
Most of it stupid
All I may get is laughter
But it’s worth it

Forty Obelisks

Screams in the Mojave
Feet creak and
Crash through sand
Big yellow machine
In the firmament
Leaves me sweating
Flies

Mama gave me
Bread and water
Papa gave me
The will to survive

Held by brick and
Mortar shavings
Excelsior survives
Blue sky engine
Programs clouds
Resumes process
Cries loud, thick
Drops
Puddles to oases

L’enfant du monde
Pointed on, mocked
Spent and wasted
Naked
Blood and yoke
Soaked to sheets
Miscarriage of the
Mind

Heart and fixture
Forced hard labor
Ticks on its own
Time
Eat, suck, taste
Touch, lust
Cannibalism
On primetime

Mama gave me a
Fish
Papa gave me a fishing
Pole

(I'm trying to take this "artsy, ambiguous" angle a little more seriously. This isn't quite where I want it to be, but it's closer.)