my only inheritance is my past
ive been a handful
but its nothing that earth and co
cant let creep fro
its fingers
into crevasse and wadi
im ok with alone
but i dont want to be a man
who keeps himself avariciously solidified
so as to not give way unto others
should fate bid skid me askew a few
ainsi soit-il
soberly or inebriatedly
so be it
i laugh now as i discover
among my belongings
the longings of
the myriad mes
in their clumsy schemes
and indigeste meatloaf dreams
roughshod upon friends that have made the grave
or the dead-to-me graves
i pour wine on me and not on them
but i drink to us all the same
yearning and learning keep me alive
even when ubu-ddishm bids me
to be more one than the rest of the sloven masses
poetry is as dead as the shrunken head
giving poetry readings in an anglophilic french quarter
homo pseudeaux
muse sickle slides hot thru
my prose-cco
ghee-otillines
the nose
of my pseudo seneques
oh how ive forgotten so much more
than i know
and i confess to gladness
at this
for that which has been un-known,
has not been memory-holed without reason
moderation has a special place in my bowels
says the strongman in power
as he lays waste to another golden treasure
fallen in his lap
the small steal in where they can
microthrills on off days
and lifehacks in a life hacked to pieces by 9-5s
throttled in bottlenecks
that they took for big gulps of freedomry
“dont tread on me” for i do that well enough on my own
the small sneak into prisons
with bars left open enough to allure
but for all time let it be said that freedom isnt part time
or a pastime
but i think myself no less dumdum
i have popped many a dream
but have yet to let the air out of my balloon
that i keep afloat with all my hot air
fathers and grandfathers
slap my wrist
belt my behind
bid me where i ought go
steer me from your timeless belvedere
for i so occult myself
by my cross-eyed slyness
i have demystified down to the bone
and still find spirit dancing gayly
there where reason means to file away and forget
a chin up with a blindfold on
is still cowardice as the bullets come-a-flying
a light on without a soul at the lighthouse
is as good as a solid navire without a captain
crooked i go
beacons slalom me à un bon port
there is no repose
even in the dead bed of big sleep
a meatlocker is most of our humble abodes
here in the mellowed out west
its too late for me to shutup
its too late for me to be amassed
its too late for me to finish this thought
despairing murmurings waft up from a neighboring hell
giving disjointed slabs of advice on how to live
so as to not live down
humanity is too old to act so puerile
but reincarnation puts forgetful souls in new meat
meet your maker and illico
the maker turns out the daily grind
of new slime sacks
entropy vs evolution
same same
i wish to avoid now
politicizing poetry
but the drunker i become the more it obtrudes
i suppose this isnt altogether sidesteppable
but deplorable sure
peacetorn peoples make pastry of golden brown tribes
peacecocks blindfire goodwill to the four winds
id rather be misunderstood in my aphoristic blips
then misinterpreted in effusiveness
the eternal yawn song does a double about face
and see oh twos
the news
that aint fit
to
move unit
proud to live and die
in imperturbable immortality
as you should be too my friends
my fellow godlings
has it always been this terrible?
i dont know
ive looked ahead and looked back as far as prehistory would allow
and it seems that we are as incapable of learning
as any other species
that hasn’t scribbled letter A
the bell tolls as though quasimodo
has taken pcp à gogo
we will go sleep-sprinting into some
doomsday din that ought make for a planet-wide pompeii
but i do not wish to politicize poetry
or poeticise poetry
for the two are divorced from birth
and i wish to throw up but once tomorrow
humanity cleans its teeth with vomit
and hungers for the blood of those
that made it efforts so painfully vain
we are not a sociable ilk
we god-bereft sorts
we must combler this gutted aquifer of our nature
with the blood of the barbares
and still
do we do anything but gods bidding?
do we?
is it possible?
it would seem we must hate a long time
until we learn that tolerance/admittance of ignorance
is the only means of co-existance
but here i integrate poetry and politics
and wish the fomenting of the former exclusively
the only healthy reaction to anything that happens or doesn’t
is profuse laughter
save your life from death
dash into you
la risée
est
ce moment même
le rif
qui n’est que le patapouf tout
even if alexander the great had lived to be a thousand
he would have kept on going
towards ever-escapading fringe territories of
the frills of gods garment
still he would have been no closer to zeus
even should i finish this sentence
the sentence is the same
god as a lonely-hearted behemoth
too full to make room for another
this is the eternal yawn song
there are vacuum suck pitfalls
quicksands of time
god falling into itself
falling
crying out
falling
bawling
and never stalling
but for diversity befalling himself
allowing him to lose himself in the crowd
existence is too crowded for anything but for
god to plug this pit