So, so what’ll it be? What’ll it be
today, huh? Huh? What’ll ya be
so inclined for the having of? What’s
got ya hankerin’ from anticipation
today? Huh? What’ll it be?



Hardly the place he'd thought he'd be,
but it’s better than being alone, thinking humanity
as a condition is the answer. Lonely in the physical,
left, singular, in the ideal of ideological reinforcement,
seemingly uncurable demise of the unending factory
of healthy well to do workers, what's to be done when
the watch has been wound long enough to let this time
last until utter destruction? He knew he would sustain,
physically, until his dying day, but what of his ideas?
In a culture where ideas lasted only as long as sales
are on the up and up, despite everyone being too poor
to buy, and no one listening to him yelling on the street,
everyone passing him off, writing his ideas off in their
shifted, substantial enough living, continuous day to day,
teaching their children, this is how life is meant to be lived.

When the truth gives way
to what is popular, we leave
ourselves no choice but conformity.
Is the whole worth the cost of sacrificial integrity?
Only the future will tell. We must not doubt our own genius!


Do Any Of us?

I watch my cat sitting on my lap, enticed
by my petting hand. I'm watching an octopus
on tv, making life and death decisions with
equal easiness. Does the cat know the dangers
beyond the door? And does my hand hold nothing
more than destiny? Does she know better in not
going back out there? Does she ask these questions?


Well, Tip Off Is At Four

Not even 2:30 and the scalpers are already milling around
the bottom of the hill. Their signature songs rising above
the pedestrian bustle and motorized clanking. Despite
the color clad crowds, no one seems interested.



You can’t force it. You son of a bitch. This is something
you know. So enjoy the pace, but focus on the flow. Life
will show that the lanes will open, as the D collapses,
and holding the stone only leads to traveling violations
and five second infractions. Modern coaches boast.
So let’s let it run its course, then we’ll worry about who’s
got the court next. It might look grim, but there’s no mercy
rule for their score. Just keep shooting. They’ll start to fall.
Keep getting stops, and the crowd’ll get their hearts right back into the game.


What's The Count?

Yes, this must be the worst of times, too many
people, not enough resources, not enough
entertainment to go around, too many folks
all focused on one thing, that really doesn’t get us
anywhere, like a lethal roller coaster

whipping us around sharp curves and building
us up, only to send us down at breakneck speed,
the most exhilaration one can find outside of real life
or death experiences, still always ending up at
the place we started from. Thinking we’re in

control. While citizens of the Middle East rally
to challenge their government to civil war, we drive
to work in a union arrogant enough to boast it won
a war so titular, we commemorate it by definition,
advantageous enough to imply that was the one and only,

that the instance of disagreement would ever come
to such a boiling point again, why, another civil war?
Has any war been civil? Has not every republic splintered
only once, to remain as one forever afterward? Over
saturation does not always lead to drastic spillage, does it?

And have we not been taught that there’s no use crying
over spills? Be it milk, or money, or blood? If we don’t see it,
the blood that is, without referees, then there is no foul.
At least, that’s how I came up in the game, on a concrete court
with plywood backboards at Charlie Curtis Park.

You might have got us off the court by winning a game,
but you never took it from us. Even after they put in the coin
operated night lights, we had the key to the switch.
Those were great times. Our battles, even without mercy,
had guidelines and respect. We had it then. We ran our world.


The Ship

The Eriesponsibility of
Us responsible

Try as hard as you might
We will not give up


Poo Poo To Beer!

No. I’m not. It’s just that cold,
and dark, oh so very dark, out there,
that I left it all to chance. Ha!
That’s a funny kind of thing.

Hard to say there’s such, but
as cold as it is in here, I’ll leave
one or two lines that only fill in
the gaps, I’m sure. Yippy for mathematics!


Maybe I Am

As the idea simitrates
Perhaps all that lead to this

release was only some
homemade love triangle

The short wheel being
Left out in the cold
For years and years

Tobaccy’s soothing affects
even against that cold,

I hope it shows
in the handwriting

because I am not
that fucked up,


Into Symmetry

Bossman asked Nick while I was
standing there what was up with

I’m sorry for the abrupt
stoppage, but I feel this is
a night of reckoning

That the waves of affect
will flow naturally as
the order of the world falls
into place, once again, and always



What is it? Excitement? Anticipation? Lord!
Thank you for this bounty! Pure pleasure again
in the rigid flow of life’s grandest illusion!

Contemplation, at times, should be left to the
unsure, lest they discover the immediate pleasure
of thinking fueled by atomic power! A true Chernobyl!

Lasting only as the reactor cracks, overdrive
splattering waste upon the virgin landscape, lungs
forming in the absence of liquid air! Such grand

steps! Although, later, there were those
who decided to deny it. Flourished in the sea.


Under Old Management

Balance lending itself to Repetition,
Sublimation, again and again, Salvation
elsewhere, still tangible like Imagination,
infuriating transitions, pausing, tranquil,

rocketing off through the universe, the door opens,
a familiar face enters the scene,
Well, They certainly weren’t lying, Were they,
dialog scant, Surprised, so much of nothing

to say, That’s certainly one word, speechless,
There are chores to be done, Anticipation leans
on it’s cane, enjoying the buzzed silence with
Responsibility, as Intimidation steps on the wood,

the dry snap echoing in days, weeks, decades,
Quiet’s relative, Confidence, watches it’s old friend
withstand the uninstigated attack, like, somehow,
it had seen it coming, Premonition left, the coward,

hours ago, leaving a fine terror behind, sandy, horse
hair moving over cello strings, low, vaporous, air
moving into heads, clinging, with death grips,
to the tiny particles it finds there, hearts

slowing, face down in the stream, breath shallow,
the others engaged, blood boiling, stationary, tin
expanding over trickling flames out on the horizon,
Optimism struggling, smoke shielding the enemy positions,

unable to pull itself off the sticky floor, cracked skin
finding little resolve in the moisture it moves, carnage
sustained, photographed, printed, distributed
down the ranks.



The older guy, getting out of the nice
red car, obviously cold, adjusted his
down home jeans up over his home
grown gut, leaving an instant, but
lasting, impression of what god
had given him originally. Slightly
less impressive than what he’d earned.


No, no. Double click it.

Ceaseless activity of the ol’ pusha button, pulla
Lever, tired as it may have seemed, such
Insignificant muscle motion certainly did better to move the
Cholesterol than desk tabled soda fries and burger
King sandwiches, absent-mindedly perusing the internet


Rainy Afternoon

He watched the ice fizz on his 2:30 barstool. Faster then he forecasted the cubes smoothed down into smaller and smaller pebbles. Taking a swig, he turned back to the empty tables and sunny windows behind him, to congratulate with the crowd the excellent service, and celebrate a day off, so he turned back, raised his glass and clicked his tongue, winking in appreciation at the barkeep. She’d probably been on the job since before he even worked a day, but mockingly returned his expressions and went back to stocking up for the inevitable Thursday crowd. Tasty, he said, sending ripples over the surface of his drink, before finally committing, finishing the thing off, and placing it back on the bar hard enough to attract the bartender’s attention once more. ‘Nother one? She asked in a silent nod.


Good, All

Much like the lion prides
on the African plains

or the orangutan clans
of strange, wild, Asia,

I can’t help but feel connected
to these ambiguous, yet

involved groups of human creatures,
their flights of fancy and followers.



I went out to smoke with just a hoodie on after six p.m. for the first time all year in the still sunny world. Toward dahntahn, the sky was turning a typical gold but the other hotels and the hospitals hid most of it, leaving the rest an almost summery blue, crisscrossed with seven or eight lines of thick, but fading, white smoke. No one ever told me exactly what they’re purpose was but I’d seen on TV and in magazines speculations involving the government’s HARP project, using ionized material in the atmosphere to manage the weather to some degree. The same initiative had been cited numerous times in the more radical magazines, as well as one mainstream television program (“That’s Impossible” from The History Channel (Other topics from this program have hit mainstream media, yet, not this one (It only lasted six episodes in 2009.).).), as a means of civilian mind control. One plane, tiny from my view, moved northward across the sky, leaving marking its path with the freshest mist. I followed it as best I could, enjoying my break, and the light, and the warmth, under an already luminous moon. A previous trail caught my attention, falling noticeably toward the surface. It stretched the length of my north south view, yet tapered off over the Mon River as though its source had not flown off over the horizon, but crashed somewhere just behind the mountain. I watched it, keeping my focus on the moon, as the vapor moved down past it, in a position almost directly above me, to a height just over the treetops, dissipating into translucence from the constant wind. The remainder of the plume, still atmospheric, was drifting down over the river and hills, out of sight. Dragging long on my cigarette, only from the uncertain reassurance of knowing what I was breathing in, I watched the other lines in the sky do the same, yet at much higher altitudes. My vision, on the solid palette of sky, began swirling in tiny molecular swoops. I looked away and they vanished, then back upward to the stark blue and they returned. I felt no lightness or dread, as usually accompanies such ocular anomalies, so I took a breath, eyes closed and got back to work.



Father, forgive me. It has been seven days
since my last confession, and apart from
sloth, greed, betrayal, gluttony and a myriad
of carnal exploits, worst off, I can’t help
but feel, somewhere, in this last week, I’ve
compromised myself. Yet, I cannot pinpoint
exactly where or how.


Perspective (of us[U.S.])

Cringing at the televised ideals of the 19teens,
at the things our government did then, that we
can’t see them doing now, the ridiculous ideas
they fed an unwitting public, that we can’t seem
to taste today. Maybe we’ve gotten used to it.
I can’t imagine how dumb we’re going to look



Insight leading only from contemplation
Yet identity comes from all the outside forces
Wisdom gets lost in scales and numbers
Old age discredited for the state of the world

Responsibility displaced
Inaction in the motion of modern culture
exemplified by the forces that keep the
mo(e)to(e)rs running. This doesn’t make you think?


Impending Settlement

There used to be a spirit flow. You know it.
I know we all used to know it, but like the
rivers in Africa we all came from, they’re
drying up and leaving us unconditioned, just
waiting to succumb. So enjoy it. Employ
the last positions of human creation to be
numbed in the material reality of what it takes
to run a sustainable life on this planet. Hand
down the deficit of living, but supply strife,

war, hatred, and rum. We’ll learn that split
second before we’re done. We’ll run back
to honesty, to sympathy, to fun. Because
if we all really knew hot it ends, would we
wake up for work? Or would we wake up
for friends? Would we wake up at all if
we weren’t blinded by these things that fill
in the downtime we think mends the gaps
in our lives, which we don’t comprehend?

Are we better off now or were we better off
then? I can’t help but think it’s not just me
that pretends. Reality is something we gave
up a long time ago for unguaranteed investments.
Demands not so irrational outside the capitalist
landscape. The plans made only until they break.
The volume of junk held in place by the weight
of the liquid, so afraid to negate my intake
no longer! Be afraid to walk away from these

mental spaces! These cosmic stakes, I claim!



The simple joys of being alive.
Maybe that’s why we all don’t like death,
it’s complicated when we don’t have form.
That’s terrifying, sure. Like codependents
not having relationships, or modern americans
not having jobs, we need stimulation, or,
at least, busy work, but one day, after always
having structure, play dates, recess, gym class,
college papers, paper work, gardening, lives
of our own, we have nothing. Are we then nothing?
How do we deal with that? Well, ma’am,
I’ll take that over this erratic state any day.