Tuesday, July 26, 2022
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Tuesday, July 19, 2022
Law
"The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it." From Before The Law By Franz Kafka.
Friday, July 15, 2022
Saturday, July 9, 2022
Thursday, July 7, 2022
Wednesday, July 6, 2022
I am Collecting poems from All Existing Notebooks I own for a book. This poem is from 2004, when I was 18 years of age.
Sore or Something.
The way it was.
Freedom,
Achieved through open Graves
And open sores,
Stepping over dead grass killed
By the fumes of corpses,
Life taken by War,
By men,
The great score
Crashing crescendos over the hills,
Signal of your time.
Not foreboding, monolithic.
Instead serene,
A Song of Peace
And the final understanding.
The toys of our childhood.
Lying rusted from too much rain.
Declare defeat
Before your breath runs away.
So truth is gathered,
Truth is saved.
Polyrhythm and syncopation
Drum up desire
Release a fire
That has burned inside
Turbulent sorry could cold
Drapes of our eyes.
Sane is The Game Plan.
Reversed in Etiquette
Of systemic selection.
Draw nearer the sacred boar,
Slay that awesome Beast.
Another trident Stuck deep in,
The Mother Fork torn between,
The Feast of Gods
Among the Stars,
The rotten flesh of the Beast.
Music soothes.
Moves.
Creates it new.
The boar is reborn to 1000 trumpets,
500 guitars,
Sticks falling & bushes rustling.
It was like a recording
For a small independent label.
Soul.
Fables told by the one-eyed snail
The teller of tales,
Good stories, but lots of slime besides.
Coughing up wisdom
There are beings in the trees,
Lunatic feelers who write
Perverse fantasies.
Their fantasies are black tar
To the white smoke of snail tales.
Their fantasies are real
They suck away all hope and happiness.
Torment
The underlying cameras
Of our subconscious,
Photographing our most private
And dug deep ideas, memories, dreams.
With one flash of light it is all now art.
To be stolen from you.
No personal worth,
And put on display at an art gallery
In New York.
I have smashed my internal mental camera.
Now I am what they call insane.
I will paint my Visions myself,
Damn the demon art that is photography.
Mental pictures I will burn them,
And sell my paintings
For a large sum of money.
Rich,
I will have no more reason to write,
Act, or paint.
No longer will I be a starving artist.
I will have the green paper
Which allows me to Feast with the
Stars upon the Beast forever.
Null.
Dreary I wander torward a light,
Seems like the drought is over.
Can I stay sober?
Dying laughing helicopters that speak with spits and flutters.
Tomorrow,
Tomorrow,
We'll eat some beats
And goateed Saints.
Explosions crash the shutters.
Trapped!
Unholy!
Unspeaking!
But writing!
And thinking!
Meditating!
Finding reason to dream.
Pulse.
Retreat.
The silence, so neat.
Below my cloak
That whisked and lying
Set with A creature
A creature undying
So many trees
That have been calmly deciding
The loss of your innocence
In Hell's ugly Garden.
Believe their prophecies.
See the stinging covered in cream.
Lie awake,
The sad glitter of your eyes.
Instinct.
Do not let those truths
Float by and in.
Let it all begin.
Read words but select with caution
See images that have ingrained
In your memory.
Wise collapse
The dorky relapse
The finger that snaps
To saplings sappy creation.
Two sung doves or
Three harmonic toads.
You must always travel
those roads.
Those roads.
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