Wednesday, September 10, 2014

ALPHA/BETA/CETA (The Average)






A better man would do better,
and I like better men, though hate
another version of me, the one I don’t know.

Buildings look like sarcasm to me, mainly
because they hold some cost, in comfort
but always hold a means to the dead too.

Certainly, there are things that regret said
cannot simply light up like a sky in summertime:


chambers that landscape the status quo, changing.





Thursday, August 28, 2014

Termination Thursday





I





We are not a we but an abdominal eye.  Have you ever seen one in person? With reason that remains vague and unsubstantiated, we tend to speak in code lest our secret be supplanted with fact. Regret is nothing to think about. Made by committee and not by democracy. The best way to think of things is to not think of things at all. Decision:  exact, if not perfect. That is what we do here, that is what we do. We are a collective, our sour pit deems the fireflies snubbed out in full frontal violence. Need to collect our souls, so to speak. To be a thing, one must lose all humanity. End of all the be all end of all. Employment, as such, as a joke (humor holds no smiles here). With great force and timid footings, stifled sadness and complete confusion. Children are a force of good in this world and demand something greater. Cancer completes the life-cycle and makes life less living. Association with the other, sneaking through closed doors, distances one from the other even further. As a chicken lays an egg, the privacy is null and void, ready to be eaten. We know this, but disregard it because of proper branding. Have the nature of the business become moot? Discussed mention of proper nouns? With an alternate view in view of simple semantics as defense? You know the real meaning of the words, don’t you? The purpose of communication in a void? You know better. Reason to know better reasons enough, like catfish on a cold white plate. For that is the instrument with which you choke yourself clean. This is stupid. Termination is something that comes to us all, at some point, and usually in pain. Is this pain? Because you say it should be and are worried? You have no idea what pain actually is. Have you been in a hospital bed on the edge of death and somehow found a way back on the street and walking? Failed once again to respond. To be something that feels. Demonstrate something within you that makes you feel human, or, better yet, something that even breathes. That there is something there besides a money sack child with coal in her coffin. You sit on that sack and count the countless times you could have counted yourself lucky, but didn’t. Are you the one that knocks? Capable of performing the needed sacrifices to do something other than stretch your face like a bedsheet? Or do you prefer the crumbled soiled bed stains of immediate joy and wetness, balloons full of empty? Willing to be a lamb shaved clean and brought out to trot? To be the token pseudo-martyr who knows all the right people and sleeps with all the right people, double-fold? Perform your exact seduction with a box of chocolate and a false heart? Your heart beats for no one. Role and roll again, like a rock without substance. And look at what you’ve done. Responsibilities are something left better left to the lesser, the ones that you assume to roll with it. Consistently, you mark your scars with a heart burned on the backs of the children. Even when they cry out for support. With a smirk, a foreign smile through gritted teeth, you announce your supremacy and demand total demands. Our ways of being people are not your own, nor will they ever be. Regular constants make constants merely regular, regulated. Feedback like vomit of complaint thrust back without a worry of who would clean up the mess. And there is no one to clean it up. Support is in short supply:  a word doesn’t hold much meaning when the the word is not followed through (but that may just be semantics).




II





The many reasons to be a reason. Lack of comfort, in the bed of support, being one amongst many. Of true understanding of what people are. Accountability is, as such, only relative to those who demand it. As such, it holds a whole lot of bullshit left on the ground. It is what it is, and that is putrid. Relates to the known unknown:  these things are robust and can do what we need them to do without worry. To be better because of. Reports as reported to only a daily, jerry-rigged basis. Documents that say a bunch of words without meaning. And/Or the instigation of a shoe on the head, if only for show. Information better left unsaid. That means you should be a good boy and take your potty breaks only at state-sanctioned hours. You have ten minutes. Have you washed your hands, or otherwise sanitized them?  Been on the bench long enough to need to go? Unwilling to hold it, you might sit there are piss yourself clean. Or, you may just hold it and go to the emergency room where you are told you have a sicknes where sickness is a place where sickness is a sickness. Reluctant to be a be. To foster a fester like a feast. Provide all that is what is wanted with all that is desired by others and slapped down with a fuck you all mentality. When everything else was needed. Requested:  slit of the side of the belly, the place where the soul lives. (i.e. shut up.Raisers of the most highest point. Edge to the edge of the point where something is possible. Training for being people, or at least a version of people that passes. Calendar for the end of times.  And the little bits. Plan for the future like the future was something one could adequately plan for. Roll-out the donut, frosed with free expense. Plan for the future, as if it were a rock in the sea, something that would always be there, if only sometimes. And we look at those rocks like harmony, something to coo to. Requested interests by way of loaded front; a big fat wave of bullshit. Daily emotional breakdowns only to be followed by empty fronts and then followed by breakdowns that make each morning a torture. Email me in the morning, so I have time to email you back when you need it. Updates are always vacant, because the source is so sour.





III





You are a money sack corpse that calls itself innovation. Represented as such , the corpse still stinks, even more with the now. Yourself as a wigless instigator. As being something that doesn’t really mean anything. Having a toad in the throat. Expert as/ are a joke. Have been a benefit to society, only to be a detriment to humanity. Exports are for the experts. Proficiency is in the eye of the holder. In better hands, dumber handlers perfect. Raisers in the subtle way it was raised. Edge on the razors edge. With lack of understanding, lack of understanding laike or byberstabdubg,. Six is 2 more than four. Years of this bullshit, besides. Of the lily by the little drop that wipes away the lily anyway. Experience being eroded on the front of understanding. This being a bitch you have to bite. Was being a wanton waste, left with plastic culture left to be the remains and such. A simple tumor, something sordid. Significant things that make real made real but only real in the un-paid mind, alone. Factor of being fact, left aside for brand instead. In the way we do things. Hiring is a hanging in the place, just stood there without anything supporting the feet. You are stupid for being so stupid. Yet there are other ways to look at it, other ways to was the ways as was as was. You have seen the bitch in the watercolor that is left available for all others to see. Have a hamburger, given by the neighbors who know better. Demonstrated all the things, all the things that make you what you are and are directed as a nothing by the thing that directs the what you are. A kiss on the friend’s cheek, left alone and crying along the river, always moving. Lack of love, just stupid nothing in the stocking of bitter and bile. Of simple gestures, always left undone. Skill is something one works for, and hard, and yet is often left unsaid. Or just left there to fester where such is unwanted. Unwillingness to commit, to be the wife-beater beaten into the corner by a corpse who’s been beaten one to many times. To be better, to function. Lead the way, or the way leads you out the door. Train always stops when you need it to go, and the waiting, the waiting is what gets you good. And so it goes. Mange the day like the rest of your drugs, taken only when needed, even if needed often, finding strength elsewhere. The toys of the despicable. Team trends, like all majorities, involve some sort of shower, afterwards. Through though transitions there are always difficulties, and none can be dismissed out of hand. An apple will always eventually find its core. Successful worms find their way in first, and ruin it for the rest of us. Migration is a flight from one bad spot to a better one spot, usually through ‘flight’. From that which is worse to that which is better, the better is always sweeter than the worm. eTravesty is how things go these days, it seems to me, and the world is none the better for it. To become one with the world, one has to look at the world with open eyes and keep them open, even when a shade of coconut milk covers one like a screen. Raiser’s are always the one’s that give rise, to raise the roof, to speak to the spell of the common want. Edge of all else, there are things, otherwise, to think about. With each thought, a new nuance forms and tenders the touch of the hard meat, making it soft and eventually able to swallow. Positive emotions are hard to come by in a world where popsicles are given out as a benefit when you are no longer a 4 year old. Impact is something that falls with every action taken. And thought must be taken into account when decisions are made, when promises are broken, and when the wool is pulled over ones’ eyes like so much shit-smear suck-up. Least of all, there must be some accountability, and not merely holding others accountable for the actions taken in the past, both positive and negative, and all that. Disruption happens in today’s culture:  it is the way things is. To think otherwise is to be faulty in the thought of one’s immortality. Our only hope is to stand firm to convictions, yet loose enough to bend, yet not break, and make things something worth doing, if not even holding on to. Operations that can contain that kind of action are few and far between. And there are ever limited resources available, but the fact that this life is more than each day lived, even each day lived, collected, as a whole only to be commented upon at an eulogy, with highlights as bright as a California housewife’s hair. Team is a word that means something, and working together is what makes it work, together. Members of our society, our world at large, owe it to the team – what we call humankind – to be human and kind.






Semantics






THIS 
MEANS 
THIS





(Whatever that means)










Saturday, August 16, 2014

Waiting For the Phone To Ring







I’m no Petra von Kant, now,
dancing down the street to the tune
of The Pretenders, still, but still, I don’t
call myself worried or worrying or dead,

Yet, still, I bound down the street
as a way to meet you, or at least
to get a look at you, and I see you

and it’s not all that, but still.

Any part of us can meet somewhere
neat, somewhere where we can
somehow be good for each other, right?
somewhere we can meet each other right.

And now, back at home, I study the
sturdy home I’ve now made for myself
and sit there, watching the TV, drinking
a beer, and

                    definitely not waiting for the phone to ring.





Jump Cut






Jean Seberg – fingering
what’s left
of her hair

passes

but doesn’t

pass through
our field
of view
around us
and,


a boy
on a street
passes by, on
his bike, not
passing the
things


you’d be hurt
already, if
you weren’t
already dead

no one’s not alone

and above a blue sky,


a boy
on a street
again, passes
but doesn’t

pass through
our field
of



a shot
is just a thought
in the middle of


something. 





Sunday, August 10, 2014

A Perfect Storm






He is the twink-
le in the eyes of
the Nordstrom
Rack stupidity.

She is the finger-
bone, constantly
twiddling the dried
cunt for a cum stood still.

He is the bald face
of it all; the face that
holds the face, in place,
like he was your empty

plaza


forever drumming up nothings until nothing stands still.