THE SEDENTARY MAN

A movement towards the immovable:
one night of spaceless time
our empire of forgetting
is trapped in the museum of accident.
There is no duration
no delay
this is not a simulation
there is no extension
no relief
from this substitution of realities.
Transcendence of our environment
is such a divine inspiration
we can't adjust
we just replace
let the body tear and
dis
    int
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                   r
                          a
                                  t
                                             e

THE HORIZON OF MEMORY

Consider the

on average

seventeen hundred friends you have made

twenty one hundred books you have read

fifty eight holidays you have taken

thousand times as many films you have watched

millions of recorded cells so crowd your brain

you learn to write

if only to keep track of these lists.

As children the

elusive sense of self is sucked

into every mirror, replaced

with fabricated memories

biographical accounts of someone else

wound with threads of

our own history

so of course we write things down

repeat them

to know where we are at in time

our place

silhouettes outlined against a stark

and bare wall

fading after the flash bulb's pop.

Whether through an imaginary history or

memories of the future our

minds travel, our bodies trapped

in the present but unable to lose

the past,

snip the cellular connection,

so when we remember

everything flows like floods

rapids rivers trickles,

brains shrink

memories fold

and our blood is fouled.

Forget the future, he mumbles

through stiff lips

standing still is a slow death

unable to make decisions

the outlook is bleak

released in a silent unseen collapse.

IN THE YEAR BEFORE THE END

A dense grey cloud hangs over each day

in the same part of the same sky

but I don't think it bears me any ill will

just a thousand heavy reminders of

You creep into my dreams and mostly

I think its only to stroke your own ego

and remind me of your brilliant plans

to evade the unyielding future while its

Victims feast on the bony carcass of winter

and this bleak and dour solstice twilight

dyes each pill red, melting, viscous

in the blood moon vacant, hiding

In pack formation dozens of empty bottles

relay the confusion of past weeks

paranoia, itching, lonely drifting

through nights of spaceless time

I float from where I do not belong into

quiet velvet comforters and satin throw-pillows

stuffed in my face upon waking dry

mouth and sore back pressed against

Austere white walls extend endlessly

in every direction fading into a distant horizon

where the ghosts of a hundred clouds must hang

heavy with rain, spoiled wine, vinegar

TONIGHT I CANNOT WRITE
for Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can’t write any lines,
no beautiful imagery of my musings on the stars and sky

for the night is dull and still.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

on remembrances of love come and gone

the night is collapsed through frame and glass

and nothing looks endless through a screen.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

to recall the longing for better days

when words weren’t necessary

to describe the complexities of simple thoughts

as the night’s forgetfulness is heavy and long.

Nites Of Destructive Chaos

Twenty-odd pages of conspiracy poems and drunken rants. Free to all who desire, full color for anyone willing to donate a little. Email: intrepiddestroyers@riseup.net

READING POETRY IN 2K10

As your eyes skim
these Words,
skipping stones
slapping sos, likes
Drinking great gulps
of simile, Gorging
on syllables,
do you Feel
our layers of
fine-spun Filth
snugly fit
over each molar?

Set yourself on
Auto-pilot as your
legs fight to
Escape the horror
while reality Follows
pawing, kneading
neon claws in
gruesome waves
decorating every
detailed twinge, Electric
blue as a Gaudi
scale-model monument,
child-like & Petrified.

But do you even
really want to
feel? Every
ruined step? Every
blistered thought? Every
faulty circuit clumsily
tied and wired to
these wilted words,
Tumbling?

i know You,
as i,
would rather
simply
sink.

SUCRE SUR LA MERDE

The rings under his eyes sagging
soaked hammocks hung to collect
blood, dripping from capillaries
or tributaries branching off irises.
     "A fruit tree
     planted by every child
     that's all I'm saying."
Sucre sur la merde!

Ten years transient
stripped of flags
navigating shame, unaware
we all lack accurate maps or
burn them once we settle for being lost
swimming polluted rivers in silence,
thumbing the reset button.
Sucre sur la merde!
    
     "I don't think it's too late,"
shades slowly drawn over red electric storms
a warm sour breeze and
his swaying, reaching clumsily
for more wine and
     "fruit trees for tomorrow."
Sucre sur la merde!