intrepiddestroyers

2011-04-17T23:54:00.000-07:00

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
         e
             g
                   r
                          a
                                  t
                                             e

2011-01-25T23:50:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-18T22:39:00.001-08:00

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

2010-12-24T22:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-08-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-25T03:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-04T09:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

LOS CALLES DE BARCELONA

we often feel as if we
are under seige
watching waiting walking
the streets with the elderly
couples in tweed jackets
woolen sweaters
hair the color of spilt table wine
below skies of frozen smoke
still as the closed gated shops
all the same on every street
bars and bocadillos
tobacco and tapas
flowing crowds on sidewalks
abruptly plummeting in
frenzied construction but
nothing is changing
occupied buildings are still demolished in favor
of emptied lots
instead we occupy spring
paella in dirt parks surrounded by
yapping pups and laughing children upside
down hanging from boughs
and arms, loving ballast
the stars are few, but similar,
dimmed beyond our reach
pinpricks in the sky above canopies
of flapping fluttering fabric
between wrought iron railing steel
grates clinging to stories of
brick aged in centuries
salt sprinkled days pouring
through narrow alleys, darkening
tinting, mellowed,
cooled below rafters behind
quartered walls like thin hardened steps
into thick clouds
hanging palls
returning every day to
supervise shifts of control
sometimes narrowly edged out by
wind swept sun saturated streams
whose currents pull us
under painted trees,
but not glass or blood
just shade and song
fruit and beer
and tomorrow, stained

2010-01-20T23:09:00.000-08:00

THE EXCESSIVE PROXIMITY OF LIFE AND ITS DOUBLE

Undoubtedly,

the human experiment has been a failure.

Our future was hijacked

before our very births, our homes

invaded by unwanted figures,

ideologies, atrocities.

We live like quadriplegics

unable to flee this disaster

unable to cover our eyes

unable to fend off its advancement.

Or else we play like children, making

sandcastles with moats of sewage

suckling the teat of forgetfulness.

Machines have been constructed

physically, socially, theoretically

vehicles of control on a collision course

with human extremity.

Our generation

has come of age in an era of

cybersaturation.

The siren song is familiar to us all:

the modem sending its signal through

the ether,

passing through

the multiverse, harsh

yet inviting.

We dream

of jacking in

of mainlining digitized escape

of ditching our suitcases of flesh in favor

of electronic signals.

And while we basked in gloriously

unrestricted communication

endless information exchange,

our connections with the

vast expanse of p h y s i c a l i t y

withered

and these machinations conquered nature.

Like K. we stand
resigned

weak in the face of this

virtual social machinery.

To give in,

to accept the inevitability

of a ghost in our

internal robot is

to worship a false idol:

systematic control on a pedestal,

trapping us in a complex web of

wires and steel

created by power,

baited by escapism.

Cyberspace

is a realm of unquantifiable desire

advertising instant gratification in

every possible permutation.

Freedom from physical identity

social persecution

ethical constraint,

wrapped cozily in a cloak of anonymity.

But unless we accept the dystopian potential of

Complete Awareness

then consciousness in the robot is a masquerade.

There can be

no gender fluctuation

no individual codification

without a database monitoring what seems like

fluid movement or endless possibilities,

a machine dedicated to

algorithmic pattern recognition.

The robot is fueled by our own

arrogance and we overestimate our

ability to fool our progeny. Forget

going underground

disguising our presence,

the whims of this reality are

dictated by programmers and

profiteers analyse every choice conceivable,

statistically evaluated

by those we would attempt to escape.

Assume

knowledge was decentralized,

that the open source movement was able to

carve a rift

between universes,

we could feel rivers of data flowing

between our fingers

free to mold and construct

visions radically subjective,

beautiful.

What then? At what point does

human experience become

impotent?

Phallic and vaginal beauty

castrated

into code? Every aspect of our identity

prefigured

with mathematical accuracy?

The scientific rationalism from which

this creation was spawned

assumes a strict level of objective realism

denying perspectives unexplainable

from federal formulas or civilized symptoms.

Everything else is an anomaly

standard variance

co-opted subsumed

recycled subversion

regurgitated subservience.

Nothing
can save us.

Our very existence bleeds

exploitation and faith

in transcendence only ignores this fact.

Hope

of cybernetic escape screams a throaty

into the faces of those unable to afford the

hefty price of virtual exuberance

and lines of resistance are redrawn.

We are left with few choices

hearty acceptance, quiet denial,

or a revolution of reality still unknown.

Only death can speak to us

in an unknown language and

only the death of our species can write a requiem

deserving of memory.

2010-01-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

DESERT CAMPING IN CALIFORNIA
for Richard Brautigan

The sun rises above the steep cliffs
staring down with an intensity usually reserved
for stern judges or bullshit salesmen
but the desert doesn't care about
past transgressions or future desires
its only responsibility is to the hares
scattering through dry brown shrubs
over hard-packed sands and the
tiny grey lizards leaving tiny dark prints
around our sleeping bags.

We wake from a short sweaty daze
scattering for refuge in cool dark
womb-like caves hidden within steep mud peaks
and lay where trickling streams once traveled
gathering bits of dirt and rock as souvenirs
while sticky sweat dries in a thin film on our skin
and beyond the tunnel's threshold
skies shimmer and dance in a lazy forgetful haze.

Later we climb to the top of the hills
as the sun turned pink and heavy
sinking into rocks like fossilized cocks, remains of
ancient mysterious mountain mating habits and
saw a thousand feet below us our cars and tents which
might have belonged instead to packs of roaming lizards who
like us and the pieces of rock or shells
discovered you can't go home again.

2009-12-28T11:38:00.001-08:00

THINGS ONLY LIVE ON THE BASIS OF THEIR DISAPPEARANCE

welcome to the psychedelic wonderland
to the celebration of heathen holidays
in overzealous times
and the impermanence of living a clandestine poetry
as we circle around the fire
sending delayed feedback loops to the stars
alongside mermaids and werewolves
with whiskey-glazed lips and wild grins
stars and swords in snails are invoked
to aid in rituals of lo-fi black magic
for the bittersweet promise of a new year
filled with nights passing like dreams

2009-12-26T01:50:00.000-08:00

ODE TO A SNAIL

subtle whispers of movement:
eyes atop their stalks
sway with the heavy breath
of exhaust
and moonlight

seductively spiraled and
striped with imprints
of earth
and sky
and the leaden burden
of self sufficient
survival

surreptitious surges
through filth and
up stairs
stretching
sallow skin
and the stain
of passage

the soft scent
of spring
signals
the end
of sleep

2009-12-26T01:33:00.001-08:00

BAKHTIN TELLS THE HOUR OF THE STAR

For one has a right to shout, and if we detach ourselves
completely from this impulse all we have left
is the naked corpse of the word,
because what is fully mature is very close to rotting
and every word is directed towards an answer.
So I am shouting, for surely words are actions?
besides, I know about certain things simply by living:
all objects are from one side highlighted while
from the other side dimmed,
and their rhythm is frequently discordant.
This is opaque material and by its nature it is despised by everyone.
The word is born in dialogue as a living rejoinder within it,
exclusively in the present because forever and eternally
it is the day of today.

2009-11-12T00:01:00.001-08:00

COLONY COLLAPSE

We woke up today to an environment
in past tense
bees falling from the sky with
pictures of what things were like then
before plastic palms hiding metal skeletons disrupted communication
or maybe it was something in the food?
When we are constantly producing and re-presenting
with voices tinted red and violent
screaming past each other
without a glance backwards
we will never forget our selves.

Under the blanket of night
we stole secrets, glances, feelings of
how your eyes settled so sweetly in mine
followed by lips and whispers of
hatred for lies and other untold dreams.
But like those who came before us
we found that the weight of regret only hangs
heavily on necks overprotected
and passionless, that occupying hearts
if only for a short time
liberates our desires from the stranglehold of time.

2009-11-03T22:56:00.001-08:00

HOLES IN HEAVEN

The Earth wobbles more than it used to
and magnetic north is drifting through the
membrane that separates sky and space,
the atmosphere Tesla wanted to make glow
and shield from missiles or radiation but caused
ionospheric disturbances breaking up satellite communication:
radio frequencies arousing the spinning, speeding molecules
until they sweat and glisten
reflecting the mountains, caverns, subterranean
oil wells uncovered through thirty feet of rock,
shaking the earth.
From Athabaskan land in Alaska
haarp songs paint the sky, squeezing
megawatts into gigawatts in defiance of chaos;
indifferent to butterfly wings or lightning
bolts striking the soil.

The satellites are creating holes in heaven
and we don't even know the peak power of an antenna's
pulse as it sends electromagnetic data
coursing through clouds and mingling
with currents of the Auroral ElectroJet,
stimulating filaments and penetrating underground
in rivers of electricity, x-rays, and ELF waves.

But we only think at fourteen cycles per second
and these frequencies can be generated!
which fuck with our emotions and even children
know that minds can be controlled;
after all we are mostly energy, or at least water and waste
equally bioregulated by the earth and
mimicking signals of passivity and anxiety
like needing to piss so bad your teeth are floating.

2009-10-29T21:27:00.001-07:00

OAKLAND WILL BREAK YOUR TEETH

The city is calm and sleepy at 3am behind steel shuttered blinds
     quiet and unassuming
The streets are strewn with leaves like forgotten children of the night before everything worth living
     was on the run and those at home were tidily aware of place and reason
     not downtown with the rest of the bums
The walk is long and smooth until roadblocks of carts and speeding ambulances melted daydreams
     of climbing trees or skipping down corners free of street cleaners and crowds of voyeurs
     or skies filled with concrete and flags
Tonight is harsh and barren and the gulls cry for shores unstained and sirens drift on the wind
     as reminders that everything is still fucked

2009-10-17T17:21:00.001-07:00

AS SUMMER BECOMES WINTER

Remember when we thought

time was so vast

and attainable, we would hold it

in our cupped hands and

let it gradually slip out

to follow the traces leading

from today to

tomorrow when the clear yellow-white June sun

would reflect off the ocean

in thousands of breathless crystal shards

and we would turn our heads, squinting

and laughing as shallow streams

sprung from our eyes

cutting through dirt caked on our cheeks

churning down the swift rapids of your lips

to fall

so gracefully

down your neck and chest

and whorl and collect between your breasts

in deep pools of merlot?

I made that well the center of my home

and remained by it even after you were gone,

but the city outside expanded

and the space each had

diminished

and small steel houses blanketed the horizon

in various shades of rust

haphazardly built from one another

like an endless row of dominoes

circling my old handmade shelter,

gradually suffocated by ash

and forgotten.

2009-10-12T01:53:00.000-07:00

COLD WAR EXPERIMENTS IN PARANORMAL ESPIONAGE

It all started with a pulsing beam of microwave energy
to irradiate the ambassador in Moscow. We know about this
from animal testing and simplified Russian revolutionary history:
a time of chaos and sinister color when
anomolous phenomena was tested on political dissidents.
Later: Einstein, Freud, and Messing met in a smoky room
sending psychic messages, predicting Hitler's death, robbing banks
then slipping through plain view into the films of the premier telekinetic medium
as if pulled by the electromagnetic energy fields she manipulated to make frog hearts explode;
psychic mind control for when your insurance provider denies assassination coverage
and you have to use zombie agents to fix the chess match and boost national pride.
When the man with no face arrived on the scene to restore morale through
acoustic radiation and microwaves trained to hypnotize
we dropped acid and the communists tried to kill the pope,
heard the fuckin pinko zombie agents even shot Kennedy.
Steeped in the occult history of Rasputin, Tunguska leveled forests
and fireballs in the sky colliding in deafening explosions
they really just want the alien technology to fly circles around
us: mystified by Sputnik psychic senders and Cuban missile crises.
Meanwhile, undetected in arctic waters the Nautilus receives
long distance psychic calls; mental images fly over the vast
Siberian expanse, connecting to a telepathic infrastructure beyond the reach of our senses but
remotely viewed from Special Dept. #8. where in low frequency anticipation
images from a trance unfold: (1) detailed topographic maps, (2) a Typhoon-class submarine where a man sits, his mind penetrating time, (3) military grade psychics in formation walking through a minefield, slowly, (4) electric photography capturing the radiant life-field that surrounds
everything.

2009-10-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

HEY WEEKEND WARRIOR, 2006 CALLED AND IT WANTS ITS SHITTY BORAT IMPRESSION BACK

in my free time i travel secretly, sliding through crowds
of hippies and the middle-aged drunk
'honey, they're smoking that weed again'
over shadowed trail and felled logs or smooth streets flowing
with bicycles on top of
bicycles, or what some call 'small man's complex'
as they load into the king cab pickup truck
you know he's right of course, individually we may be intelligent
but together we are dumber than dirt.

2009-10-07T20:34:00.000-07:00

THE UNIVERSE WIELDS DESTRUCTIVE POWER BEYOND COMPREHENSION
(ROCKET WATCHERS CHEER)
For Carl Sagan

how do you find something that hides in the dark
after a billion billion suns explode?
while caressed by 4 dimensional space-time
it fuses elements, leaking deeper into supernova until
penetration
sucks into an event horizon,
riptide into the universe's gloryhole.

this is where N87 supercomputer simulation lives
where sweating primordial gases birth stars
and gorge on their waste, merging in
ferocious waves of staggering size
into a crowded bulge of stars, dust, hot gas
swirling clouds of havoc
circling a maelstrom of energy and matter.

but don't expect the singularity to be dark;
through the twisted logic of the wormhole
the white hole
flung out into another universe
ejaculating elements
seeding galaxies.

2006-12-31T11:45:00.000-08:00

And then comes order

the world is fat
why if I could wrap my arms round
all twenty four thousand nine hundred and two
salty miles I’d squeeze so hard
it’d bust faster than a
(drum roll please)
now listen
if distance equals rate over time
and ive been traveling for twenty one years
and ive been moving seventy nine
heartbeatsaminute
can I figure how far
click
Here’s My Mind
spattering like a road kill stew
buzzy like a broke ol’ radio
tuning in
tuning out
crackle, shackle and goddamn
we’re falling, sinking
faster than lead soldiers
speeding like light through black space

the flowers that I painted for you
have begun to wilt
and the paint drips off the palate
steady as the pulse of the city
until it is blank
as if I never loved it