To the poet from Myspace I remember as box

Box, you who somehow managed to work
 drinking and crushed glass into each
 and every one of your poems.

I see you somewhere, next to barbed wire
drawing dirty pictures while smoking a cigarette.

If you like going to bars that smell like boats

If you like going to bars that smell like boats,
if you like darts on a dartboard
and green pool tables,
if you like the putrid wood,
the booming song of chesty people,
if you like those things while your mind reflects neon,
you're likely of the folk in the city
standing trim and pretentious,
aloof and assured, glittering
that imagine their merit is somehow assured
by their profession. Your robot voices
disturb me. I imagine you
wer wer,
moving stiffly through your tasks,
indifferent to other's afflictions,
wer wer
You have brunch
wer wer
you work out 
wer wer
you're perfect 
wer wer
you slum.


Men serious
on a screen
brows furrowed.

Me laughing
in real life
eating pizza.

Men with guns
who're they robbing?

There's someone
at the door
should I get it?

Should I get it?
said the man 
with the pistol

pointed somehow
at my face
I don't get it.

Maybe suits
on TV
know of something

Maybe suits
on TV
have insurance

Because suits
on TV
aren't me.

2020 Year in review

I’m here to tell you that this was an awful year. I hope that your version of awful was, in a way, less awful than mine– but we’re here, whenever here is. Let’s try to enjoy this moment which is likely to be filled with booze. My particular booze, at the moment, is red wine. I don’t really go out much, these days, with the plague and all. I tend to be surrounded by a couple of glowing laptops with a big screen TV behind it. Whatever the matrix is, I’m sure I’m plugged into it. Be informed of what’s coming. The world is in danger.

The coronavirus killed hundreds of thousands. Some of us have experienced it to a greater extent than others, but most of us have, in one way, experienced it. Some of you are learning what it’s like to work from home and love it while others hate it. Some of you still have to work outside and deal with nasty people who cough all over everything. Whatever your situation, I wish you a speedy recovery from the hellscape that was 2020.

It’s my hope that as people we can learn to be a little kinder towards one another, that whatever philosophy we adopt enable us and encourage us to act compassionately towards one another. Maybe buy your friend a pair of sneakers. Maybe hold a door for someone. Mentor someone. In some way try to balance-out the negative with the positive.

I tend to like religious people, having once been religious– but I’ve never liked the idea that we have to wait until the day of judgement to make things right. “So what if the only world we have goes to hell if God is going to set everything right?”, you say, and I’m disappointed you’re such poor stewards of the world the greater power has given to you. If justice has a sword, look where the sword has gotten us. We’re a mess and it’s because we don’t know how to cooperate.

Even now, after thousands of years of nations and ethnicities fighting one another, we haven’t advanced past the need to use violent means for resources rather than learning to collaborate to ensure there are enough resources for everyone. If aliens ever visited us, we’d be ashamed of the state we’re in. Half the planet’s on fire. Not all of us are clothed and fed and have basic needs met. How pathetic. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize of 2020 being a futuristic year, but we’re sloppy as the human race, not at all worth a damn as a whole.

On a micro-level you find one or two compassionate people in life. Some people say that most people are actually good people. Well, if that’s the case, how do you explain the fact we’re on the edge of destroying ourselves? It’s time to look at ourselves clearly and realize that violence is counterproductive. We must support scientists and we must also advance in technology. We must take to the stars and we must build robots. We can’t continue to be held back by backward thinking.

Let’s finally be serious and ambitious with our advancements, discarding the belief that competition in the pursuit of individual greatness trumps the greatness of humanity as a whole. We’re full of ourselves because we haven’t been confronted by a greater intelligence. We haven’t pushed ourselves to become better overall because of our infighting in spite of the world being more connected than ever.

I write to you now who are thousands of miles away, saying, “I come in peace.”

The annoying chirping birds we want to shoot

The chirping birds we want to shoot, 
only chirp because we're close and they know
that, if at any moment, we catch them,
we will eat wings with barbecue sauce.
Don't worry. They'll rest and we'll grab them
from their perches, marking our way home 
with their feathers and red drops.

The blue tip of the flower of my mind

The blue tip of the flower of my mind is explored only by those with the insight to incite me to a violent lust quenched by the wine bearers, even though I’m wine bearing. This is the code of my order, which is rarely explored in the way we would expect– but in the most demeaning tones tongues are turned against us. We watch them, the mortals, torn apart by the conflicts they’ve created. We watch in shadows, perhaps complacent, but only because we lack the power but only the grace to move through life without inflicting ourselves upon it. We watch and then we finally move in a way only caressing until smoke fades into the gray night sky. Then we emerge with harps and stares to sit at your feet by the fire, with frail hands extended and stroking the sounds in the air.

Air what are you full of but that which in a moment I motioned up in the center of the universe? To you I am nothing and I can’t blame you. You do not know what the soft sounds mean to me air, you insistent that the sounds should mean nothing. You think that I should be hard, air, you think I should work in the mills and the factories, air, you like the dark smoke, air, you like the tired limbs pushing the house door after dark, rushing to food the next morning, air. The blue tip of the flower of my mind is touched by you and it crumbles under your gust as you overtake me. Surely, there must be a way to survive long enough to be by the fire, to sit by yout feet and play. I’ve got a song, a song few people know. It goes like this. Wait. Listen. Any minute now.

So I obviously don’t eat people and what I wrote was a work of fiction.

I can’t believe I have to explain this, but I do not like to eat human beings. What I wrote was a work of fiction written from a monster’s point of view. If someone is writing horror, they’re not supposed to write it from a straight forward, wholesome perspective. People write about vampires all the time. They just sound fake. And maybe stop making them goth. I mean, goth vampires are cool, but they don’t all have to be goth. They can be imagined in different ways.

Feast of faces: Perilous climb through Body Mountain

Our boots were soaked in blood so we shook them outside
of the doors of our tents. Our machetes in hand as we took to our sleeping bags.
We would climb Body Mountain, I decided. Look, eating people isn't so bad.
We're supposed to, as monsters, do those things. We can lie face up in our tents 
licking our fangs till sunset and head out to find them-- or what's left of them. 
Humans were once plentiful on Earth till we came and we still keep technology
up and a semblance of pop culture, but humans have proven to be useless 
unless they're for food. Sometimes their populations get out of control.
They're an invasive species. They nearly killed off most of the Earth's
wildlife till we stepped in. Now we hunt them, every once in a while,
whenever they try to rebuild some kind of society. Stops them from 
getting cocky.


If power's a given for those who have privilege
how greedy are they that they're seeking some more
it's as if they're lost in preserving their image,
I guess.

Then I don't care.

I don't think that having to worry about eating
is fair,

but otherwise

 on who else would zombies who roam in our cities 
have feast.
Please pass the salt.

Skill Verse

The matter that matters is comprised of meat unfamiliar,
lowered from the sky, wrapped in a sheet as a feast for St. Peter;

The matter that matters writes in sing song  fashion,
unintelligible to the masses not mattering;

This is the interspecies essence,
the hoot, the howl, the slither;
This is the interspecies essence,
the chirp and the elephant foot stomp,
communicated to you from America to India to China
in a second,
and in a second you perceive eternity
through temporary eyes held in a temporary body,
sitting on a temporary globe lit by a temporary sun
till the ending of all that is temporal,

till the Prime Mover gathers existence again 
to see a man scolded for not washing the dishes
after all the guests have left.