A Death Less Tragic
And once again I awaken
to an already risen sun,
Feeling like a Phoenician sailor
who's been beneath the sea too long,
And to myself over once again,
"No, not yet, not now, not ever."
I am the bullet, chamber, and
of my own beautiful suicide.
I am the blood, bone, and grey matter
splattered across the floor.
I am the hearse, casket and pallbearers
who lay my body to rest.
I am the tombstone, flowers and mourner
who remember me no more.
I am none of this and I am none of that.
Watch as a woman offers her forgiveness
and meet your friends with compassionate care
and recall the recurrent current of counter cycles
and meet your time with a beggar's yearning
and when you get home ask of yourself
as if standing stranded ankle deep in the sand
as if flight bomber formations form overhead
as if eye meets I with extreme vacancy
as if distant winds impose a makeshift return
as if yesterday reveals a possessed casualty
as if andy warhol plays rachmaninoff
the first question being Who?
a certain amount of expanding and contracting eternal tendencies pointing towards a particular historical terrestial flutter
the second being What?
a subjective self-referential bit of universal separateness
and the third being Where?
rise in the morning and return in the night.
Subversion of the Renaissance Man
The morally ambiguous path to a productive complete life leaves all else to make the details elusive. But we were there when it was happening.... living with it... breathing it...becoming it. But self-knowledge had crippled us... we had forgotten who we were - we had become complacent. And now there are only facts... with no taste, no smell, no feel, no substance. Facts which obscure only ourselves. But we had been there at one time... we are here now... that must count for something.
Stop killing yourself
over and over
for someone you have never met.
"Stand Back!" said the
paranoid king to his pitifully poor Yorrick,
"I'm still the king; captive to his mizzenmast by his mutinous crew."
"Ersatz!" cried the multi-colored jester as he mirthfully bowed
and, as a kind misfeasance, danced off the palace grounds.
The rat petted his paw
while his tail was stuck in the sewer grate.
Seers and Prophets
There are no more easy days and better seers and prophets have failed us with tired explanations put forth building configuration upon misconfiguration reaching behind the scenes but never above aspirations examinations and expirations by a particular mass of communication having deemed us all to be obscene branded tongues of duplicity in the black and white of let me get your chair WHERE? let me ease your pain HOW? let me let you dream WHEN? perhaps the sun does travel to the west and tomorrow it may dance but I took a woman to dinner once and the expectation left Galileo Ptolemy and Copernicus speechless so forthwith the self made man shall plot revenge upon the cowboy who shall rustle his plight toward the priest who will try to find somewhere else to point the blame so let us mold creation to a more suitable form and drop the here and now the then and there and the when and where and let us for the first time find ourselves living amongst new myths
real thought can't be co-opted
nor "de-platformed" or "demonetized"
real thought refuses the sunlight of sponsorship,
PR and meme-ification
real thought follows no algorithm
nor the whims and fancy of superficial feeds
real thought can't be tracked, ranked,
optimized, sampled or surveiled
real thought goes beyond any
terms of service and EuLA
real thought resides underground
and refuses all toxic fertilization
real thought seeps into the soil
and undermines all walled gardens
real thought is found on the cutting room floor
and in the cracks of ossified systems
real thought is found in the space
between your dollar bills
real thought thrives when
nothing is viral
real thought lives after the
electric buzz ends