If Heaven and Hell

If Heaven is within the clouds,

and Hell is beneath our feet,

I propose that,

rather than bury our dead,

we blast them into space.

For, if that does not put their souls

nearer to God’s Golden Gates,

then at least their bodies will fly like angels

and look down upon Earth’s face.


Step 1: Rehumanization

I am a wall, it said,

recognizing its flat face and

layers of make up.  Put on,

take off, reapply, rinse, do again,

mirrors, brushes, palettes.

Its more a collage

than a human or a wall.

Yes, anything can change

but will it?  Time is an

erosion but facades have a

half-life of however long it

takes for them to be found

out (over two).  I’m over you.

Its no wonder that nail polish remover

and the drinks I guzzle

have the same primary ingredient.

Alcohol is a catalyst and

literally it rehumanizes through

disintegration of barriers.

We flaunt and worship painted, angular walls,

while morbidly forgetting to furnish the interiors

on which others gaze as they grow closer

and peer through our windows.


Thanks is overused

“Pass me the corn”


So customary a reply, it has become obsolete.

A requirment rather than a though,

an involuntary reaction, rather than a feeling

On days like this

I wish the word ‘thanks’ had more to give.

Maybe another word is necessary,

one which is not just a reply to a simple action,

a word which expresses more ardent appreciation.

I do not know such a word.

So, I stick to the mundane

and give my thanks,

hoping that the great intentions

behind the simple phrase

are recognized and felt as intended.

Language as You Like

Be it in the proverbial sentence as I do demonstrate

or in the slow callusing of the slow scrape of the slow,

trudging hand over paper–line




lonely lonely line–

bye– bye– bye–

Dignants’ confabulation with the legal writ may render profit

but of what avail when they cannot



These days, we do not trrrrrill our words

or fascinate on the decomposition of lane-goo-age.


Be Flame

Be Boy

Be Ant

I am





Weariness and Washing Machines

They say that the force of gravity working on us,

at any given time, is equal to the weight of a washing machine.

And I inquire to them, who I can only suppose to be scientists,

what is the weight of the force which acts on me when I am weary?

If, at norm, I can support a washing machine weight upon my shoulders,

what weight is it which acts so suddenly upon me, thrusting my head towards

the desk, the pillow, the floor, the half-eaten plate of spaghetti in front of me?

What physical force is it which pulls my eyelids together,

repulsing the light and the world, the lecture and the classroom?

Or is it just that I have actually weakened to such a great extent,

that no longer can I bear the weight of the world?

No matter.  Coffee will be my steroid again

and though I may later be found a cheat,

for now I rise, lifting the weight of a washing machine,

and see the world again.

Average Medial Day Break

As arbitrary as a day may seem,

With its minutes waning it seems even more arbitrary.

Crusty guitar riffs somehow revoke the pulsing head

which is sure only to feel worse at this rate

because it is, in fact, nearly morning.

Sentimentality is overdue. And frankly, I’m astounded,

that I, of all people, could situate myself is such a day

of standard results and mundane activity.

It seems to issue to me that if something is to change,

and it aught to change, if only for the serenity of day break

to be a happy consistency in an otherwise robust life,

that I must be the variable, the cog in the machine, which throws

it all into material chaos.

Provoke me! I dare you!

I’m a crafty new form of art which

critics praise for the:

“ingenuity of material,”

which, “just bleeds with a sense of self-satisfaction

and voluntary perfection,” sitting in front of the computer screen,

“summed with a breath-holding sense of simmering realities”

:a dismal future of love, children, and ultimate similarity.