The Things That Fall From Ledges Tall

And those that hit us from nearer 

nonetheless produce effects 

which strike particularly similar. 

The Dangling Hearts are Easily Plucked

A man like me will wear you out 

I'll be inside your head 

or worse your heart

and play those strings

don't let me in your bed

to feel the things I like to feel

hear the things I like to say

mine’s soft too and just as red

if you feel it beating

run away. 

Eyes Like Christmas

All these musings pass behind

windows mostly shaded 

concealing walls mostly faded 

trying to be stoned before

the patterns fall in line

because these eyes like christmas 

let that shit out

knock it about

and somehow

make it all seem fine.

When It’s Time To Be Sad and Lonely I Suppose That’s What I’ll Be

I just remembered that once I learned 

there are no guarantees 

problems are a matter of perspective 

and only ever will be.

Firebomb

There's cleaner ways 

to get shit done 

nicer ones too 

but none that

really satisfies 

quite the way 

we want it to.

All These Words in Shakespeare Terms

Each essay is a pound of flesh 

hastily scooped with little precision 

tissue abused and torn 

no regard for the subtleties 

of the contracts they satisfy

but no worry because 

it doesn't hurt that much

there's plenty to go around

and I can always make more

every poem is scrawled 

from the blood which seeps 

and pools low in those ragged wounds. 

There's Little Profundity in the Images That Capture My Attention in Quiet Moments or Why I Am Never Bored

Seemingly impossible condensation
occurs rapidly and gathers
in layers near the top then
glides at first until fog appears
where it is unexpected and rolls
relatively heavy before cascading
in heaps rushing out from the bottom
of my shower beer.

The Sex Life of a Nihilist Isn’t Really Very Important

In the scheme of things, as they say 

even baby rats seem to play

koalas are mostly gay 

and we are all just

shit on a rock

anyway

but then again when you think about it

you realize you are thinking about this

instead of what to eat, or how 

instead of whether to run later, or now

instead of if you should hunt or plow
when the children can wait
for neither harvest nor sow

and suddenly the luxury of curiosity 

seems pretty fucking sweet

anyhow. 

My Art Isn't Folksy or Cute

It comes in a cardboard box

the cheapest kind 

with no label

it lurks. 

Murder Your Heavenly Father

Do it. You totally can.

Think about him. Close your eyes. Think about your creator. Think about him the way you always do. The way you were taught. Imagine being in his great and powerful presence. Feel his love and his arms wrapping around you comforting you and welcoming you home.  Feel his eternal love and embrace. Feel the warmth and spirit flowing through you until you know it is real because you feel it to your very soul.

Now imagine a large knife in your hand. Take that knife, and as hard as you can, jam it into his fucking head as far as you can, all the way. Feel that pop as the blade penetrates his skull. Watch the blood spit and flow as arteries pump desperately, spewing thick, red spurts with unexpected force. Twist the knife. Clockwise. Jerk it back as far as you can. Split his skull wide open. Pull it out and look into his vacant eyes as brains begin to slip out of and fall softly and gently to the floor with a soft plop. Lay him on the ground and with the heel of your boot smash his head to a pulp, so all that is left is long flowing white robes with a gross, red, blob of carnage where his face used to be. Smear him all over the ground. Clean your boots off on his robes, and your knife if you still remember it. Piss on his body if you want. Walk away.

There, doesn’t that feel better?

Now do it again. Conjure your god again. The same way you always do. Pray to him. Call on him. Feel his spirit. He will come back. Experience him in all his glory exactly the way you always have. Make him a little different if you want. Make his robes brown. Make him black. Make him a woman. Make him an alien. Make him an elephant. Make him a fat Asian man. Make him a cow. Make him a golden cow. Make him whatever you like, your own image, however you prefer to see him and know him.

Now, wrap your hands around his neck and strangle that sonofabitch until there is nothing left.

Catch your breath.

Do it again if you want.

Do it as many times as you need.

Do it as many times as you want. I’ll wait.

Done now?

Is he good and dead?

Are you satisfied? Kill him some more if you like.

When you are finished take a deep breath. Open your eyes. Look around.

Anything different?

Walk outside. Call your friends. Pet the dog. Do the dishes. Go to a movie.

No one cares.

There will be no consequences.

Nothing will change.

It doesn’t matter.

It never mattered.