Some wait to find
meaning in living.
Not me I wait for snow
to bury the meaning of life
along with my companion black dog.
For it is he who bites my life
draws the blood of reality
who chases me by night
never greeting or retreating.
It is the black dog
no one knows.
I am the ugly man, the guy passed by on the street without recognition. Do you know me? No. Do you care about my broken spirit? No. I am the breeze which whips through an unknown forest, invisible and dismissive to trees and bramble bushes. I walk the streets of a war torn city and cry when babies cry for suckling. I cry when dissonance visits my homeland but no one hears. Do you hear me? No. I place myself on the altar of social acceptance and stoned to death for free thought. I am dead yet I continue to walk through doors, through green lights, and kitchen lines. I am the ugliness of imperfection.
A city is vacant yet people live in their tents, boxes, and sleeping bags. Unshaved men gather around a barrel of flames to warm hands gnarled and unclean. Unclean spirits dancing in the dirtiness of freedom are hungry with palms up and the stigmata of need brandish them. They are the silent voices of the world. Do you hear them? No. Each marble has a hole in which to hide. Do not take that away.
Young, lost, angry, poor, with a monkey on his back. Boy junkie makes one last call to a drunken mother. She is too stoned to answer, the boy waits until jail lights dim into blackness. He chews at his wrists like a rat chewing off a trapped foot. Bleeding out, checking out, junkie boy gives no thought to the games people play, the cuteness of wealth, millionaire dating shows, or the pseudo saving grace of Jesus Christ. God watches him, he watches all you know, but sits flatly on his ass to see the glazing eyes and the flooded blood red floor of a urine-smelling jail cell. The Holy Ghost checks himself into a Marriott in downtown Chicago. Martinis are half priced after six.
A child of the universe deserves
adobe home blasts blood on your floor
rubble pile gulping coughing
tank whores and gruesome memories
dark riders in the night hunting always hunting
time will never be on your side
wrapped in a neighbor’ rug
to dust to dust to dust.
Black night snow licking
at my toes
The trees bend in reverence
for his passing soul
his corpse still haunts me
quiet and still like a Quaker’s prayer.
I watched six men labor at his coffin
tugging him to an empty mouth
of dirt and snow
I still cry today for my naiveté
I did not know the man
my creator and chief.
I bow now in reverence of his dream
mine to keep like a flower
in an ancient bible.
Takers and givers, that’s what it has come down to says the big fat cats sitting in their leather office chairs. “Yes, takers and givers,” Says a man with hand rolled cigar made by a poor worker living in squalor on the south side of Havana. “Takers and givers,” He laughs like he just invented the idea, but he didn’t.
We are shocked that someone would treat their pet cruelly. The woman with a rope tells a cat owner “The cat must go. I can clearly see every rib in its fragile body. It’s starving.” The world is starving. Where is the man?
A good Christian would not kill a doctor who performs abortions. A good Muslim would not kill a city full of people. But a good Ayn Rand lover without a flicker in his brow steals money from poor school children, old people, and the down trodden in his land just so he can fly first class. Ayn Rand was an asshole worshipped by more assholes and the wind continues to whisper across the tombstones of all her victims in Texas, Kansas, and Mississippi. She was a global asshole.
A rusty haired man with puckered lips is the ugliest of ugliness. Women fuck him with hope of nabbing a piece of his multi-million dollar meringue. What has he given to his Christian friends? He has pulled the trigger of insurrection with the help of fat people with teabags hanging from their sun hats. They use words they don’t truly understand in a world they don’t truly understand. Nationalism has killed and continues to kill the blind and ignorant, all for a loaf of bread or a bowl of rice.
There is no God because a benevolent God could not sleep through the mass murders of his children. God is just another rich man’s game, a game of human checkers being knocked off the table spilling a glass of good whiskey and momma’s cookies. Spill blood not good whiskey is the goal of the so called anti-Christ. God is the power of man to control another man. God is money. I have no money.
Standing far away
the world looks good
shaved and showered
clean cut and blue
If you stand on a canyon’s edge
words escape you
the awesome and impotence
beyond your power
thus is the god of my soul
I am amazed at a million years
a million tears a million wars
still I stand as the Monarch
flutters proudly from flower to flower
my thoughts are wind
I am god.