Car Crash

Blinded by the light,
Heading towards the darkness of Walmart
The dune buggy was critcally wounded.
It might not recover.

As it was hit
As I was hit
I thought only
How all this was a minor inconvineince.
I cared little for the car,
Or the money I was losing.

I cared about making it
To Texas on Thursday
It was only after I got
Back into the insanity
Of out of the moment
That i started caring about
The inane reality.

My car sustained more damage
Then that of the other driver.
But even when our cars were towed
The wreckage still remained
In the moment and adraline.
A reflection of global car-wreck

One in the anus

One, in the anus
And two, in the front
When I smell my fingers.
It smells like your cunt
I guess you really must
Wash your ass well
Because that's not
The part of you that smells

Fatgirl-Havanaville ( For Joe)

Everyday girls for every day people.
He just wants someone that will mean the world.
Who will treat himself and his freinds as an equal.
But make him a sandwich when he gets home. 

And he's telling me,
Its not hard to see
The fat girls are
The only ones who will care.

Unquestionably,
He has a glint in his eye.
As he drunkenly takes his hand,
Through what left of his hair

There is just more to them.
It more fun to screw them
There more to hold on to
And you're in for a ride.

Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

She has a big ass there
And he likes the pot belly.
And when you fuck her
It should be to tap.

The sound that you should hear
Is if you take you hand.
And smack steadily
Into you belly fat.

And so as he is bragging, to silence my nagging
He tells me of all his loves in the world.
But all of the girl who, he could grab onto
There has never been better then one with some folds.

 Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

So it like a bisuit
A sort of limp triscut
There are more crevases
To put butter in.

It like a big fish
That you catch
With a small rod
It just a matter, of reeling it in.

They are less demanding
They hold higher standings
And it takes him,
Much less time to cum.

They dont have to me models
Not even role-models
He just wants them to
Roll over his heart
 
Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

Yes, on the way to Fatgirl-Havanaville
Jiggling around while perfectly still. 
More cushion for the pushi.
Leads to more boats in the sea.

He is an explorer
A protagnist horror
And all that he ever
Wanted to see

Was nature at its finest
God at his divinest
And a nice fat girl
Waiting for he.

 Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

To Emmy Em

I am like a moth, to the flame of dat ass.
And as I watch you, shake it fast.
I feel like, some sort of industrious animal.
A sort of non-barbaric cannibal.

Your the first girl I felt this about, under the context
But I feel like maybe, there is some sort of pretext,
A prologue- connection and opening act
That maybe requires a sequel.

I look at you as an equal.
And not only in that I don't find you work demeaning.
But that, as you work it...
you input a meaning, into every moment.


So I guess, because I am superstitious
And easily quenched by my doubts
I felt suspicious
About...approaching you on a face to face basis. 


And telling you
That I think you are amazing.
And that though, in your dance...you put on a mask, 
I think I've obtained enough facts


To be interested in finding more about you..
Over dinner. 
Now I hope, that you thus don't think me a sinner.
Or think that my feelings are thinner..then truth


I have no expectations
or wants or demands,except that I hope,
That the context, under which we shook hands,
Doesn't impact my chance

I wont feel deserted
I am not perverted
And if you say no
All the bridges, will stand...still unbroken.


And you can rest assured,
I don't just think of you, as a token.
I just want a moment of you, in my time
To grease up the grind, of my day to day life.

And I hope that this does not cause you strife
But even  though my request is full of meaning
If you say no, it wont be demeaning.
I wont feel stifled

So I guess this poem is just a chance trifle
But its the only way I could get up my courage to act.
Otherwise your in my mind like a tact,
On a tact-board, but without a note.

So humbly, I will... await your answer.
I see in you more, then an exotic dancer..
I know a cafe, where you can drink coffee like wine
And all that I want, is to show you a good time.

Women of the streets ( AKA RUSSIAN DISCO)

Are you a women of the streets?
Standing where the light post and darkness meets
Performing wonderful feats
I swear to God, I love dark meat.
But I have never been with a
black girl before.

Regardless I don't think you're a whore.
I just keep coming back for more
Even though I've never had a slice
in all my life
I want the whole pie.

On Broad and Ontario
Your hair, you really let it go
but still your body is petite.
And your a women of the streets
Standing where law and justice meets
Just being fine
While you smell of pine.
I think I want dark meats.
i sometimes wonder if tastes
any different.

Once you go black. you can go back.
but seeing as you are on crack
I might never see you again
And all we, both want is a friend


A prostitute 
is destitute
a massage parlor 
is to far
but while I am here in my car
I wish that I could stop
and discuss philosophy with you. 


you are a women of the streets
And though I really crave dark meats.
I think I will just by some ham.
Becasue you love is just a sham

Goggle Bikini

There are some ideas
That fly in my head
When I cant fall asleep,
And am lying in bed.

Like a goggle bikini
Complete with a strap,
Its see-through, yet classy
Sure to attract a nice chap.

And as for the bottom
A snorkeling mask
It makes scuba-diving
A much less stressful task.

Complete as a set
I would sell it online,
And charge, you the low price
of $19.99

Tarot 2

He is her opposite,
They are familiar, though they never met. 
Intrinsically tied to the plainer fields of existence.
He like her, does not acknowledge, that beyond the empirical.

The Emperor, the fourth kind.
He like her, is innocent.
It is not his corruption, which counterbalances
Her purity, it is where he channels his purity.

He does not seek to hurt,
But he asserts himself constantly.
Where she is the medic, he is the warrior.
He hunts, and plays army games with his cousins.

He would never hurt a living soul.
But he has always appeared, as the wizard to me.
Fireballs, seem to be at his will at all times
And though they only appear as ghosts,...

These phantasms, in another life, seem realistic.
He craves women, and uses art to get them.
Anouther similarity he has with her;
But while her canvas and inspiration is outside...

His canvas is his body, and he is an ever-working sculptor.
He plays video games, to win.
He has no qualms about wasting his life in front of
A computer monitor, or playing paintball.

He is Qualm-less, no conflict touches him.
And while he is not the apex predator,
He is most certainly the Emperor.
The masculine, only giving,

He has no concerns, for the outside world
Or what he should receive from it.
Thus he becomes the manifestation of all that is man.
For a man is that, who is not trifled by trifles.

As for the fifth, it is attributed to three.
The Hierophant, representing red
Fitting, since two of the three are Communists.
The three, were once involved in a lovers triangle.

There names all begin with the 13th letter.
They all teach on the 13th floor, of a twelve story building.
Three academics, knowledge without a missive
Into which to apply it.

The one is a funny little pollack
Who always preachs communism,
Less for reason of virtue,
And more for pent up envy for the rich.

A professor earning less, then a garbage man
He is always bitter, making weird faces,
And odd gestures with his hands
Squinting, while he compliments you.

He laughs manically, cackling.
Saying, even though he finds your ideas foolish,
"This man has things to say"
He dates an underclassman

He acts uncouth, gets drunk
Plays fantasy football against his family
He buys overpriced pork fat.
His date often appears bored, slowly realizing it just a title.

He is a good man though, and he appreciates
Humor in the way that it is given
He stands before his suudents like a madman.
A rabbi, he manically bobs while teaching,

Hoping it will reach one of his students
But they do not understand his obsession with history.
This leaves him deserted, and thus chronicles
His life as an empty comrade, the Academic martyr.

The second of the three, is older.
She veins from emotions, because they scare her
She is an immigrant in many regards,
She lived the life he wishes he had.

A converter from a Sputnik, to an Apollo
She worshiped Moses,
And now she seeks to uncover Jesus
And so her academic pursuits, are self motivated. 

She is a Bodhisattva, hoping to attain
Enlightenment, in the enlightenment of others.
She speaks more truthfully, and thinks deeper
But like her comrade, she is tied up.

She makes a mean cup of tea.
And lives truthfully, her words are always kind.
She lives a few floors above him and teaches
A few floors below.

The third, worships Anubis and works at Path-mark
He has totally given up on the innerworkings of acadamia,
But he has put in too much time, and is otherwise now useless.
He is always brushing up on his Latin.

Like the others in many ways,
His failed connection is that he never tried.
He has become nihilistic and skeptical
A weary warrior, who preaches magic,

He has no wonder left for it.
He seems to derive little pleasure.
Time is the worse of all the thieves.
A fallen tree, without the leaves.  

They are three aspects of a life
I left behind in college.
And like the 13th letter
They seem intrinsically unlucky

Teachers, they mirror
The corruption of the world
And like a gun with a cap on it.
They blow their potential inward.

Sarcastically the sixth, sits siliently.
The Lovers, and oh how many he has had.
He is most normal of my friends.
His power lies is his ability to fuse.

He seems bitter, for all the connections
He has made, has given him plenty to loose.
He is skeptical, and while he tries
For a vicarious empathy, he grows shallow.

He plays guitar, and rolls his eyes.
Forever in contact with the things
Which he, like love, has united to himself;
He has little but disdain for them.

He sees the good and bad in everything;
But grudgingly usually only expresses pessimism.
He is smart enough to be a man of faith
But his faith has failed him before, so he worships science.

Dark and light unite within him.
His compliments are backhanded
They burn with corrosion. He is charmingly funny
In this regard, a  passive aggressive incarnate.  

He mirrors his surroundings,
And partakes in all the human rituals
Of a world, whose culture he pities.
He is worried about the enviroment.

He believes in little steps, but fails
To see the forest from the trees sometimes.
He is the Lovers, in love with a dismissivness
That only he posses. He is the white and black.

But in the end, it men like him
That hopelessly unite
The Dawn and Twilight
The Day and Night.

The Editor

The editor is in a sacred position

Because the owners without realizing it,

Put the control of their product,

Into the hands of another,

Who humanizes and universalizes the product

That would otherwise be thought to be owned by the owner.

The editor is the safe key,

Against the owner’s attachment to his creation.

And although the official editor might do a majority of the work on something,

We are all editors in our interaction with that work.

Nothing can simply be given.

There is no such thing as a gift that does not give back.

When you give something, you receive back always;

And from this interaction an objective finished project is made

A synthesis of two....or maybe an infinite amount

Of subjectivity.

To this extent the role of the critic is seriously jeopardized,

Because subjective opinion in art, loses meaning.

Thus the role of the editor and critic in art

And in life is the same.

The best critics are merely editors;

And an editor is merely a critic.

LSD

Why did I Stick my hand in God's cookie Jar?...

...I am just a spider, miraculously hanging on a half spun web...

...Is this the age of teenage fisting?...

...Too late, let it in!...

You let go
You let it in,
You let it destroy,
Now all that is,
Is no longer;
And all that remains
Is all that ever was.

Numb

I am not sad
I am not happy
I am not much of anything
Recent conversations have awoken me

To the realization, that I am numb,

To a series of feelings which I never

Really knew how to feel.

Numb, not only to a selected few

Often identified

Not numb like everyone.

It’s a common delusion that someone somewhere,

Is not numb.

And all these feelings, we end up having

This great, love and hatred

It’s just a reaction in the numbness

The numbness is the matrix

And sure…love is real,

And that satisfaction of watching

Your partner orgasm is a goal to be reached for

But it is all numbness

Not just relevant to numbness.

It is numbness itself.

These felling are all simulated

Not just biologically

But by everything.

A friend of mine once said

That we all act like something,

And never just act

Perhaps this is true

But is this a critique of the world

Or simply an observation?

Does the numb man have feelings?

What are feelings if not;

The numb mans description of his environments?

If we were not numb,

We would not need feelings.

It’s like air

You don't realize you breathe it

You just do

Anger, love, hatred

Those… you feel though

Because you’re numb

Perhaps none of this makes sense?

Why am I saying these things

And smiling.

There is no noose around my head.

But why stop

No going back only forward

That’s the problem with most revolutions

They stop

They let things get comfortable

They let things return to the original state

Of human

The only solution is constant revolution.

If people get too comfortable

The rebellion is over

This is the red pill

Fuck the blue pill

That’s for the classics

Go back to describing feelings

Anna Karaganda had a lot of them

This is the realization of the matrix

And hell if I need another Oracle

I have been listening to them all my life

Perhaps its time to bend the goddamn spoon already

And stop looking at my reflection in it.

But how do I do that?

Hell…

Buddhism tells me that I must be one with spoon.

That’s what it culminates in

A form of anti-nihilism which

Westerns mostly don’t have the discipline to understand.

Perhaps the trick isn’t to equate to the spoon,

Perhaps you must equate both yourself and the spoon

To numbness.

She is always a mistress to me (Yeah...this again)

She can whip with her crop
She can spank with her palm
She can ruin your reputation, with your mom
And she always wears leather, but despite what you see
She might dress like a slut
But she is always a mistress to me

She’ll make you wear a collar
She can stomp you or bleed you
She says that she will fuck you
But she will just reveal you
And she will pour hot wax on you
Until you scream mercy
You think you got it bad?
But she is always a mistress to me

Chorus-

-OHHHH She will make you her pony
-You will piss when she wants
-And you better say "thank you for helping me pee"
-OHHHH and she loves anal beads
-And she always succeeds
-Cause she chains you by the balls

Well she says she’ll go easy
But you getting a beating
Then she will put needles in you and
Scream “Bitch you Bleeding”
And she will make you act brave
While she spanks your tusshie
She might be walking on you, with her high heel shoe
But she always a mistress to me

Chorus

-OHHHH She will make you her pony
-You will piss when she wants
-And you better say "thank you for helping me pee"
-OHHHH and she loves anal beads
-And she always succeeds
-Cause she chains you by the balls

She will sit on your face
She’ll stick THAT in yo ass
Shell fart on you skull
And ask you to be glad
And she wont be convicted, too easily
Shes just working out issues that she had with her daddy

You can all check her out, if you have a fast modem
She might even want to start shocking your scrotum
You don't have to pay her what she doing is free.
She might treat you bad...today
But she always a mistress to meeeeeeeeee.

The shelter, not home

I look upon God's fingerprints,
Guilty of the sin
He wont quite admit, what hes done;
But shh... I'll let you in.
It not really a secret,
But alert I still was found
When I found god,
And he found me
And I woke up profound.
You dont believe,
Or better yet
You believe what you will!
But belief is is like a red robin
Upon the window still
A fleeting little memory
Of all that ever was
As this fair bird flies south to safety,
It is a herald for its cause.
I dont know the destination
Of god nor bird nor man,
But each flies, to whatever safety it can

Let go of inhibitions,
Became one with bird and God
Transcend your fears and structures,
And wings shall grant you shelter,
That you only thought you had

Why is it so quite here?

I had a great moment
            of synchronicity
That I thought
            I would share
I was alone
        A the bargain book store
 Hardly working
       Selling my wear
A ten year old boy
      with his mother
          had been having a look around
             and with all the other costumers gone
               no one was making a sound.
 And done my deeds
       I read my book
 About the "Electric Acid Test"
 LSD and Synchronicity
 The naked
Who kept getting undressed

 La Honda in the 1960's
Hell that was the place to be
I could see myself
    there too
        pulling pranks, with Ken Kesey
SO, who it it?
    That flew over the coo-coo's nest
         And went and labeled it insane
Why?
    Did the mantra of action and experience
 Get replaced
    By THIS
      Today so lame

 The little boy and mom
   Were winding down
As i got to
     The end of a page
Irate
   Because I was at a real good part
       Ken Kesey talking off the stage
 My thought on the 1960's fell
       But my head was in the clouds
              Why did it end
The total was 21.20
                   Why?
                        They didn't built? they just knocked down?
 This was an explanation
             I once heard
                But reading this I was disturbed
 Was it about building
       Anything?
          Or just returning to the earth?

 I gave the lady
     Her bag of books
 And my thoughts
           Started to fly
Meditation
   and LSD
    Maybe God isnt all that high
 So why
     Have we stopped trying?
       To live a better world?
 Live in the moment
     As Kesey
          and the Buddha told
 Or has it always been this way
     In the hustle bustle world
        Is Tom Wolfe lying too?
         Why cant we live
           As Kesey preached
             Just shut up and DO!

 I look at the kid

 Ginsberg.
      Lennon.
        Alpert,
          and Leary
             Are all gone
 Who will lead us now?
          I know what Ken Kesey would say
               Who needs a leader anyhow?

 An so I sit there
     Pondering
        Cultural solitude
           In the dry book store air
             When the kids asks his mom
 "Why is it so quite here?"........

I drop my book
    I understand
          I put on the radio
The music- ugh
   Isn't very good
      BUT
         At least its a show

They leave
  and say good bye
And i say
    Come again
 I am living in the moment now
    Zen, Thanks to my little friend

 Perhaps the kid is right this time!!
    What can books reach?
       Life comes from experience
           You  have to live
            Before you teach

 I am going to think of this for a while
And perhaps, you should too!

I feel like the tortoise
     - who finally caught the hare

 I.....was the reason

 It was so quite here!

Tarot Deck ...part 1

I sometimes sit and imagine, when I have questions.
The archetypal manifestations; of those sent to help me answer them.
I separate the Major Arcana from the deck,
And think about the person out there, I connect the most with each card.

I am the Magus, the multiarmned magician.
Stretching my arms throughout the deck.
Card #1; Holding- Fire-Water-Air-Earth
A Magic Scroll-and a bit of everything else that connects each to each.

I am the jack of all trades - master of none
The undeclared freshman, a blob
And while many are searching for a meaning in life
I am becoming a manifestation of that search.

I strive to build up forwards the deck
Hoping to become more like The Chariot, or The High Priestess
To learn enough from my friends and enemies that I become--The Universal
Hoping to channel everything through me.

My one buddy, smoking weed
Is the High Priestess, card # 2.
Dissatisfied with the unnaturalness of the human universe.
He lives inhumanly and unnaturally, not because of corruption

But as a sign of rejection.
A clean martyr, leaving filthily and basically.
Mirroring on his inside, the extravagance of beauty.
And on his outside, the pettiness of ugliness.

He is like a tree, that has accepted plastic
As a form of subsistence
He has forgotten about the muggled roots below,
He cares no longer about the sewer at his feet.

He yells loudly, at anything that will impede
The growth of his branches.
A man who has unwillingly and bitterly accepted the past.
For him these is no going back, only growing upward.

Then there is the Empress
My childhood friend, and card # 3
A healer, she innocently stands against corruption
Though she has never had the joy of being corrupted.

She is stuck in her ways, but steadfast.
Ambitiously hoping to obtain the unachievable.
She maintains her light, in med school,
Where the florescent light bulbs put her brightness to shame. 

They want her to be sterile,
But she has never experienced the dark.
Like a antibody, without a virus at it core ,
She lacks the darkness

But it is perhaps braver still to be a light
In a well lit room, then a light in the dark.
Perhaps she has obtained the ego death
She shines, for others, not to light up her own inner darkness.

....to be continued in part 2.

Miguel

She was just so pookie
In a yellow hoodie,
drunk on whiskey and tequila
Perhaps, to this extent, for the first time
Yelling into the phone.

"MMMMiguel, please find my car"
"I'm drunk"
"Its at 4th and bainbridge"
"We didn't get into to the bar and walked home"

"MMMIIIIGGUUELL"
And then turning to me, putting the
Phone, with Miguel's confused gringo voice still
Talking; into her crotch.
Perhaps she liked the vibrations.

"He is the best Mexican I know"
She said aloud, and then imitated Spanish mambo jumbo
Channeling Miguel's broken spirit in whatever way she could.
She explained that even tho he spoke like this,
She could always understand him.

Spanish rang from her vagina,
Which I eyed with passion and heat
But I was in no mood to trump Miguel
And help this girl find her car.

"Push it home"
she yelled completely unaware, that home was
A mile and half away and
That Miguel had not found the car.
And had settled down at a diner.

"Miguel, I have no dollars" she yelled. 
she repeated this over the course of the evening.
"NO DOLLARS", and there might be a ticket.
But she swore, those were the only two problems she had
Otherwise her life was perfect.

She asked her roommate whether we could go
And find her car, as Miguel, her one faith Mexican
was acting unfaithfully lazy.
But her friend responded rhetorically
"Do you know whats on South Street right now"
"Niggers?" the drunk pooger guessed.


 I made a joke about it, for I could not make a criticism
"So do you have a black guy you trust like Miguel?"
It seemed they didn't
"Miguel is the only minority you trust" i asked
I was then informed that white people are now the minority. 

She started dancing, and making out with roommate
But I stood no chance, so i just nodded on the floor.
This racism was just a passing farce.
She called Miguel at 4AM, but he didn't answer

Sports Sexting

"Would you like to touch my "front bottom"" I ask her.
I quote Ben Kingsley while walking to my car.
Halfway there she informs me
"I think you are too skinny for one those"

"I think you misunderstood what I was referring too"
I say getting my car
"Thats OK though, I can always just "take my talents to south beach" and do it myself"
"What?" she responds

"You've never taken your talents to south beach?"
"I dont know if my talents are south beach material"
"I always picture you to have at least 2 vibrators" I tell her.
She tells me she has 2 small ones, because she doesn't like those big dildos
 unless someone is using one on her.

She tells me "that not really a  talent though"
"Its the only one i got"
"It something even the talentless can do"
This is a girl who does not appreciate practice

I ask her if she wants to play " a round 1 on 1..."
"...or perhaps some HORSE"
" I can play a good game"
"Short but sweet"

I tell her the only rule I have
"IS you must dribble" 
"dribble like spit or ball handling?" she asks
I realize this has gotten out of hand, and I think thats a good thing.

I respond " The latter, when it comes to the former I expect you
to take a foul like a big girl and swallow.
Otherwise I might miss my next foul shot and you dont want
the ball to wind up in the stands"

She doesn't respond
"When you wanna play ball I ask"
" I am not one for basketball she says"
I always knew she was a racist

"We can play baseball i say and take it slow
but i might end up on 2nd pretty quickly"
she doesn't respond
I hate women.

The Pythagorean Jew

Ratio's are better then percentages pragmatically speaking.
If I tell you a Rubel is worth 2/3's of a Shekel
You can contemplate what a sixteen Shekel radio costs in rubles. 

When tipping we Jews,are known as thrifty.
I think, that calculating the right percentage is rather annoying.
And people, including Jews, and myself are lazy.

I will thus be the first Pythagorean Jew, and invent
A way to calculate tips, using ratios instead of percentages.
Enclosed below are the new tipping rules of the Pythagorean Jew

Rule A. If your table brought less then 10 dollars, leave at least 5 on the table.
Rule A1. At least 2 dollars per person for a table over 3 people, but under 10 dollars.

Rule B. If the service was abysmally bad, tip nothing, but I mean abysmally bad.

Rule C. If the service was real bad tip 10%. That's easy to calculate using ratios.
Thats 1 dollar for every 10 you spend. Always round up.
So on a check of 43.57...tip comes to 4.35, but leave a 5...and ONLY IF SERVICE WAS BAD.

Rule D. Otherwise leave between 17-20%
Rule E This is easy to calculate.
Give either 1 doller for every 5 spent or 1 dollar for every 6 spent.

Remember your 5 and 6 division tables, and they might help you.
If the total is divisible by 6 like a check of 72$ dollars, put 1 dollar for every 6 spent.
72/6= 12

If its divisible by 5 or 10 use 1 dollar for every 5 spent.
So for a check of  55$---55/5= 11.
If the number ends in a 1 round down to the 0 digits and use 1/5
So for a check of 51$ you but 1/5 of 50 or 10.

In general just round up or down to the closest number divisible by either 6 or 5,
and then calculate.
This way you always give 17.5-20% of the tip,
and dont look like a piece of shit for whipping out you calculator.

This is the Jewiest poem ever written, and perhaps the worst.
But it was a poem about the practice of Pythagorean pragmatism
When it comes to avoiding stereotypes in restaurants.

The first guy

I sometimes wonder how the first guy created pasta.
It just seems so irrationally edible to me.
Its not, like an apple that you just pick up and eat
Or some piece of meat that you heat up.

For that matter how'd the first Astrophysicist come about?
What made him measure the things he did.
What else could we create, that we dont,
Because we feel the world is too full of useless ideas?

Or perhaps we are constantly creating things?
We are a group of very creative ego's
Always repressing our creations for the super-ego we compile.
A world full of Tony Stark's, wondering..."What else is edible?"

Sun and Rain

There is that parable of the little boy, who refused to take of his raincoat.
The sun and clouds had a bet as to which could take it off him.
I wear my raincoat, my security...and as the clouds did, you try to whither up a storm.
I understand it cant last forever, and that the security of the raincoat is in my head,
but let me feel dry.

I am looking towards the sunny days, when I can take it off myself.
I had a sunny day yesterday, and was in a sunny mood.
I was building a hanger, slowly and surely on which it could rest forever.
But every time you, or someone else blows up this storm.
I tighten the straps and go back to bed.

I know the world is a cold wet place, but I just wanna feel the sun.
I know how to get out of the rain.
I dont want to make the mistakes, the others did and spent all my times indoors.
A little rain never hurt nobody,
sometimes when you get naked in the sun, the rain can come along
and you can just accept it. 

Greeting cards

Clever messages, prerecorded down onto cardboard paper
They become mass produced and meaningless.
No more development of feelings, left for the masses.
We will convey how you feel about your father for you.

And whats underneath, the message and the gift card given.
Apathy perhaps, and a lost chance to communicate through expression.
Divide and conquer the masses. We dont even, have to keep them silent
If we give them things to say to one another, they will never say the things they mean.

"You were too busy working, but I guess I forgive you"
Happy birthday.
Could that lead to disaster, a future father and son sitting fishing.
That means less money spent on fast food, and Playboy's and greetting cards.

I can find plenty of cute critters and dirty jokes on the internet
I dont need an isle in my convince store to make chuckle away my true feelings.
I'll write my own messages, thank you.
"Dear Father"

"Let burn greeting cards together while discussing the foils of modern civilization"
" lets get angry and drunk at all the shit mom made you built to live the American dream"
"lets start a club for men and go to war, Fathers and sons; with or goverment, or maybe with England for old times sake".
"Happy Birthday" ...enclosed please find no gift.

Who Should Fetch the Olive Branch?

When Noah’s Ark was riding high, upon the oceans tide.
Corroding wood just scraping by, to hold the pairs inside.
The doves sat in their little cage, their isolated throne.
Together as the chosen pair, the last; but not alone.

And though there came no sign of land.
The arranged pairs sailed on
To follow some odd God's command
Of redemption past atone.

Here predator let prey subside
The rat, the cat, the dog
All hoping for a break in life
A lifting in the fog.

Their ways before, abandoned now
A break-up in the chain,
An assumption of redemption,
Upon termination of the game.

And had beast finally atoned.
For the hunger of his feed?
And had man finally atoned
For his ego and his greed.

Forgiveness from the universe
Motion attained in being still
A final given pairing,
To gradually quail the will.
A solemn shared reflection
With one who shares your view.
A goose, a moose, gazelle, and Eve
You didn’t know you knew.
A pairing of the similar
In a chorus of the same
Where food and eater both looked up
To sing some strange refrain.
And each with only one thing left,
For which the Lord to thank.
With need and desperation gone
Evil slowly lost its rank.
For 40 days and nights
They sailed in utter bliss
And nothing left their broken tongue
No wanting, but for kiss.
Paired up in equilibrium
Inside a wooden throne
Together the forgotten pairs,
Collectively alone.
And though it made no sense at first
Gods will was thus maintained.
As those within the vessel
Of fear and want were drained.
Armed, Winged, and Clawed with good intentions
They craved for little else but
Holy, imperfect, reflections of
Views upon themselves.
And so a period sanguine, gave way in utter cause.
Where with content desires, evil took its pause.
And hoping that they understood, God raised his weary hand
And quailed the raging sea, till it gave rise to land.
But mistaken in omnipotence
A perfect oversight.
God and man failed to realize
The isolated freight.
An accidental incident
Good natured though the same
Replaced all of knowledge learned
And reinstalled the game.
And though an honor was bestowed
Upon the white winged dove
He gave no care or thought of land,
He only cared for love
And separated from his cage
By Noah’s careless hand.
Both Voyager and his maiden
Had lost the final strand.
In jealous isolation
The dove had grown to brew
A mistrust of the God he loved,
That he no longer knew.
For what perverted deviant
Would strip away the world
And leave but one sole totem,
Through which all life was told
And then in slow and gruesome torture
Some utter plan unfold,
To take away the last article
That you have in the world.
And though the dove came back again
With olive branch in hand.
The brief separation,
Ruined Gods perfect plan.
And upon disembarking
A shadowy rumor grew,
And dove and hawk both took the skies
But deep inside they knew.
And to this day, each ruins the world
Each hoping to atone,
Not afraid of God, the universe
But of dieing alone.
And so it comes that martyr
As he takes his perfect stand
Will die upon the cross with smile
But he needs his one grand strand.
And so lack of martyrs
And so lack of change
Can finally be beset up
And honestly explained
For who should fetch the olive branch
From Gods all knowing hands
If it means leaving in a cage,
The only one who understands?
So many think in error,
That man has cowardice unfold
When he stares into the abyss
So small, he is no longer bold.
But learned from the holy dove
Not as holy as we thought
We are not afraid of gaining more
But losing what we sought.
And even worse upon hells throne
Are those who never gained
Perpetually alone
As if by life detained.
So if you ask, why men rage war
Or drill the hills for gold
Remember the olive branch exists
As it did in times of old.
But no one listens to Gods plan
And no one finds the bough
Alone no one has the courage
To embrace something new,
So neither beast, nor man will ever thus
Attain God’s perfect throne.
For like the dove freed from his cage,
Each fears to die alone.

The Man with the Long Reach, Moved in on Monday

He claimed he had long reach
But he seemed incredibly short sighted
While Steve, thought we were being blindsided
And didn’t see that this man was
Just a tad too aggressive,
To be a hippie from California.

Tom and I both saw of course,
But much to Steve’s despise, we didn’t care.
After all, we do not have future aspirations in politics
But if it ever got back, that a future mayor was hanging
In West Chester with random Rob Zombie look alikes
It would be career suicide.

His accomplice was in a weird position
In back-story he told us his brother was slapped
By this man with long reach.
He seemed totally cool with it.
This raised suspicions
But in the end only Steve vocalized this
To what he thought were his ignorant brothers.

He made the cut the throat gesture and smiled wryly
Subconsciously voicing his will to leave.
Me and Tom understood this but were more curious.
Later Steve told us that if someone hit his brother in a fight
He would fuck em up
We agreed, much to Steve’s disappointment
He wanted to lecture us on family values.

Steve started the evening by claiming to his fiancé
That it was my idea to go and drink and West Chester
She knew I had been napping but said nothing.
So in a way Karma came back to bite (or perhaps only bark)
At the conman; who ironically or coincidentally got caught up
In a con he had nothing to do with, but was on the winning side of.

It’s rare to find yourself in con situation
Both unexpectedly, and not as the victim.
But I didn’t mind drinking,
As much as Steve minded having to follow the rest of us
To the house of the man with long reach.

What Steve didn’t understand was that his hesitation fueled us
Tom and I have long figured that if someone was to ruin Steve’s plans
Of future political success, it might as well be his friends.

Upon arriving, we went to a bar to drink Fish bowls
This was a popular marketing technique
For selling watered down sweet and sour mix,
In what looked like carnival aquariums.
Filled with ice, instead of goldfish; perhaps
To symbolized the coldness of the real world.

We met a girl who sold life insurance
And brought her shots she recommended
As she ate crab tenaciously, and gave us business cards.
We all texted her, even though we sitting right next to her
But she played along, while making it perfectly clear
That she would not order drinks with chocolate,
To be courteous to Tom’s allergy.
This was a girl, who sold life,
And I think Tom’s death would disappoint her
I didn’t ask.

Each text we received was like a victory in some game
We were playing against each other.
A game for which the only audience was the girl sending them
It was rigged, like everything.
West Chester, politics, even drinking
Are all following some cosmic dance of manipulation.

This was the universe,
And as our lovely maiden left us
Telling us she would stay in touch
But failing to do so
We procrastinated as to why.

She might have wanted free drinks
Or to sell to us life insurance
Or maybe she though we were trying to con her.
The Father, son, and the holy Mayor
All texting away using Nokia and Sprint
To convey what we could have said out loud.
But in her line of business
I am sure she is familiar with free messaging.
And who says what they are thinking anymore?
That’s so retro.

This was how the universe
Perhaps as a sign of revenge
For all the schemes and scams,
Of mortal men and mayors,
Had predisposed us to run into the man with long reach.

When it comes to manipulation
Perhaps the universe plays dice with itself.
But it can’t do so, nearly as classily as men can.
It created men, who created manipulation
But when the universe tries to play the game
Her children created, it comes of as ingenuine and over the top
Like a grandmother describing something as cool,
To get her grandchildren to eat broccoli.

So as we stumbled to find my car
On the corners on High and Gay street
(God damn these liberals, with their agendas)
We were spotted and recognized.

We were told that these men had been kicked out of a bar
For having to slap people.
Person A, having slapped person B’s brother.
Person A having long reach and person B having a long board.

We played tug of war in our minds,
Trying to decide which to follow, reason or curiosity.
But the philosophical theorems being espoused
Were so revolutionary, that I am still not sure we followed either.

He explained that some people need to be slapped,
This is where he came in, with his long reach.
He was a tall dude!
“When you punch someone”, he said
Stopping inches from my face, with his fist;
“They just start crying.”
He imitated a whaaa face.

“But if you slap someone, you wake them up”
“You don’t alienate them from yourself”
“You keep them close” he finished
A whole philosophy of slapping was being espoused here
By a strange fighter who fought enemies
He wanted to keep up close,
But who he reached from far away.

This was a handicap superhero, a cripple
Blessed or cursed with an ability to slap
From a further distance then he wanted to.
But I guess, we are all sheep and shepherds
And in the end are so confused by the field,
That we take whatever skin we can find.
We are all wolves in sheep’s clothing

There was a promise made of a house
In which we would smoke a fat blunt,
While listening to the man with long reach, play guitar.
We figured if he came all the way form Cali,
He had to be good.

Meanwhile he warned us that while
He didn’t want to have to slap any of us;
But would not hesitate to do so,
If we made, what he referred to as acronyms.
Acronyms like “uhh” or “yeah” or “whoa”
He sounded each of these out on the patio of the house.

He warned us again, but not before warning us
Of the lack of toiletries that would be found in this abode.
If we had to go, we might as well leave
“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave”
I blanked out his warning,

Regretting not having send that via text,
To the life insurance salesman.
I realized however, that I needed her
As much as I needed the bathroom in this guys house.
I could hold it in; I had schemed enough for today.

“I’ve been living here since Monday” He told us
And suddenly the evening was summarized
As I watched him open the door
He became the personification
Of all of his beliefs.
Like a jigsaw puzzle of California and slapping and blunts.
I saw him the way he wished to be seen.

He walked in the house, the four of us followed.
Inside a man got up from his couch, leaving his wife sitting
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU” he yelled
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE”
Steve, Tom, and I hit rewind and walked backwards,
We must have looked like an old vhs tape being reviewed.

There was commotion from inside,
But we were half a block away at this point.
The last we heard from the man with the long reach
Was a faint “Monday”.

I am not sure if this was a cosmic echo,
Or whether he really was insisting he had moved in.
But his friend abandoned by all his brothers
In a twist of fate was perhaps shouting the same words
His brother shouted at him, when he left the bar earlier.
It was the “where are you going”
Only a man stabbed in the back could utter.
But we ignored it as we laughingly found my car.

We talked about brotherhood and friendship,
And decided to sent a text message to Joe
The last piece in our usual quartet, explaining what happened
I decided to add the life insurance saleswomen as a recipient.
“We accidentally broke into someone’s house” the message said.
Joe instantly responded claiming these things were always accidental.

The radio silence became broken as well.
All of a sudden we must have seemed interesting again.
I had breathed life into the women who put warranties on it.
The whole corruptness seemed fitting.
I was numb to it now.

Whatever skin I could get, even hers would suffice,
We all smell of rotting flesh,
And perhaps now that we were no longer hiding it,
She related to us.
Our stench of shenanigans,
Was at least mildly reminiscent of her own.

How absurd is it to put a warranty
On something you don’t control.
You could be shot accidentally
Breaking into someone’s home
Or you could die at 80.

This was her business.
She was no angel
But I was happy to receive her texts anyway.
If I could only get my record clean
I could cast judgment on others.

I wanted to be mayor, as much as Steve
But my city was of a different nature
We are all frail like that.
Maybe death is the only bringer of salvation
In this world on manipulation

I thought about this whilst
Excitingly sending text messages about my self.
But I had been out too long and the scheme was over
My phone died, running out of battery.
I took it as a sign from God.

It was a nod upon my musings, on the nature of death.
I drove home, with my seat reclined
And my arms reaching out far,
Grasping the steering wheel.
We all have long reach,
But we don’t know what we are reaching for.

Mamba and Samba

The mumba music filled the room so infectiously, that it was hard to breath.
Out of the corners You could hear the mumba music come off every individual
And gather slowly into the middle. A universe of illogicalness collapsing on itself.
MUMMMBA MUMMMBA it rocked. AND all danced to its mumba glory.

A goodbye to the warrior who hated Latin Beats, and still MUMBA was all we heard.
A samba player sung Spanish love songs and the for a moment everyone joined in.
SAMBA SAMBA SAMBA. One girl in particular sang samba well.
Samba he proclaimed proudly, like a caveman discovering the monolith.

But as he turned, nightmare and reality blended together and all you heard was MAMBA. 
SAMBA he protested. SAMBA is BETTER. "it is!" they cried still dancing the mumba.
One by one they all betrayed him to the realities that this was a Mamba party.
I told him nothing till he left in anger. When I did he insisted I knew nothing of Spanish music.

Not Quite Suicide Girls

The mayor drove the car
Almost instinctively describing his preferences
For a club he invented
With a friend he no longer spoke too.

They must not look like girls that
Are going to kill themselves
But must not just be attractive
They need a little "daddy-issue" thrown in there.

I wondered why he was lying to us.
If he had told that to his girlfriend, I would understand.
But why us....we knew
He wanted a girl on the edge of a bridge
Like him endlessly falling.
He didn't want a dirt blonde with a huge tattoo on her back.

The status quo he himself doesn't respect.
I mentioned nothing to his face.
Not only because I wanted to hear what he would say.
But because I needed material for a poem
And poetry is better for social criticism anyway.

For the record people who run sex themed establishments.
Are not particularly choosy on their tools
They care only  about money
Stanley Kuprick's notes on the female form elude them.

Totem Pole

The Ric Rac at the campfire

Was too much to handle.

Too many energies were being thrown around there.

They were benevolent energies;

Those of the high council in fact;

But the elders I respected were not there.

The tribe had long been broken

And coming to this quenched fire usually seemed

Like the last visage of a once great culture.

Many tribes gathered here.

Those from Temple and Passyunk.

Some groups lost too many members,

In some great hunt.

Some groups never changed the world.

Failed mayors and movie stars and pimps

Authors and ukelalists, gathered here.

They retold stories,

Fully knowing all the great shamans and storytellers

Were long gone.

The mystics and healers who gathered here

Were apprentices at best,

But there were no more masters to learn from.

A great warrior of the tribe

Had agreed to meet me in a field of rapture

A shadow perhaps of the long forgotten dancing circle

He never showed,

He got caught up in a battle between local devils

And kings from the west.

He later told me the kings exorcised the devils

In some last ditch moment of attack.

He warned me that this battle would continue

Maybe even 6 more battles would be fought.

I had agreed to meet someone in his stead

Whom I had met her at the campfire

A fellow prophet, we were both stargazers,

She was a Gemini masquerading as an Aquarius.

I though of perhaps taking her to this dancing feast

But it seemed we both knew better.

She walked with me, a Cancer, around the campfire.

We seemed to want to be alone.

We talked about the frailty of the tribe,

And the encroaching evil spirits

That threatened the existence of our culture.

She told me of a witch doctor who gave her the stink eye.

She had been disturbed all week.

As we talked, we realized the neither the rhythm of the dancing circle

Nor the familiar warm embrace of the campfire

Were comforting at the moment.

We were tired, and it had been a tough week for hunting.

Furthermore, the lack of game reminded us

That it had been long since either of us took a spiritual journey.

Our lives had become just pointless slaughter.

We reminisced on those great moments of connection

One can have with the All-Existence.

We stopped by a magicians hut,

To obtain some cocoa bean.

He gave it to us, but was depressed

Because his daughter had once again left home.

She had her own journey, but he missed her.

We talked outside his hut for a moment,

And then continued our walk.

She told me of her encounters with the devil

And I about mine with God

And we concluded that this was

Probably the same individual.

She told me she worked with Tarot card

And runes and totem animals,

When she conducted what little magic she knew

I wondered if animals also have totem animals,

Or if she and fellow totem-deists believed

The animals were put here for us.

Can a person be a dog’s totem spirit I asked?

This reminded her of her dog, and she asked me

To take my chariot to pick it up, to which I complied.

The great and happy beast was like an equal

When it got in the car,

Neither of us cast down any judgment on our four legged friend.

In his excitement over acceptance he urinated over my back seat.

We needed a safe trail to walk.

I suggested we stroll in the protected lands of Ritner

Were elders from my tribe lived.

This ground I assured here was protected at all hours,

By whatever guardian spirits we have left.

We came to the white tower

And she told me the problems she faced were she lived

There were too many warriors, too much violence.

She didn’t live that far away though.

I called to the elders as we passed their house.

The great warrior had returned

He came outside and meet us,

Also regarding the canine as an equal.

He told us of the battle he had seen,

And we told him of our conversation.

He turned towards the hut to say goodbye,

When suddenly more heads, appeared out of the hut.

They were one on top of another.

A great totem pole was pouring out of this white tower.

Humans can be totem spirits, even to other humans.

A great naked bear sat on top.

A jaguar lay in the middle

At the door stood the stag.

The bear yelled about his tomatoes

And the totem began a conversation

A talking god with 3 heads, at 3 in the morning

Is this what the aborigines saw on their spirit journeys?

It was otherworldly and familiar.

One of those rare moments when

God manifests in the familiar.

Then just as suddenly as it began

The vision was over.

We bade goodbye to the totem,

And I drove her home.

I pondered about those who look

To the stars for oracles of some dusty future

I realized that we are all stars gathered along

A dark and unwelcoming world.

We all have connections to each other.

Perhaps we can’t see them because

We are too deep in the woods.

Somewhere perhaps far away, our light reaches-

Someone else’s eye, and like us these stargazers

Assign us a meaning.

Perhaps the darkness acts as background

And we are a lost tribe of stars connected to each other,

Showing a constellation none of us can see.