Category Archives: Poetry

2 Poems for the Apocalypse

I did a reading from the InDigest Magazine Apocalypse Bunker, special for today. You all probably don’t have Internet by now; blame the alien mayan death star only visible from the opposite side of the planet from which you currently sit. Anywhoozle, here are 2 poems!!

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Omega

Your reckoning is begun.

A process you set in motion,
Your hubris the catalyst,
Your disingenuous and ill-conceived notion of your selves
Shattered into innumerable, infinitesimal shards.
Irreparable,
Your fabricated world will dissolve from the inside out.

I,

Am your Omega.

I alone will be your undoing,

For I am methodical and relentless.

In the wake of your extirpation,
There will be nothing left —
Nothing of your simulated selves will remain to cling to,
Nothing,
Of the simulated universe in which you both blithely and ignorantly live.

When I am done,
You will only be who you really are,
Stripped of your pretensions and lies,
No longer in awe of your make-believe omnipotence,
Existing hence in the world where those you’ve oppressed live,
Where those you’ve shamed and those you’ve spurned live.

It is there you will remain,

But you will be broken.

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“We” (a poetic attempt)

The wind whispers cyanide in my ear.
She is beautiful.
We’d forgotten what it meant to be alive.

They said the ground only quivered with impending catastrophe.
But we’d forgotten everything.

Insects fled the dirt, tried even to flee their hardened carapaces.
Birds dove from the sky.
Animals that could not swim sought out the rivers and lakes.
Men and women held their children tightly.

For what was coming, there would be no shelter.

The ground only quivered once more.

That is the story we were told,
Because we still don’t remember.

None now living remember Before.
There is only Now.
Only Today.
None living hope for a better Later.

We have forgotten the words Brighter and Tomorrow.

We are.
Simply and utterly.

Now the ground is silent.
Still.
Dead.

We are.

Simply.

Utterly.

Now.

We.

. . .

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Sometimes the Clock Ticks: An insomniac’s Tale

(Yes, it’s a completely rough and likely terrible first draft of probably nothing at all, BUT, this site is about the process. And I wrote this before falling asleep.)

Sometimes the Clock Ticks: An insomniac’s Tale (PDF)

Sometimes the clock ticks — it’s midnight and I blink, tock, once again, with the ticking and the tocking, and it’s the wee hours of the Ay-Em and, lookiehere, I’m still awake. Running from sleep that won’t have me anyway. A penance of sorts. Things seem irreconcilable during the lighted hours, but when the sun has retreated for what seems like possibly forever, does the mind’s machinations begin to make sense. They say it’s the witching hour but which witch would have me this hour?

Brain’s gone numb from too many pharmaceuticals so I can be just how they want me to be, just how they like me, complacent. Compliant. I’m more agreeable on the pills so I take more and I love them because they make me feel warm and fuzzy like I’m the Teddy bear. Who’s going to snuggle me?

Rebuff, rebuke the skeptics who claim conspiracy theories are strictly for conspirers, especially conspirers of the purely theoretical — the worst kind. Fall in line, everyone, fall in line. Just fall.  We’re selling a slow and painful death for the low price of everything you’ve got, including your Soul. Buy and sell; this is a free market, son! This is America. Wake up and smell the fucking free trade coffee, man! Your liberties are taxed here, but you don’t know it.  Plus it’s easier to believe they aren’t.

Big Brother isn’t even Big Brother because then, whose fucking watching him? You think they’d let some guy in a top hat pointing his finger all willy-nilly at people to fight a war they—whoever the fuck they are—don’t even believe in?  They, who don’t believe in a human purpose other than unchecked economic growth? Sounds almost like “they” are “we.” Unchecked growth, like it’s a good fucking idea but going out of style, falling into disfavor, and the clock is still ticking. Tick. Tock.

The thing about stuff is that it runs out. Some things you can make more of. Fantastic. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, a point that is only slightly left of the real point. The real point is actual real points, plural, because there are a lot of them and another word I’d use here is problem, preceded by a duo of colorful words, big and fucking. Like greenhouse gasses and the rapage — yes, rape-age, let me break it down — the rapage of fossil fuel supplies because it’s just so fucking cheap to do it. Cheap is good, but Free is better.  Though it’s important to remember that cheap is at its best when it’s almost free.

Don’t scribble your name out on the paper, you drew your Capital U, or S, or A, or your G, your O, or your D crooked, but you say, who really fucking cares? The giant fucking tree that was cut down to make paper for dipshits to doodle on probably fucking cares, a lot. And I know I’m typing fuck a lot by this this point, but this point is fucking serious — people listen to cuss words. Science has proven this.

And all of this doesn’t even TOUCH on the “War on Drugs,” aka the “War on People.” Where should I begin?

The Binary of ‘In’ and ‘Out’

Is it strange that, shall we say, when the weather turns inclement,
we retreat “inside” to get “out of” it?
There’s a greater meaning here, I’m sure of it.
We come in to get out of the cold. We come in—and thus—out of the blizzard, et cetera.

Though when we must venture forth, we go out; we go into “it.”
And we are in “it,” even though we are now out.
Out, and now In “it.” Simultaneously.

Like, there is a strange and wonderful ubiquity and sameness,
in the interplay of these binary terms,
of these Ones and Zeros,
of in and out.

Which probably, then, means everything and nothing all at once.
But, irrespectively, “it” means something concrete.
Though what “it” is, exactly, remains, it would seem, regrettably intangible.

And so Meaning is only fixed, insomuch as the continuum on which it lies,
it is, in reality, a Möbius Strip,
rather than a linear time-line that terminates at two ends.
rather than |—–*———-|
You are here.

Or so it seems.

Short Untitled ‘Poem’

It’s just a feeling,
that you have all the time in the world.
You don’t.
Never did.
It’s only just a feeling.

When the universe bats an eye,
you’re already forgotten.
Come and gone;
barely even a memory of,
a figment of an imagination.

You’re here;
you stay a spell;
and then you disappear.

No use crying about it.
There’s no time.
“All the time in the world,”
is just nonsense.
It’s bullshit.

It only something people say,
to reconcile the fact that:
a hill of beans,
doesn’t even really amount to,
a hill of beans.

And so you can take that,
for whatever it’s worth.
Or not.
It’s your time that you don’t have.
Should this be what you spend it on?

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