Reign Doubt

Reign over me.

Terrified of being irrelevant,

the artist sits back in his chair

and grunts. Too far, too far,

he moans, frustrated that

the gas in his car will only

take him to the edge of town,

when he oh so badly wants

to go to the moon.

Terrified of becoming irrelevant,

the artist picks up where others

leave off, builds and then dies.

But let us all be clear, the artist

yearns to not only go to the moon,

but to take Planet Earth with him

in his pocket, because

relevancy is everything.

The fire in his soul screams otherwise.

The artist dies before he dies and

then, only then, reaches immortality. 

Who can you trust

If you can't trust anyone?
You can't trust you with me,
or them and us, you can't trust the
words by the books on your shelf,
the poetry by its prodigal fire,
the sorrow by its whitewalled gloom.

Because the whole universe
has gone into question,
don't you see?
Your whole universe slips
out of your fingers, hollering
and melting to the floor.

One falls into the quick
assumption that one can not
both live and understand life.

This is not entirely true.

Professor tells you one day
not to take anything to heart,
that it's all theory and no
action, that higher learning
is all theory and no action,
will that be your life too?

All theory, no action.
The shoes on your feet
don't have enough traction
to be combating uphill,
when all your principles

were built on theories.
There's a lesson here--
trust no one.

Trust not you, not your professor,
not your family and certainly not friends.
You should know I can't trust me,
I've been sick perpetually
over the naiveity of living
small, when my heart is so large,
your heart's large too.

You just gotta open it up
and let it suck the doubt away,
and, Jesus, even I can't seem to do it,
and when the advice-giver can't
take his own words to heart,

how can you ever trust what he says?

The Gnostic Return of Planet Earth.

The Earth is an orange,

waiting to be peeled.

Its juices sucked by ancient

Pagan Kings, The Earth will

revive for you, if you

will only let it.

Do not be wary of The Earth.

It can do wonders for you,

and you can do wonders with it,

where through the citrus groves

there is an ocean, sun-kissed and lingering

inside of each drop of juice.

Cherish The Earth.

There is no other.

Take this bread and count on it,

one two

three oranges in the garden

citrus and succulent.

The barflies will then shout from their stools

with glasses raised in hand:

“To The Earth,

To The Earth,

You’re basically my lover.”

And you can tell them they’re right.

“Believe in it,” says the Rascal King,

he’s behind the bar and pulling

the strings.

With dirt in your cuticles, revel

In The Earth, it is home.

Repeat it to yourself.

On Running Away

We’re being naïve, at least, that’s how they’ll see it. And

they’re right, babe, they’re totally right.

We’re stepping onto a plane vastly

undiscovered, a plane so adventurous and

irresponsible. The time to be naïve is now.

But you know what I say?

I say so what.

I say the world has enough

adults, that the only

way to be not only

an adult but also human is to

live outside of it,

I say the world needs more

love.

I say I need more love.

I say you need more love.

I say love is green and watery,

grass in the riverbed.

The riverbed is time and cities

and the SATs and postmarked

decisions, but the riverbed

is also you, also me,

also the knowledge of self.

We must understand our naivety.

We must see it as a denial.

A denial of societal “truths” in

the name of individual truth,

that the truth is not in yesterday.

But in today. By bringing back

the mud from the firsthand

wonders of danger,

whether it’s the wail of police

sirens or the edge of a knife,

the cold sweat of a desperate

kid with no way out,

we will not only live

in complete understanding,

We will be the grass in the riverbed.

And then, only then, will we have

the power and wisdom

to change the world.

Let us be so naïve.

Because in little kids

there are new ideas,

because in little kids

there is honesty,

simplicity, imagination.

Because in little kids

there is love.

Let us love, and be loved.

The world has enough adults.

Kerouac told me to be a dumbsaint of the mind.

If I own anything, if I consume anything, it’s the physical manifestations of creative energy that is mankind’s life-source, think fountains of blue green color, equivalent only to the light that shines on the oceans in times of paradisial sincerity, equivalent only to the green thumbed red eyed golden hearted of today’s disenfranchised youth, equivalent only to the worn out shoes of freedom caught in the tires of progress, equivalent only to the children of the Nile when its Egyptian shores were Hebrew, equivalent only to the sweat on your brow as you stick your thumb up in the air for a ride on the interstate, equivalent only to the forests green forests of the everlasting, equivalent only to the vacant city courthouses at two in the morning echoes of police cruisers off the bricks, equivalent only to the voice of Robert Plant when Led Zeppelin released Stairway to Heaven, equivalent only and only to I and I, to God, to Allah, to YHWY, equivalent to the symmetry of asymmetry, to the perfection of imperfection, equivalent only to the infant bright eyed staring at the ceiling, equivalent only to palm trees in summer monsoons, equivalent to the grace and power of giving the finger to the ones that live vicariously through you, stop it live for yourself, stop reading this and live, stop writing this testament and live, the world is running a marathon and you’re out of breathe, Jesus, Jesus, take me home, Mama, I’m comin’ home, baby, I gotta leave ya, swing low sweet chariot, sweet is the flavor of broken chains but the horror of living naked is actually the laughter of beating it down with your feet as you dance around the fires of the romantic fantasy of living being self-sufficient, trusting the God within your soul, let your soul burst the confines of the boxes we contain them in, and make sure to write home to your dog.

He’s gonna miss you.

The Word

Out of the desert brush springs forth

The Word, who writhes in primordial funk.

Its juice squirts into Our eye,

and as we suffer and squint there

is Creation.

Against the current,

resistance brews.

This Creation, this suffering, oozes down the

chains, and by the time it reaches

Our calloused hands it loses its

substance.  

We must drink our suffering

straight from the gourd, we must not

allow it to be watered down along

the chain, the chain that connects

and enslaves us all.

Through suffering, we are Creation.

Through Creation, we are free.

With freedom is immortality.

Bukowski once said that

it’s worth freezing on a park bench

over.

It’s worth the humiliation,

the guilt, and when it’s finished sinking

into the warm deep that is Our collective heart,

we’ll be feasting with the Gods in

Valhalla, we’ll be alive long after

the world forgets

who tried to own Us. 

Meditations March 5 2012

I.

Debtor’s Prison, give me your worst.

What if I can’t take the sounds

of pigs when they’re corralled for

slaughter—or what if

I’m a pig and those sounds are

my own? What if it feels

just like it should, and what if I don’t

want this middle-class life?

Prolegoise, let’s give it a name—

Blue collar roots in a white collar game,

the slaughterhouse not a slaughter-

house but pre-planned cul de sacs

and my skin is crawling. My skin is crawl-ing.

I don’t want blue collar or white collar

but no collar, flesh collar,

free, damn you,

just free.

II.

I was born a thousand years ago.

III.

We all knew they were lying when

told us not to draw on the walls

with blue crayon,

and so over time being repeatedly

taught to stay in the lines we

forgot that we don’t have to.

At least sometimes.

Everything in moderation,

including rules.

IV.

There is freedom, true freedom, when

cause and effect have no effect

and have no cause.

V.

Can the wisest wiseman in
the village be so foolish?

Turn the television channel off,

Turn the Godchannel on.