conspiracy theories.

i'd like to think that,
somewhere behind an espresso cafe
in siciliy, around the corner from
a pizzeria, down a cobblestone road
past the cafe freddos in palermo,
in a dark and smoky room
reeking of expatriates &
cuban cigars, the finest
bourbons & irish brews
wafting about the shadowy heads of
surprisingly familiar faces
hiding beneath wrinkles and time,
i would see--
seated around a dimly lit
game of texas hold 'em--
maybe elvis, jfk,
jim morrison, & hey,
he'd be old, but why not
abe lincoln, too?
it would be conspiracy theory
at its finest--
not that, as we all expected
at least once or twice,
they were alive, not dead--
that graceland was a front
& jackie onassis was just acting--
no, not that,
that's conspiracy theory for dummies
& you can buy it at barnes & noble for
half off & get a free coffee--
no, the conspiracy, rather,
is that, after all these years
of us fussing over them &
likely driving them crazy with
our faintings, fan clubs, hate mail,
generally passive-aggressive
idolizing hot-cold bitchings,
after all that,
they don't actually give a fuck about us
& never did.
they got the last laugh,
taking our money &
now their "dead" royalties are paid out
by some swiss bank,
they are living the good life
in tropical shanties &
european villas, popping bubbly
& celebrating anonymity for
the rest of their lives. & lincoln?
he hates politics & probably
watches the Onion nightly.
"union, my ass," he'd say,
& elvis, john, & jimmy would laugh,
tossing in more chips &
toasting to their deaths &
loving every minute.

the internet killed the classics

the internet killed the classics
in a classic hit-and-run,
spilling the guts of ancient &
obtuse conversations all over
the pavement of we don't
give a fuck about your
capital letters & hegel
can choke on a dick.

the birds are angry & we
have better things to do on our
ipads than read metaphysics
going on & on for
thousands of pages on
trees you killed with your
revolutions of industry &
capital & we are not
marxists, lol,

we are
generation why do you
keep bothering us, we can't
hear you with our earbuds on:
hey ya hey ya hey ya
hey why don't you get a job;

in this recession i bet
socrates would be on
unemployment, taking
xanex & anitdepressants,
wasting away on facebook
trying to fight the trolls
off his apology & jon stewart
would roast him on the late night
daily show & he would end up
a blip on a blog buried underneath
celebrity adoptions &
scams to look younger when you
are older & clawing furiously
at the questions you so long buried--
so you think you can dance?
you can't.

#we are royally fucked,
the story would go,
& 3 like it, 2 comment,
the next status something
about happy hour &
let's get fucked up again next weekend.

look at me now look at me now
--i'm a monster.

the apostate's creed

---

---

I believe in god our father and god our mother;
I believe that the gods have long ago cast their children from their home;
I believe in the masturbation of the gods
and the pornography that is human life;
I acknowledge the symbol and the metaphor;
I rest in the cannibal’s chalice;

I believe in the union of the apostates,
In the community of the believers;
I believe in a brazen honesty,
In the courage to be and be less than a shadow;
I believe love is fairy dust and with it we can fly;
I believe in intimacy our savior and beauty our redeemer;
I believe in an art that expresses both;

I believe that art can give our lives’ meaning;
I believe that falsity chains our wings;
I believe that falsity elevates our souls;
I believe that everything has its silenus;

I believe that rapists pattern themselves after the movement of the heavens,
That child abusers perform to a choir of angels;

I believe in the mysticism of words, in the power of language;
I believe in the child who gives language a playpen;
I believe in image our brother,
In thought our sister,
In poetry our children,
In the bohemian nursery rhyme;
I believe in the family formed from acceptance and trust;

I believe in the broken window and the vodka,
In the prostitute and the cigarette,
In pain and laughter, in fear and joy,
In the semen spilt and the eyebrow’s sweat.
I believe in the broken spirit,
In the holy catholic tempest
Of the least of saints;

I believe in the nirvana of a kiss and the ubiquity of the spirit;
I believe that through creation we are gods,
That through destruction we create,
That we are no more than
a creation of colors and
autumn leaves and
the wintry snow;
I believe that poets are magicians
And magicians are accursed;

And I look for the resurrection of the apostate,
And the life of a spirit yet to come.
Amen.

like a phoenix.

---

---

i got a pint of beer
& a brain full of flies
& i sit on a chair
that has seen drunkards & fights
it's a bed for a bum
but it's a goddamn life
& somehow that's right.

& i still got that beer.
so here's to the night.

i got a lit cigarette
& a heart full of holes
& i know every patron
in this bar, every whore
that has stripped &
fucked through this small,
lazy city
—it ain't pretty—
but really, if you're so broke
that it's shitty,
it's a goddamn life
full of meds & ex

& sometimes that's enough
if your soul rides rough.

my drugs are strong
& and i am callous to the touch.

i got a pen and page
& my mouth tastes like dirt
but i can write what i want
& emphasize the hurt
when she took that phone
& fed it to my face
—i can rise above it
& i set a new pace—

it's a goddamn life
& in the mud,
there's a crown.

i'l'l get fucked up again
& shake myself from the ground.

i'll rise like a phoenix
& then likely black out.

open letter to franz kappus

---

---

*****************

Everything human
is leaving
her face."
~ Jim Morrison, Wilderness

*****************

take a minute,
if you can,
from the meds &
the mourning.

they are a dirty
dish towel wet with
rape, your face
feeling heavy &
displaced with
asphyxiation.
it is hard to breathe,
harder still to see.

inhale fiercely against them
like this is the last cigarette
on earth, drag deep
& long at the end of
the filter, riding
that brief buzz from
the dreams of your
youth & the hope
you held for some
tomorrow you have
yet to see.

life is watching you
from a distance,
quiet & drugged,
watching helplessly as
you wander, wondering
what dark night of the soul
it slipped away from you
leaving you alone on
this couch with a bottle
& pills.

remember how it felt once
to be alive & feeling,
to have words to say
& books of dreams,
to be present,
singing, hearing &
touching the now,
knowing love & loss
& that sharing
came easy.

at least you have
one.
last.
spark.

far away though it seems.
keep it close as it burns
while you flicker & wane.

store what's left neatly
in your closet:
thoughts folded,
well creased,
emotions hung
without wrinkles,
expectations scattered
& shoved into the few
remaining places,
waiting, hoping,
that one day
they might once again
see the light of day.

but what's left
belongs to night walkers
& they know the shadows well.
they are intimate with sorrow
as you are intimate with your wounds.

nursed daily,
they grow
large
monstrous
gangrene of soul
feeding on your already
aging flesh.

this is no
aspiration
no pathway to
sunshine
glory
choirs of angels
this is no
lithium
no technique or
letter of advice
to our children.

there is no going into yourself
with you coming out alive.
there is nothing but
cackles and torn wings,
howls in the corners of
your mind that only
more pain can dampen.

only more pain can consume
what is left—
a shell of some former self
blabbing hysterically to
the medics that it is his
only way out.
"I must write, I must!
It is all I have left!"

and when he is gone,
thrown in some padded room
at the end of a dark, sterile hallway
guarded by more meds &
more lunatics overdosed on life,

you wring your hands
like a madman,
knowing you are next.

ourselves are dangerous &
deep, cavernous mouths
feasting on our once active minds
do not go within,
do not find your muse.

run away while you can

run as long as your legs have strength to go

all we have are minutes
& they grow bleaker by the day.