untitled

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I took the road less traveled
and found the bones of kings
trending on Twitter.

Who is there is not a flash mob
armed with glitter bombs.
This is no trick or treat.

It is a brutal wipeout aimed at your skull,
a seven nation army of despots
and I walk the line.

Ring of fire?
Bitch, please.
It is no song—
it is a plank to the heavens
in a dream within
a late night fever.

I saw the seraphim doing
coke off toilets and
playing "Niggas in Paris"
on their harps.

This is life after death
when death looks like a Kardashian.
You will be spread like
margarine until you melt
and you are not even butter.

I took the road more traveled
and it led me to God.
He sat high on a cloud
drinking 40's with Kanye
and auto-tuning a choir of angels.
You know God goes gorillas.
He started that shit
and Kanye is just in on the joke.

And really,
fuck you, Martin.
The Holocaust was real and
even TMZ knows Hitler did it for the ratings.

If the revolution was televised
the commercials would be epic.

I counted to ten then I punched the wall.
I counted to twenty and took another shot.
I reached inside my liver and found
the Archimedean point from which I could
move the whole universe.

It lay in agony between the vodka and
life's hidden meaning.
It said, "Snap, crackle, pop, bitch!"
and bitch-slapped me in the face.

I moved the universe one inch
to bring me one step closer to you.
I found the still point of the turning world
and hung myself by its branches.

I am a pinata.
Swing low, sweet chariot.
Swing away.

snowflakes & chemicals

---

One more month
until the moon implodes.

One more month
until it all gives out.

Maybe those demons
will finally draw the curtains
over this space
in between my ribs.

Or maybe there will be a cure,
some angel that was hiding
on a snowflake in a chemist's lab,
just waiting all these years
to be found.

Or just silence
for one day,
that would be nice.

Do you feel that beat?

One, two
One, two
One
One

...

...

Syncopated then
shuttered
like i drew the blinds
one dark night
and I fell asleep so fast
it made me wake up and cry.

It was so easy.
So damn easy.

Sleep.

Nectar.

google the end.

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i googled it——
"why can't I be happy"——
& found it
it's not my fault,
it's the chemicals,
the synapses
misfiring, the switchboard
blowing up like a bieber meme on twitter,
it's my parents, my habits,
if i could just be reborn
from another vagina, have another
brain, or jog
ten minutes a day,
drink more bottled water,
i could crush my zoloft
into lines that sylvia plath could snort.
i could see the
sun smiling &
trees growing in
fast forward like
a beautiful acid trip;
i could throw away those high school hoodies
& start wearing cardigan sweaters.
i could live the good life of
walmart stickers &, like a mazda 3,
zoom zoom forever
into a perpetual sunrise...

but then i realized,
i hate cardigan sweaters
and walmart can suck a dick——
sorry, that's the chemicals——
again the goddamn chemicals
standing between the american dream &
i, the self that can't shake the blues
like robert johnson couldn't shake the cyanide.

i think i sold my soul to
the devil when i was a child
& now the devil makes three in my chemicals.

zoloft is the second coming of christ,
the first coming was just a premature money shot
of god's love all over earth's face,
the second being a kick ass apocalypse
filmed by mel gibson & going straight to DVD——

& maybe i am just waiting to fall in love during
that zombie apocalypse,
happiness being the mingling
of blood & flesh like
a new communion of heaven & earth.

the swagger's creed.

i believe in the infinite possibilities.

i believe in the finite breath—

rolled and lit like a joint until
the breath is a cough and the buddha is high.

i believe all the prophets are high,
& priests are sometimes godless;

i believe in the beauty of the human body,
i affirm our human skin—

skin like divine gold,
wrought of blood & sweat &
gods too drunk to stumble home.

i believe in lust—
lust is a meth baby shrieking in the wilderness,
love and hate its parents too fucked up to give a shit;

i believe emotion has its place
but reason reigns supreme.

i believe in swag.

swag this, swag that.
we need more swag, bitches.
more riches,
less money;
more acting,
less talking.

i believe in a jesus who swags—

swags right out of heaven &
beat-boxes his way to hell.

i believe the universe is a rap battle
& whoever has the biggest dick wins.

i believe the gods have dicks
& like to slap us in our faces:
cock slaps here, cock slaps there—
gods have cocks for all their children.

i believe in the power of language
& the music that is time.

time is the essence of the motherfucker
& motherfuckers have the biggest balls.

time has the balls to kill us all
& we can't say shit.
"we all die someday," we say,
because that's time...motherfucker.

time has swag
but death has more.

death grabs its crotch
& shanks us in the face.

death is a pussy that shanks our face until it is blue.

pussy-shanked by death
is the human condition.

to be human is not to think or feel.
to be human is to suffocate under death's vagina
until we can no longer feel our faces.
(mother earth is the real casey anthony,
will mother earth please stand up?)

you will not live forever, Methuselah.
death's vagina is coming for you
& you will lose all your swag.

& i believe in the hope of another life,
i believe in the kingdom to come.
i believe in the emancipation of us
from all this bullshit
& into the heavens above.

(that's a metaphor.)

i believe in the infinite swag
burning low inside the human heart.
someday we will find it
& rise up on the wings of eagles
& cock slap the gods' faces in return.

(that's a fact.)

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

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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.