GARGOYLES (3.29.2015)

granted the darkness in which to be taken. always the filigreed shadows. you want a wretched gag, then wait until sunrise. 

the manifest will be met.

gargoyles are circling, up there with the drones. the sky is fucking crowded these days. despite our despiting. and, you can pretend your worries are up there as well, hiding among the clouds. don't look up. lest your eyes be filled with lenses of lesser gods. shave your beards in supplication, if you please.

rip my lip and tell me it's cancer. mistake me for uncaring, and call it truth. out of the frying pan and into the toilet. they author such, don't they? 

integrity is a receipt with no purchase.

some get taught to augur the future with their ear to the soil, while others are still digging with sticks. either way, you're bound to puncture the water-table. create a fucking geyser in your life. 

in all seriousness (3.28.2015)

imagine the last time someone, in all seriousness, began a conversation with you using the words "Given the stakes...", and then lie to me. 
imagine the last time someone, in all seriousness, began a conversation with you using only positive words, and not complaints, and then lie to me.
imagine, in all seriousness, the reverse of that scenario, and then lie to me.
let's just keep on lying to eachother, because to do otherwise...
let's just keep on lying to eachother, because it's easier with lies...
I imagine, that's it's not so hard to imagine such a place, 
when the world in which you wake, in all seriousness, 
wears your own face.
let's just keep on lying to eachother, because to do otherwise...
let's just keep on lying to eachother, because it's easier with lies...

sirens

sitting around a campfire comprised of dead stray dogs and empty Go-gurt tubes, attempting to explain the fucking dangers of not letting your parents not let you brush your teeth. or, was it the dangers of not letting your parents let you become a fucking degenerate hoodrat before the age of 10? difficult to remember which is which, when all sound is drowned out every fucking night by sirens. best to make it a game, as in: Can you guess which city funded vehicle does that siren belong to? Bonus points if you can tell if the siren belongs to a State vehicle!

grave abacus [written 3.26.2015]

count the claw marks on the inside of your coffin lid before you finish digging your way out, and record that number for future reference. because, one day, you will have a weapon in which this ammunition will fit. one day, your arsenal will coalesce, and your aim will be sharp as a fucking sniper.

scratches up the arms, like claw marks, from stress unwanted. initial good deed thwarted and, ultimately, sacrificed to the deep dark chasm of social cynicism. 

yet, someone, somewhere, is taking aim...

and not pulling the fucking trigger.

Now, 

think about all of the triggers not being pulled, and all of the bombs not detonated.

think about the children at home with the words "mommy" or "daddy" hanging upon their lips, like sweet milky dreams. 

think about us, as if we were all a big fucking family. all together; all capable of the same loss. 

really, just think about it.

I'm an asshole, and I do.

inferno minds [3.17.2015 & 3.21.2015]

call me in the grave, or don't call me at all. make a fist, and count your knuckles. be sudden, or be nothing at all. sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my skull shattering. you know what they say, there's always a PH balance imbalanced somewhere in the world. but, the archeologists, after decades of research, will inevitably tell you that it's not here.
drive that nail! drive it deep! 
the paint not only peels, but spontaneously combusts, and the crazy melts away. poison in the water and poison in the air and MickeyD's in between. fertile ground for infertile minds. inferno minds? perhaps, if we continue to lace our lives with mediocrity. a fast-paced oblivion. "hazy circles round the eyes."
take a knee, it's been a big day. now breathe deep through those gills and chase that horror all the way downtown. (your horror. salsa horror.)
wasted national talk and inverse megaphones. long walks off short resumes, and that sulfuric waft. the dogs outnumber the squirrels and it's "all so fucking hysterical", and then someone, doesn't matter who, goes the fuck to bed. leaving the rest of us with the designation of "cogs". jittery clangy cogs and scattered mania; a slave to that entirely expected asshole who says, "If I gave you the secrets, then they would kill me."
maybe it's fucking time to die for those secrets? time to take that ultimate stand, even though it means standing in quicksand?
or, maybe that cobweb of doubt draped across your cheek, just when your philosophy was reaching its zenith, and you twitched?

pruned [written 3.13.2015, Friday!]

society is deflating like a beach ball on a coral reef. meanwhile just a few yards inland, the same distance it takes a vacationing douchebag to chase down the waiter, with the sole purpose of the physical exertion being to inform him exactly how they fucked up their margarita ("No salt!"), we are climbing up vines like a loquacious cadre of capuchin monkeys in order to avoid the vast devastation of the oncoming tide.  unfortunately, we all stopped short of the waterline so we could pull the iPhones out of our monkey asses & check our fucking facebooks. who knows, maybe Kevin Costner will "like" our final status updates?  

EXUENT II

You know I once had a dream that never quite lived up to my waking life, and I throttled to death all of the connections to all of the people around me and became a demonic version of my own self. tossed it all away. I grew bat-ears upon my temples and middle-fingers along my jaw. 

bleed shrewd configuration [3.12.2015]

it's not my knuckles, but my eyes which bleed. shrewd configuration and schism breakfast. the hive leaves, but the throat is the weapon. orders are the sound of the thoroughfare. the vacuum which nature abhors, and the field of someone else's dream.
sugar, take flight. be somewhere else immediately, lest you get swallowed. splayed across some altar like so much religious debris. please make your escape, you earthbound angel. leave all us fools in your wake before we trap you within the cage of our propensity to raze the world around you.
it hasn't happened yet, has it? that time of configuration? when we configure history with equality? 

asunder [written 3/4/2015]

time to burn the plague away with angry invectives, and remember that you are capable of far worse. don't ever forget you can play that certain groove of destruction, as I forget sometimes. I sing an octave too high, and my voice cracks. but you're better than that, aren't you? you can throw the enemies from the walls! fucking muster the troops! of late, my vim has waned and my vigor is lacking, therefore I rely upon you. please take it to them in visceral style, and leave none able to give lip in petulant response. there is a specific configuration of armament in which can be implemented, despite current milquetoast ideologies. it's been colloquially saddled with the monicker of a "voice". your's, in point of fact. raise such into decibel levels rivaling the motherfucking nuclear deterrent! sing those goddamn bombs right out of the atmosphere! and sing it well, because you won't get another chance! the counter is counting down. your choice regarding the direction. we go back, or we go forward, or we just flail the fuck around in some dizzy maelstrom of nothing ever happenning ever. smart guys call it absolute zero, and we approach that shit closer & closer everyday. make it cease, please, create a situation where the need for a change is not only necessary, but required. I'm losing ability, and I am counting upon yours, you fucking lambs.

grit thy teeth [3.1.2015]

charred thoughts leave scorched earth behind you, specify the plan of attack. draw it out, in lines easily understood, lest there be nothing but ashes remaining. this is your homestead, afterall. make those fucking flameless choices, you fuck. grit thy teeth and plant thy seeds of peace. make them matter. water them with your tears. not the usual, but the tears borne of joy. fucking attack this fire with your joyous tears!

they are, after all, our limitless ammunition.

The Zen Art Of The Shrug [3.1.2015]

try not to take it too personal when you feel like the only one who knows what the fuck is going on, and it seems nobody else does. chances are, those close to you are dealing with their own shit, and thus, arriving at the very same conclusion as yourself. 

try not to feel persecuted when nothing seems to go your way, yet, when you expect back-up from those close to you, you receive none. chances are, they are awaiting the very same back-up as you.