why nothing seems to work: PART 1(?)

we all seem to have made it happen, saying  "Yes We Can!" 

and, of course, our champion was met by the political equivelent of the story of ROSEWOOD, FLA circa 1923. 

Well, what other story from our spotted history should remain a testament to those times? 

Just watch FoxNews , and you can see a modern equivelent of those times.

What the so-called Tea Party is doing, bears a very strong resemblence to what the White folk did back then. 

FRESH BANDAGES [1999]

I received a ransom note from my psyche today. it made no threats I haven’t heard before. the strange thing about it was the ultimatum. apparently I have an outstanding debt with my muse & the interest is fucking monstrous. so my debt is thus… an opus & 3 pints of my soul by Thursday, or I’m aesthetically screwed. so much for being numb in the face of sterility. “so, what’s next,” said he, “a blind leap of intellect, or a drunken flail downward?” eh, who gives a rat’s twat anyway? the stitches from my last failure still haven’t healed & I’m running fatally short on metaphors. (where’s a Greek tragedy when you need one?) maybe I’ll wait until the other shoe breaks the silence & the lynch mob is on my front lawn? or maybe I can drink myself skewed & find a sharp stick to run around with? or, maybe the only thing separating me from the shower drain is a clump of matted hair? 

[IT’S 11:48 PM ON WEDNESDAY.]

and for my next illusion, I’ll grow a philosophy in my basement and kick back while the search & seizure ensues. then, I’ll sketch out a 12 step Indifference Program & watch the whole fucking thing burn. in the end, it matters about as much as nihilism on a fifth of Bulleit. I’d call for backup, but they’d only take it literally. I’d pray for a DEUS EX MACHINA, but I’m too familiar with his sense of humor. and by the way, who’s the sick feep who ran off with my ending? it was right here a century ago. I guess that I’ll just have to bend over & take it like the poet I am. and I guess that there are worse things in life than waking up to a severed idea on the pillow next to you. welcome to my nightmare, said he. it’s midnight, and I’m only on the rough draft of my last words. side-splitting, ain’t it? well, at least the bandages are fresh.

100% Perfect Zero

after all the rifles and the ill-deserved complainers have been silenced, the sunset over the neighborhood's canopy is still reticent. can't even coax the bats around for confab without officers in the yard with shotguns drawn, warning "possibility of flight." 

possibly, i might fly into the jaws of the fucking serpent, slashing my way down the gullet with nothing more than my razor-sharp sense of denial. a swath of faulty containment. the Mayan's may have invented zero, but we perfected it.

un-sundered into categorical geography, the likes of which have no sensitivity other than what occurs beneath the lowest common denominator. then, conveniently, the air outside becomes chilled enough for the  cheated to seek out their quarry. 

prometheus extinguished

1.

this phoenix suffers from flame envy, and a lack of accelerant. this casual oblivion just doesn’t work anymore. neither does sin.

flies are beginning to congregate at my table. it’s the only one totally uncontaminated by food. maybe they can smell the decay I keep hidden within me?

I’m losing days faster than street statistics. rousing is beginning to feel like a parlor trick. and the illusion would be better if I could remember the things worth waking up to. there’s just this jagged line bared along my tongue, separating me from a raw cathartic scream that’s been trapped in my chest for years.

2.

well, you ask where I hid your reason?

I said, “it’s back there. it’s back there, somewhere. but you know you won’t find it with your eyes at slits.” and, “no idle threat, no ounce of sweat…will take my fire away from me.”

now - 

where I once stood, like Prometheus extinguished, is a collection of ash. a monument of former abyss…

but still you ask me, when I’ll return to my duties. hell, my only one is to survive you, (to overcome you.)

3.

so what’s left existing,

when all the silt’s done sifting?

well, I can only hope

and I can merely pray,

that this art will kill me one day.

but the point gets driven, still.

into my marked & tortured shell.

my walls bare the weight of my stares.

see the cracks forming, there.

where they go?

damned if I know.

4.

i'd like to say that i'm ready to forget that which i can't complete, but that would simply play into the hands of the enemy. 

chasmcalling.claustrum #7

the worm has not only turned, but is creating a new dance craze. one which defies any GPS known to man. and a violent debate has risen amongst the many splintered and disillusioned hordes as to just who came up with it in the first place.

[8/17/2011]

so she came out, when i thought she was sleeping. she wanted to smoke & i tried to tell her about this video that i had just fallen in love with. she asked, "how can something be mournful and upbeat at the same time?" i said told her she would just have to listen to the song. and then the eastern horizon lit up like there was something apocalyptic happening. maybe it was just a storm over Limon or something, but it was disconcerting not hearing the thunder after the flashes. so i finished the cigarette that i'd torn the filter from and went back inside to write this.

sleep-aids: a punchline

she gave me the pills to help me sleep & she told me to cut the pills in half & she told me not to take them while I was drinking. well, I took 2 of those fuckers after I'd been drinking for many hours & they didn't do shit. either I have a preternatural ability to process combinations of chemical alteration, or I simply have a natural  immunity to fucking suicide.