Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Care to Listen?

The shrinking world in its silicon memory makes me forget. I am focused on liquid crystals waiting for the next headline, the clever argument or the next hello from a distant friend. How much imagination is lost when I become addicted to the update? The space around me is open but the painting within a photo is more important than the work of art itself. I must prove I was there or nobody will ever believe me. Is it to make the others jealous of what I have done or do I only want to be admired for my resourcefulness? I hate to lose time and progress but I waste so much rehashing quotes and passing on ideas that are not my own. I look around and I am not alone. Perfect faces are posted in an eternity of mirrors. It’s not real because the photo game has infinite lives. You can choose and erase the memory of an image humiliated. The greatness of life is remembered once it has passed, not fabricated from everyone’s perception of whom you should be and where you should go. So why do I feel so empty every time I go back to search for the words of a friend? It’s because I’m not really listening anymore. It’s because I’ve forgotten how to care.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

University of Refuse

There were parties east and north
but you wore the wrong color,
brought the wrong pet,
sang the wrong song.

You stand solidified by words and numbers.
So much function and so little spirit.
No praise from your peers
or care from your faulty followers.

No Matter.
You will never go hungry,
rooms full but still force fed.
Lay off the apathetic freeloaders.

You’d need a laxative of disease
to clean your hallways
as they shove another mouthful
through your doors.

Someday you will collapse,
when the final book is placed.
The day the balancing act is over.
The day history is lost.

Monday, September 9, 2013

It's a Job

Waking the crazy day.
Less inviting when I'm pushed
But physically I carry it with ease,
with rhythm.
Con gusto I run, I jump and lift.
It's an adventure that no one understands.
I see the result,
my work with purpose.
I claim it as my own,
I flaunt it.
And yet others are complacent
with static transfers as progression
is as slow as their next beer,
is as frequent as their last date.
I am not common with my
We share the same occupation, but
seldom equal sentiments.
I slave to help while they slave
for pay.
Well, that's not entirely real.
Even I have to eat.

(at the Bores Head) 8/30/2013 1:12 pm

Looking Down on Shapes

We are shapes on the surface. What we build is light in the burden of the Earth, but what we waste is harmful to all who and that live in the path of progress. No matter. The rock lives on while we shed our faces away from record-away from existence. We preserve less than we destroy. Never ending entropy. Are we a gift, a miracle to the universe, a way for it to know itself? No, not a gift. Gifts must be given. Not a miracle. Miracles must be performed. We are a lucky occurrence. Lucky for our own sakes, but no one else's'. Through lightning and mud we came into this life. What will be our end?
We've left our mark from space, for borders, for copper, for liquid, for tar. What's worse, the mark we leave or our intentions?
I spy 3 temples with my eye. A coventry health plan. Altius they stand and yet it's just more rock to me

(on the train to SLC) 8/16/2013

Living With Death

People look at death as a reminder to get their shit done before they reach 60, because no one remembers the guy who is still working at the cubical on an hourly wage, or the woman who bore no children and the singles who didn't give enough fucks to keep their relationships together. Even Mike, the guitar playing crazy homeless man from Eldorado is remembered more than any of the unmotivated and lonely people because he entertained. Mike had stories to tell if you took the time to drop your groceries for a few minutes, or tossed him the sticky few pennies you didn't want to keep from the 98 Cents you got back from the 20 dollars you spent buying a gallon of milk, 2 loaves of bread, a box of Lucky Charms, a dozen eggs, 5 bananas, a People magazine and that movie you saw once and thought was good enough to buy from the 5 dollar bin. Maybe that last 5 dollars would have been better spent on Mike's fund to buy new guitar strings, but not enough booze could make him sound any better. I often wondered, "If he was sober enough could he have been the next Bob Dylan?" I also wondered if he could play the guitar at all. It was more of a rhythmic drumming. As far as I could tell he wasn't tribal. He didn't dress it anyway. Not with that felt cowboy hat, or the long brown duster he wore. His toes poked out of his boots but there was a hint of Aligator skin still shedding its last layer. What other bum ever owned aligator skinned boots anyway? I do not know, but I did find his sleeping tree by the rail road tracks. That's where Mike died. The weather worn cardboard and the bug infested sleeping bag were not enough to keep him from the elements of Eldorado's crunching frost in the early mornings. He didn't know he died though. Nobody ever does.

(on the train to SLC) 8/8/2013  8:29 am