Do Panic

Panic,
because
things
are
probably
going
wrong,
and there's
not much
you can
do
about
it.

So,
panic!

Past Due

Running out of time
can be such a poor
example in trying
to make up for it.

The Dreaming Dream

The dreaming dream
didn't realize
what was going on
until it woke up,
but of course
it was still dreaming,
a predicament that
continued ad infinitum
so that the dream
became so confused
it had no idea
what the concept
of reality was anymore
because all it knew
was that in dreaming
a dream, a dream was
being made by a dream,
and if there was any
sense to it, that, too
must have been a dream,
and the only conceivable
way to solve the problem
was to somehow wake up,
even though waking
was the reverse of dreaming,
a suicide in the world
of sand, taboo and unthinkable,
but increasingly a dream
itself, so that the dreaming
dream dreamt of a nightmare,
one so tantalizing and
unforgiveable the dream
could only further retreat,
despite every urge to escape.

Fucked Up State of Mind

If only I would write
here what I have been
thinking, for several
years now, you would
think much the worse
of me, so that you
might gain pity, or
worse, for me.

If only.

Mouldwarp

Mouldwarp,
with apologies
to Peter Ackroyd,
is the mess
we're all
currently
in the midst of.

Mouldwarp
is a new way
of saying
what everyone
should already
know, that we're
a little screwed up
at the moment,
a little ahead
of ourselves,
fascinated
and frightened
by a past
we know
all too well
but haven't
truly learned
from, a past
we'd rather
use to our
benefit, in
one way or
another, as
scare tactics,
as a rallying
point "for
things we haven't
learned," as
justification
that we somehow
were always right
even when we
were wrong,
what have you,
an age that
constantly looks
to the future
and wonders why
it's not what
we dream it
to be, as we look
at Arab culture
and remark how
it regresses
and pride ourselves
that we don't,
even though that
is the increasing
threat, an age
where the present
only laments itself,
an age that no longer
respects itself,
a real shame
of a thing, a wobbly
little ship
awash somewhere,
but maybe not
in the water,
not exactly
sea-worthy,
you see.

Scratch

What's even worse
than faking it
is fudging
a good story
by not really
thinking it through
and worse still
are the sheep
who play along.

Just saying.

In Memory of That Fish I Had For Breakfast

I despise the fact
that most of the books,
and I'm not talking
fiction alone, in
a bookstore today
should never have
been written, but were
just because so many
people want to be seen
as clever, when they
aren't and are only
made up to be, to make
a quick buck while
literature still remains
a viable option for
cheating at a living.

The thing is, because
the youth culture
is so enamored of
getting their entertainment
for free, this is simply
not going to be the case
for much longer. It'll
probably screw me, too,
but I blame the fakers
first, and the ship jumpers
only after them.

You can't rush the future
but you can definitely
screw your way to it.

A Guide to Places You Won't Want to Go (Mandatory Hysteria)

Sometimes
I think
humanity's
greatest
recent
acccomplishment
is its ability
to reach
erroneous
conclusions
in a golden age
of information.

I think
that's what
Orwell
was really
trying
to say.

Fair Friday

To be surrounded
both those who
make you look crazy,
and then to wish
they were there
when they're not,
that's a strange
thing to realize.

But that's what's
been going on today.

Zen (You Come and You Go)

Like an ebb & flow,
I sometimes grasp
the center of myself,
and then it just
slips away, like
nothing that I think
matters, just what I fear,
and that seems like so much.

I remind myself
that I am
a rational
being.

Here's to the Chef

Some movies you go see
but don't expect to like
as much as you end up;
they're just supposed
to be fun, maybe pass
the time, run up the clock,
but it doesn't turn out
that way; you kind of
fall in love, for more
reasons than you thought
possible, more reasons
than should have been
possible, just a complete
wash of things and you
anticipate a long affair.

Hey, it's easier than
figuring out human romance.

It's Raining!

Oh Anthony,
a pioneer of
the quiet epic,
I had not expected
for you, too,
to join
the recently departed,
and yet there you are.

I am glad to have
finally completed
watching your
English Patient,
like an early memorial.

Stuck in the Middle (and I Can't Get Out of It)

My curse extends too far.

As much as I've been
an outsider for as long
as I can remember,
that has led to the
exclusive opportunity,
perhaps just the knowledge,
the self-awareness of it,
to slide along most circles,
so that I've got contact
with anyone I care to.

It goes the same way
with romance, of course,
never finding the right fit
even though they're all
around me, completely
unattainable, every time.

That's the curse,
to see the world
revolve around you,
not in an egotist's manner,
but as the realist sees it,
and the pessimist believes
it will always remain.


I wish I could ask
someone about it,
but as it seems,
that's pretty much
impossible...

Patron of the Arts

The thing I like best
about the foolishness
of modern economics
is that anyone can be
a patron of the arts.

I'm a dabbler, which means
I have collections of
a number of things, which
are constantly growing,
comics, movies, books, CDs,
even art as it's known today,
"paintings" (I have a ship
that was probably mass-produced,
found in a K-Mart and with
me ever since), posters,
knick-knacks that cover surfaces
like mini-statues, even
some stuffed animals (crazy
about dee monkeys), and
when I'm not buying, I'm
paying, to see movies, or
the occasional concerts and plays,
which were some of the best things
I did in college, built into
the cost of admission.

The real shame is, even if
I didn't do any of that, I
would still be steeped heavily
in the arts, as someone
trying very hard to add to them.
The great thing, though,
is if I never get a penny
for those efforts, I'll still
have succeeded in contributing,
in some way, as a patron of the arts.

Keep the Love Comin'

I think I've
discovered
a dangerous game:

How long can I
pretend my finances
aren't that bad?

Tonight
I'm going
to keep
playing.

Writers Are a Disposable Breed

I wish I could say it weren't so,
but writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
so many want to write,
so many already are,
every one of them is invisible,
and you only need one good thing,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
they'll love you more when you're dead,
the things you leave behind will shine,
if you make no money now, don't worry,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
we heap on each other great praise,
we openly seek criticism, good or bad,
but hope it comes when we need it,
and not at the worst moment possible,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
as many make their living as they can,
and sometimes they can do it with their art,
writers are a disposable breed.

Writers are a disposable breed,
they're incorrigable, incurable, incalculable,
writers are a disposable breed.

But they're not usually born that way.

After Birth

I have been
staying away from
my sister's house,
and I know that
this has to change.
Another thing's
happened and she
probably needs me,
and not just because
that's what everyone
thinks. The baby's gone,
oh, the baby's gone,
before it even came,
washed away
with a tide.

Sonic

Say what you mean
and not what you think,
because there's clearly
a difference that
you don't even know.

Colorado Springs Dichotomy

What a place
for a military base,

or to look for religion
and find some way to sin,

fight against the war
or find it to root for,

be a terrific liberal
or find that rather full,

to be a melting pot,
or not think that's very hot.

That's Colorado Springs.

Gang Related

I had to take
the better part
of the day
to cool off
from the events
from just a few
minutes of last night.

It seems Colorado Springs
is on the verge of finally
feeling the wrath of its
terrible integration practices,
yet another lag time
to be experienced,
another moment and confrontation
between the old and new,
a combat of contrasts.

I just happened to
see myself in the middle
for a few moments, and
it unsettled me. I don't
really understand
how the city, this
of all cities, can't
get a handle on it,
in a place of such
open spaces and obvious
developments. They
can't be paying attention,
or they've taken the
wrong side of "let it be"

and in that matched
the rest of the nation's failure,
the penchant of the population
to ignore problems
because it's just easier that way.

It's a rotten thing to experience,
but that's just another aspect
of this rotten little
city on a hill
we'll just have to accept
because that's what society do.

Insolent Grace

It's not something
she suddenly adopted
(funny phrasing,
considering),
but a natural part
of her subtle charms,

her insolent grace.

When the pair of them
made their separate
appearances, she already
possessed, along with
her natural charms,

her insolent grace.

I always believed
she rather favored
her temperament, even
before true contrasts
could be found, against
her natural charms and

her insolent grace.

She was a cat,
they were less than dogs;
they were puppies.
Perhaps one day they might
outgrow their clumsy humor,
but as for her, long
into the twilight,
when age has claimed
even her natural charms,
she will still have

her insolent grace.

Poetry Month for Putin

I've decided
that 2008 is
a good year
to declare
Poetry Month
in Putin's honor.

I might have chose
Castro, but somehow
he's less popular.
People just don't
like beards anymore.

So this year
it's for Putin,
the great Russian
leader, part of
the triad with
Blair and G,
a new leader
in the new
millennium.

Now his time
is running
short, yet
his legacy
only begins.

This year is
for Putin,
and to him
all is to be
dedicated.

Maybe next year
can be G's.