Theory of Degeneration.

For as long as I can remember, I have collected little bits and pieces of people. Not eyeballs and arms, or blood and guts, but their lives, their actions, moments and movements…the way they walk or speak. I watch and listen, collecting fragments and still-frames of lives of which I know nothing. I keep these parts, and then when I am ready I attribute my own perceptions to their actions; I make up stories. I am a thief. And from what I collect, I assemble.

The way a woman, carrying her child on her hip, hesitates while crossing the street. Wrapping her hand protectively around her child’s head, she holds her breath and second guesses the crisp-suited businessman will run the red light because he is distracted talking to his mistress, and he has only five minutes to make plans with her before he meets his wife for lunch. The woman knows this because her husband left her last year for his secretary. He told her over lunch.

The way coffee shop patrons cast questioning glances at the man sitting alone at the back of the room. His eyes are downcast, and he is spinning an empty cup. He rarely moves, and never speaks. Across from him sits an empty chair, a full cup of coffee, and an uneaten pastry. Patrons avoid him, falsely assuming he is homeless or insane, because of his sour body odor and dirty clothes. It is true; he hasn’t changed them in six days, the six days since his wife died, the six days he has returned to the table at the coffee shop where they met. The same table they called “ours” twice a week.

The way a classroom full of students, half paying attention, all consider the quiet kid in the back to be a dolt. They see a girl who rarely looks up and never raises her hand. The kid isn’t ignorant or lazy. On the contrary, she has already correctly answered the question in her head. She simply can’t get past the fear that, once called upon, she will fumble through her speech and answer incorrectly, drawing upon herself the jeers of her classmates. She so fears the embarrassment of being wrong that she sacrifices achievement. She will later beat herself up because she didn’t raise her hand, taking over from where the others have left off.



No Longer Lost.

I don’t have to look for you anymore.
Not in faces that resemble yours
Round and rugged, shadow of a beard
That always seems present, but never more
Than a scruff. Is it you?
I never asked, but wonder.
This time I could not help myself.
Are you?

He told me you drowned yourself,
And that in the end they had made you a beggar
Boxed in pine, without proper notice.
It had been 20 years, but still I looked for you
Because you were kind when I was afraid.
But, I think I don’t need you anymore.



Right now, that is all prosthetic.

A lack of sleep and unending thoughts will either drive me to excuse myself from my obligations or thrust me headlong into achievement. Everything around me spins on, and I remain pushing my way through to the very end.

And that is where I remain, soldered to the front end of a rogue missile.




p.s. that is what makes it rock.

Crossing-over

I am certain that when I die I will become dirt. It would be nice to consider that upon my death golden open arms will greet me, enfolding me into them like a lost child finally returned home, but that’s not how I think. Never has been. It is completely incomprehensible for me to consider that once my life is over I will hang out watching the goings on down at earth while white silk draped, halo wearing, beings circle my head before diving down to intervene in someone or another’s life.

But, I can see the appeal.

And I am relatively certain I won’t burn in eternal damnation, either. Although that option is better suited to my personality and preferential if in fact my theory fails.

What motivates me is here and now...in what I intend as a reciprocal exchange.

This reminds me to ask myself “why am I even here?” I suppose one purpose is to procreate, to replenish human stock while in turn passing on my unique, somewhat maladaptive, genetic map to ensure the future of our type. But, at our current population rate, I do not see human extinction as a concern (that is not to say we won’t run out of natural resources thereby resulting in human extinction through overpopulation). So, as many population experts suggest, I will only replace myself. Although, it was never something I gave much thought.

So, why then? I have no other and a million ideas.

And, I do have considerations beyond the here and now; I get a kick out of the prospect that my progeny might proffer our future world. That, and who will take care of me when I can no longer find my ass?

I hope that I am doing a good job, that all my experience, everything that I have to give, and all that I create proves worthy beyond my own value. I want there to be some “take-away” meaning from how I live. And when I die the only “place” I want to spend eternity is ardently recalled in the generous conversation of my family and friends.




p.s. prosperous just like him.

Burning the Manual

I have righted myself before you.
Pulled the knife out of my wound,
And shoved it back in yours.
Like you knew I would.
Like you knew I could.
Before I ever had a name
You knew it was there,
Everything for you
And you know it, and I
Know it still, the same.




p.s. who is driving who or...what?

Set to self-destruct.

The saddest girl
In the whole world
Sits in thirty day
Thinks she owns it.
Models herself a pro
With every word just so
Crack answers for everything
And a lie to keep you guessing
Is she real or just made-up.

She says she's lost her life
And can't tell where to find it.
So she sold her soul for the high
Of the sweet synthetic lullaby.
Where's the bottom when you need it?

The saddest girl
In the whole world
Just told the doctor she's fine
The problem isn't mine
"It's them." and they've ruined me
And all that I could ever be.
So now she has a new disguise
and half-way covers her eyes
with a crystal crooked crown
Slipping just missing her frown.

She says she's lost her life
And can't tell where to find it.
So she sold her soul for the high
Of the sweet synthetic lullaby.
Where's the bottom when you need it?

She used to be a little girl
The sweetest you've ever seen.
Now she's just a tracing
Of a near broke beauty queen.

At the Home

I hate to see you
When you're falling apart
Can't you start over, again?

Elizabeth crumbles
Alone in her chair
Keeps her windows shut
To keep out the air

Elizabeth crumbles
Alone in her bed
Spends all her pastime
Mulled in her dread

What keeps her living
Is her fear of being
Anywhere other than here
So they’ll feed her too much
Or it’s never enough,
Then it's fuck you
“Get the hell out of here!"

Elizabeth stumbles
Over everything I've said
Pining words are useless
Pushed round in her head

The mystery was my bravery
I never knew what I'd get
Will it be her fear or regret?
Her confusion my denial?
Walked her shoes a while
Now she can’t turn back
So she said then she’ll stay
And I will walk away

Elizabeth mumbles
Over and over my name
Forgetting tomorrow
Will never be the same

She’s repeating her beating
Did you bring her a drink?
Why are you leaving?
What the hell do you think?
That she’ll fuck you
To get the hell out of here

Elizabeth tumbles
Out onto the floor
With an abandon of reason
It is herself abhorred

She sat alone in her room
Pouring over her gloom
Never got out of her chair
And they don't even care
Now that they’ve all receded
Into the ground or fleeted
To the wormholes
And woodwork back there

You'll find repair
Where that memory
Becomes illusory

Look, again?



p.s. in the end it is what you think you will get.

Fried

There behind the casing, a path
you do not dare to follow.

It is fate that has impressed into the dirt
all the places it has been.

When where the earth is dry it is gone,
dusted into every other moment in time.
But where it is wet and allowed to parch
the trail remains and you can follow it
back to where it began.

It is given to chasing rat tails
and following frogs flopping into ponds.

That time spent heeding…
“You will never make it across.”

Until now that it is starved and the fat rat is slow.
But, the old black rope never made it across.

Just like it was told.
It was struck straight through
the middle, crushed.
Pasted to the burning hot asphalt
by a dodging challenge to cross.

Immediately it tried to coil around itself
to pull up from the back end, its entirety.

But it failed, and will lay there frying
until it becomes fully denatured.

While above crossing the trees, its foe glides
and swoops down between each rushing conveyance.

And they will eat!
They will pick apart bit by bit by the bill.
Because they must, they will.

Chiral

That is not me
Through the mirror
From which I see
Spouting lies
And histories
None that matter
Not to me.

In reverie
I am fabled
Often wickedly
Sprouting eyes
like mysteries
A ghost blown curtain
Through which you see.

And it cycles
Its cycles.

I do not know why.