one day agrippa will be before paul

i look at the praise

the number of books sold

and i just want to burn

my kingdom down

 

i’m not a hipster

a gangster

a progenitor of poetics

a genius

 

i’ve always just considered myself

that kid from the burbs

riding my bike home

from the corner convenience store

where i had just bought my favorite

strawberry soda

on a sunday afternoon

 

my poems are just silent screams

from the jail cell of my emotional existence

ignoring the key

that has always been in the lock

 

i’ve never wanted your attention

and shun poetry readings

like i avoid any environment

that is contaminated by

a plague of people

 

i enjoy conversation

but never meet anyone

who wants to talk about a

non-existent reality

governed by non-existent time

imagined by a prefrontal cortex

melting into malleable memories

within a perceptual process

tantamount to hallucinations

that we redefine as hallowed halls

 

my criteria for desiring a woman

is if she meets the standard of

desiring me

with a willful wantonness

 

she could be on santa monica pier

or little tokyo and i will follow

where she leads to feed the need

within the space of time off

for good behavior

 

even if it is microcosmic

something is always there

there is no such thing as empty spaces

 

that is why nothing erases

the erectile dysfunction

hindering the blood flow to

the ergonomics of mind

 

where i pretend, “friend” is not a fallacy

formed by cavemen seeking bodily warmth

in corpuscle caves against the

indifference of non-sentient frost

 

you see, you believe in hope

manifest destiny

the power of personal choices

and their consequences

at least i hope you believe

and are not clicking off clichés

as programmed responses

because you don’t have a clue

and are too untrue to yourself

to accumulate your own convictions

 

i believe we were flogged while tied to

the mast right before the hurricane hit

and swept everyone else off

while we remain helplessly bound

the storm violent all around

each wave’s impact applying more

sea salt to the open wounds left by

the flogging

you search for meaning in all this

a reason, a because

i do not

 

yet i am utterly dependent on the

tobacco farmer, the harvester

the manufacturer, the delivery driver

the retail seller

for this cigarette i light

while i spite that

we are not interconnected

 

all sex is unprotected

as we somehow know it is

more than evolutionary biological imperatives

whose seed sprouted and wrapped

around our spine

until it entwined

with the heart of our emotions

 

in other words

what the fuck do i know

as i take another pull

off this cigarette

and project my loneliness

into the safe harbor

of a nihilist

as a defense against

your expense

that we must first love ourselves

by saying nothing exist

beyond our percepts

cranial conception

is a deception

to which i raise rejection

like abraham sacrificing

his only begotten son

 

because after all is said and done

poetry isn’t fun

it’s just the tool we use

to harvest the crop

from seeds we plant in

infertile soil

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

reality is a figment of our imaginations

the neurochemical impulses firing when we are dreaming, fantasizing or hallucinating are indistinguishable from all the other neurons banging around in our brains when we are experiencing these events, so if what we perceive is often wrong how can we ever know what is real and what isn’t?

 

***

karen june

(my bounty is as boundless as the sea – shakespeare)

 

walking with words half un-written

sober, smiling, i am smitten

table tops and taco chairs

a green eyed beauties’ soft declare

 

i need my breath to laugh and sing

but you have taken that from me

absentminded flames abound

and focus when they hear the sound

 

of red haired bangs that gently hang

defining both the yin and yang

my poetry has been set free

in purpose of my only need

 

to sip the liquor of your lips

intoxicated from the drip

arrested for the crime of bliss

public display of drunkenness

 

the judge sees you and sets me free

then finds himself on bended knees

to thank the Lord he saw with sight

the reason why the poets write

 

no need for judges to affirm

what with one look this poet learned

that random atoms can’t contain

abilities to softly frame

 

exquisite beauty, perfect lines

needs holy wisdom of Divine

evidence of His existence

you declare with calm persistence

 

happenstance of circumstance

is born again with just one glance

until the beauty you possess

makes all else dim within its less

 

where ivory skin becomes akin

to sustenance we fight to win

against the lion of the pride

take the rest, i’m satisfied

 

heeding biblical behest

contentment with your supple breasts

the perfect storm within your form

all other thoughts are misinformed

 

***

 

 

 

 

the wreckage of our lives

“this poet is out of control, although most artists experience a decline in their creative abilities as they age john continues to write with an intensity that far surpasses all that he has written before and, recently, seems to have made a breakthrough catapulting his output to a level of genius in the art of poetry” – from an anonymous online admirer

 

          (“cause all i really want is to be with you

          and feel like i matter too” - gin blossoms)

 

turning away from yesterday

i find there’s so much left to say

the five of us came from her womb

and two of us are now entombed

the legacy of my mother

severe abuse we discovered

more issues than time magazine

from alcohol we could not wean

where recent two sisters have died

from all the drinks that they imbibed

they died alone in motel rooms

uniforms followed by dancing brooms

say what you will about our less

righteous indignation lacks righteousness

you’d rather read between the lines?

i’m switching gears, i’ll make them grind

shocked by seamen sacrifices

watch the watchers watch the vices

out of control? will not console

the ticking clock that takes its toll

i search for meaning, love and truth

forever trapped within my youth

i’m writing this while on the run

while you console with a repugn

if i would just heed your advice

the seamen of my sacrifice

would seed the need of callous creeds

the dividends to your proceeds

but i have had my fill of this

in her maternal loving kiss

that made us five not quite alive

our every act was to survive

within a functionality

at which none of us will succeed

***

phallic indictment

         (lustful fuck salesmen – jim morrison)

 

the daily rhymes within my mind are words that love to dance

i’ve taken everything but time within each second glance

dress as you wish to be addressed she told the teenage girl

but even angels think her less than oysters without pearls

when she’s a means unto an end to slake a wanton lust

he’ll make you feel like a godsend while violating trust

 

to think that there is any male who has nobility

does not objectify and scale with affability

the pleasure you could bring to him the measure of your worth

is just a fairy tale you’re told of paradise on earth

and with a lie he will deny your not just that to him

he’ll touch you with a whispered sigh and praise you with a hymn

 

believe what you want to believe, “my man is not like that”

with words it’s easy to deceive; it’s all just tit for tat

 

***