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
***
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