30 June, 2009

Talks #2

"What is it to sell your soul?"

"Clarifications must first be made.  Forget the mythical business transaction.  Thick, black smoke fogging through the seeps of your window pane at three in the morning.  A moonless sky.  Forget the smooth talking, shadowy figure with his persuasive reasoning and insightful questions, conning you into the momentary pleasure, reevaluating the foundation of every moral pillar.  Forget the point of decision, where you finally either give in and your soul escapes from all your holes in the form of pouring white light, or you hold up.  The devil screams in agony because he needs you to need him but you've given him no satisfaction and he then, in turn, blends in and disappears into the night while the echo of his cries are heard vibrating through the walls and up your bedposts...

Anyway, forget it.  The decision never comes.  It's already decided.  And there is no devil.  There's only you.  There is no hell.  There is only guilt in life.  The same way there is no heaven.  There is only sound and content piece of mind, and the ability to look you reflection in the eye without any diversions.  Afterlife is a lie, and that's fine.  The only slice of eternity that actually matters is the time we are alive.  If you live in guilt and shame and if you can't handle your own immorality then, yes, you've found hell and you burn until you die.  Your last breathing minutes are consumed with thoughts of wrong.  Please see how this is hell.  

Heaven is here.  Some achieve it easier than others. Some are born and blessed with natural goodness and see heaven daily.  Most others witness it periodically or in waves.  The darkness returns.  The good always returns, too."

"My questions are never fully answered."

He closed the closet door and stood up from a kneel.  He crept back into bed.  

11 June, 2009

The Balancing Act Reaction

Above Niagara or between the, then standing, Towers. What's his name? Skinny, older fellow. Mid-Aged, or slightly younger, at that time, at least. He pulled the balancing act. No net. Just a pole for support. A flimsy, 12-foot long pole. 1970's, I believe. The decade doesn't matter, nor does the century, millenium, so forth.

There he was. Human air walker. Footsteps and stepping on the clouds. The cable, the line of achievement, or the ground, the flat, stinking, smack of non-success.

I was once almost swallowed by the ocean in an amateur surfing mishap. I once had a 40 mph car collide into my driver-side door while I was pushing 60. I once and twice and thrice and many more have been self-poisoned or peer-poisoned out of sometimes love, sometimes hate and pure destruction. Stomach in mouth, behind my teeth. Curled and tucked away under the deck like a fightened, dying rodent. So many times I have found sanctuary in that smoldering shower that always too quickly turns cold.

I've at times found God and It gave me guilt like tons and tons and I said, "Well, damnit. Here I am. Send down that bolt of lightening you son of a bitch and get it over with!" I've said this only to wake up in the morning zapped to all hell but smiling just the same. Guitar in hand, smelling my first sip of coffee: black, with little sugar, maybe a splash of milk. A muffin, when I'm ready for it.

I sulk and get it over with. I think of great and horrific misfortunes. I wake up and I wake up again and love the mornings with all my heart and cry on these days to see the sun pass through the sky. I think of all of these things, plus that balancing act and I laugh and can't believe I'm alive.

10 June, 2009

Talks

How sweet is the mist?
Well, it's not rain.
No, nothing like it
Just a splash of sweetness.
Perfect for the morning.
Just like coffee.
Just like coffee.
What else is refreshing?
Besides questions?
Of course!
How about the quiet?
Except for those eighteen wheelers
periodically exploding down the ave.
Think of them, instead, as the periodic wave
crashing on the shore.
It's easy if you close your eyes.
Many things are easy that way.
I dream better with eyes open.
I wouldn't dare.
Only when I'm caught off guard.
You trick yourself?
Unbeknownst to me!
How sweet is the mist?
Tastes like melon.

09 June, 2009

My Bike

My bike wishes he was a car.
Jealous  of the motor. 
Pretends with king of spades in spokes.

Parallel parks 
like a car. 
Stops at red 
like a car.
Rides on highways and
cuts cars off
like a car.

My bike wishes he was a car.

A five-speed manual, convertible 
topped, fire engine red, eight
cylinder, low-riding, blue book 
value holding, lady attracting, 
gas swallowing,  pavement tearing, 
high-speed chasing, bought from lawn
mowing, Armor All smelling,
down the strip cruising, parking 
ticket piling, Japanese parts,
American made, fire breathing,
mother fucking car!

03 June, 2009

Technolage Hates #4 (Functions)

Wait...
Something is off...
The scene skipped
Poses froze
The bells rang three at noon
stopped at the attack 
of the fourth 
without 
reverberation

quick silence

.return.

.Restart.
_______________________

This is not my life
undo. undo.

moth bitten pockets
and hold no change
undo. undo.

rent checks in turn
for winters and filth
undo. undo.

strange drinks spin
the stomach to sauce
undo. undo.

shoes worn thin
real heels scrape cement
undo. undo.

I hate this city
and the shit living in it
undo. undo.

friday at 10.
bring masquerade.
undo. undo.

shaved too close
with blades too dull
undo. undo.

tall mirror fell
in a quick rage of love
undo. undo.

pieces were thrown 
I walked planks barefoot
undo.  undo.

Undone.  Unsung.
Mistakes, they form
they come and
they run with
no control to
alternate the
moments we
wish to delete.

Quick little zoomed in from then

Furniture.
Wood grained.
Beds,
nightstands,
t.v.,
blinds,
cubbies,
dressers. Wood.
Chocolate,
burnt sienna,
sandy, browned.
Carpet.
Crusted mustard.
White paint picklings
spreaded, blotched in spots.

Pine tree scenary.
Stems and twigs
clicking against the glass.
Blocked the parking lots,
screaming cars,
screeching peoples.
Pinkburst rock guitar.
His head settled
on the wall.
Standing.
Jail cell.