There is little
can do
to ease the sufferings
of this world.

Why I Choose to Unsubscribe

Political poetry has become
incorporated in the political process
and therefore is corrupt.
Revolution is also
incorporated in the political process
and is corrupt.
The president,
the poet and
the patriot
are recurring archetypes
in the melodrama of history.
Hope cannot be truly inspired
through such a simple medium
that is man.
No one
should ever trust
a man.

poems I never finished

Blank pages smell the same as ink filled pages and great words look the same as dull words.

Artists, painters especially should be careful using text signs, takes away, steals the viewers chance to reach that idea on their own. I want mystery not definition.
Writers, poets especially should be careful using imagery, takes away, steals the readers chance to reach the picture on their own. I want mystery not definition!

The pen is a power chord.

Dear smiling picture with the prefect teeth,

I see you in the magazine my mother buys and keeps on the bathroom floor. Why do you care so much about your own health living through science? I can see how healthy you are living through science, with your face cropped so neatly. Fucking shrunken anonymous head propped up in a window I never opened show your true self for once. Have the common dignity to be morose. Can't you see you are incomplete?

I woke up depressed.
She's in an ugly city
and cries every night
as we hang up the phone.

The idiot world wants
to burn sodom, gamora
are back again. Emprie has
us by the throat and we
laugh piss drunk.
Empire tightens its grip and
we stare blindly back.
No, that's too abstract. We
refuse to move, reject our
strength, cage our minds behind
electronic joy, we will burn
in flames built with
books we refused to read.

Flying over Dresden he dropped 500 lb bombs killing 325,000 civilians. (not so much a poem as it is what an old man once told me on a greyhound bus)

How many more times will I have
to leave her crying outside
a greyhound station? Two more
times at the most.
How did I ever get on the bus
after she smiled through tears
that fell straight from her
eye to that bitter Philadelphia
sidewalk? With lead steps.

I'll trade you
my romantic ideals
for whatever
change in your

I think this pen is sick. It will die soon. I abandon the pen as it has lost its capacity for value and mainly use, just another broken tool.

Bloodshot eyes are the broken windows
of the soul and life force leaves
like heat driving up your energy bill
that you pay for in years of your life.

My cultural critiques are antiques
I am relic I am dust in the lungs
cough me out in clumps of snot
cross me out like
pre-pubescent prose.
I will go quietly
cue exit music
dial up modem dialing up up -out

and on and on and on and on and on and on it goes....

wasted days

I feel like
the smallest island
in the largest ocean