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Newborn infant?

   There’s an app for that.

  It’s a strange new world, Jack;

and it’s nowhere near

     the Arthur C Jetson

  post-war dream, once promised.

      1+1=5;

and in December of 2012, you’ll

      be two—and the world will end.

The earth and sky fell to the Capitalists

        who put write name here

    in the White House/Capital Building.

Most recently, on the home front,

   a Tranny from Alaska

 shows that “she’s” the biggest

        swinging dick, squatting

in Monticello, with a mob of

  blue collar picketing dipshits,

       denigrating the corpse of

a founding father, mocking him

  as the embodiment of his fear;

 teabagging the rest of us, jaws

        agape in disbelief.

Public discourse is dead;

        wanna go ride bikes?

  Plastic Glow-in-the-dark Christs,

American Flags (made in China)…

Not much is sacred, Sobrino.

       We bankrupted your education,

   your future, your freedom, your planet;

all for petty family grudges…

      my friend, Benny, died

          for their feud.

Nearly a decade of war; but

   as long as someone else pays

 the price…

  In this banana and apple republic we’re

    building [no war but class war],

  filtering bullshit will be

          the only full-time

   job you won’t be able to outsource;

and it will be low-paying, hard work.

Your great-grandparents were

      part of the Greatest Generation.

    They understood that there is

                    nothing

         without hard work and sacrifice.

 In such a short time,

      we’ve forgotten their lessons;

  but who’s got time for thermodynamics?

    It’s such a dry subject, anyway.

Our call of duty is to buy buy buy

  (read: borrow borrow lose the house).

     We can blame this manifest pathology

   on past destinations—my obesity

  has everything to do with my genetics

  and nothing with the exercising of my

  freewill…

Forgive us, we are but helpless

      crippled victims.  You’ll have to

   solve the problems.

But you have to laugh, Baby James.

      You really do.  Find the humor:

  A naturalized Aussie pushes

        propaganda against immigration—

   a subject your mother may have a thought

      or two to share.

And then, there’s the women of the GOP…

       Irony is the foundation of most of Life’s

                punch lines; you’ll figure that out

            soon enough, I’m sure.

Beware, but don’t be afraid, Young One.

   They’ve had The Bomb for over

  half a century…

        Live, laugh, love,

     because life is an adventure

       of endless discovery,

   full of honeysuckles, bee stings,

        ocean waves, mustard seeds,

              and girls.

You’ll figure that out, in due time.

Dependability

It's good to know some things are dependable.  Jackass 3D was all I had hoped for: an hour and a half of juvenile high jinks, nut-shots, puke, poop, farts, fat asses, midgets, and Bam being a prissy bitch.  And it was in 3D; what more could you want?

It would be nice to get the same from life.  For better or worse, life loves the curve ball.  One minute, you're Dudley Do-Right; the next, your neck is sore from being cast as Snidely.  Sometimes, the change comes from out of nowhere; but more often than not, the signs were all there, you were just too wrapped up in what you wanted the world to be to notice that you just got left behind, bitch.  But, oh-bla-dee oh-bla-dah, so it goes...

Karma is heartless and mechanical; you get what you deserve, even if you don't think you deserve what you got.  Same as it ever was.

FORA.tv rocks!

check it

two poems, six years

1:58am sobriety:

What is this

           need to reject history;

  the need to self-animate,

 to self-sustain?

      white chip tokens of loneliness

               and porch swing longing…

    Once upon a time, I

          could love myself;

yet, as true as neurochemical changes

     yielding new identities,

  the past is no more real than—

        She is but an icon

    with a billion different names to learn

and I hate my face,

      photographs make this only too real.

    I just need someone to be there

                                     for me;

     but I’ve found no way to silence these

sledge hammer synapses pounding

   in echoed harmony

         with dopamine deficiency,

a ringing distraction in my hollowed out

                cranial cavity,

           like a gangrened ghost limb, still itching

to be cut off—

          I play.

      Love is just an organic compound;

               drink deep.

2:04am stumble:

Is this the last swig?  Just

      one last pull, another shot to the gut…

         a twinge of jealousy and

  I’m reeling. It’s just my way; or simply

      chemistry and biological drive.

   Tell me, when

                will I feel calm?

With time, head throbbing pound
      dulls to a hum, and
  red vision gives way to

      low light, eventual

  hindsight: I know I was wrong.

Apologies, broken wings,

   just two birds lost along their way home…

Cynicism tells me

     it’s just an evolutionary trick.

And yet, I yield.

    The icon has, now, only her face,

          only her tattoos…

Here’s my ten bleeding fingers

    cradling broken bottles, my

  bruised knuckle tokens of

     openness; yet, blood
  runs dry and scars, too, will fade

        like photographs kept

                 in shoe boxes,

     blacken to faint memory,

and she’ll shine in another sky.

Will I disappear?

As days go by,

 my mind clears, revealing me

        stunned

by my own reflection

      looking back

                    too clearly…

I swore I’d never go there, again;

   dragged myself down, friend,

    down, down, down,

                                  down.

Love is an organic compound;

       may our cups overflow.