imaslackass

due to a lack of things to say, i won't be posting for a while. thank you guys who read, i greatly appreciate having an audience. there's plenty of old crap you can sift through if you feel the itch; if you comment, i'll respond. i'll continue reading and commenting on your blogs, so keep writing!

behaving like teenagers

What was that little ditty?

  We all become what we most

                       dislike

hopping picket fences

and that pack of

               reds

      has me mouth-breathing

suffocating in her hair.

  We are boring people

hungry for more

 cliché

beautiful

hopeless

helplessly hoping for places

    to hide our faces and

tempt Fate

      with broken mirrors

  and chipped teeth,

        fresh scars to forget—

    We are anachronisms.

She said

  we were destined to

destroy each other;

then she asked me my sign,

starry eyed

   lust drunk enamored

 by distraction

Bang Bang

  I shot her down.

Red fish

Blue fish

Bad fish

What kind of fish are you?

                …and she adjusts her skirt.

right way

and wrong way, a

  silk thread tightrope

     stretches from saturday savior

  across

  sunday remorse

and mirror reflections

      on the fact

               that,

           goddamnit,

                 i am that guy.

At least

   I still feel

        smart

      stealing another line from another song.

It's all in good fun.

a boy can dream

Bill Moyers apparently has some guaranteed free time, now. It may not be popular among Democrats to suggest any alternatives to Mr. Obama for 2012, but hey, democracy is about voting for who you want, right? Here's a major party ticket I'd vote for: Moyers/Kucinich. Could you imagine it? A cool-headed progressive powerhouse. Granted, Jon Stewart would be mostly out of a job; but I guess we must all make sacrifices. And hey, stranger candidates have tossed their hats in the ring on the other side, so why not?

Topical

YEEEEEHAW!  A symbol of fiscal waste.

hey hey we're the junkies

two poems spin could publish for napomo

About Kurdt

I already felt like a junkie, so...
but there's a difference, so I've been told,
between playing the Blues and
living them,
the difference between a mindset
and chord structures
and a style that's not so fashionable.
ain't it a shame shame shame shame?
The spinning pages dig up your corpse every April,
as the money keeps rolling in,
and she's what she always was, a drugged-out whore and
a narcissist,
a coattail rider, made over media show...
Speed by, just slow enough not to get noticed,
runny nose hunchback,
in drag and sunglasses and sharp skin-rotting stench,
bleached white,
like a snow-pure prostitute scrubbing
blood and bone
flesh raw
to hide the blemishes she's sure give her away...
like the son she purged
with the umbilical scar of a hangman's knot.
Yet, still holy, in spite,
like the tourettes sermon of a preacher.
All services rendered and
it paid well, and along came boredom and age;
and the true tragedy is the little girl left with Pete's
now trite line
haunting her for the rest of her life;
maybe it's not so tongue-in-cheek,
but look on the bright side
and milk it for all it's worth...
Not to be sappy,
    my generation forgets as quickly as they buy
and shit breaks—
the value of the flea market is lost on us...
so here's a deep thought, or perhaps
one more quirky cliche phrase,
you were never a rock god, to me;
you were what i wanted to be.
it was comfortable to be not yet
ten, and safely stuck in my head,
smashing my self in beautiful reckless abandon,
through peaks and troughs.
"I think I'm dumb,
                     but maybe just..."




4/20

*bubbling bong rip*
shp shp shhure god's all-powerful;
but does he have lips?
whoa...

 It was on the fifth—
     a day stained grey
        by Seattle
               April rain showers...
    Asked around
          and found out
        where the junkies
                                    applied.
   Needle and the speedball
                        damage done.
Bargain basement
                               Junkhead;
  and they still sing like him,
                                  fucker,
      'cause he's dead;
         but what the hey?
            hey
                     my
                           my
dead man in his box for
              two weeks
                   putrid rot
         empty room sets the scene
     starving cats picked slow,
                            slumped
                                         fiend.
She willed the rain. So?
                  So, are you defamed?
20 hours...
no milk carton photos
         But what the hell?
               Gotta rest—
        escape
             hate to feel the
                               creeping head,
  the aching pain in the chest.

The godsmack act is
      fun and games
   tongue in cheek
("This song is about pain.")
            schtick;
'til that shit's sustenance.

Welcome to the machine,
                                     boy.
Did you think it wasn't
                      a sludge factory?
Do you feel a little
                            bitter, now?

Bearing true witness to
   this barrel of monkeys,
this dude came down to
  touch the mother...
Dude ain't here no more.

On a personal note, Facelift
was my first musical purchase.
That was sometime around '93.
Nine months from now,
       I'll be 28.
              I'm still young.

cop out

so, it's national poetry month (which seems to be widely publicized this year, oddly—the academy of american poets have been posting things on their website since about the ides). i guess i should be posting some old poems, or writing some, or posting poems that inspire me—i'm lazy, sorry. i'll do more later in the month. in my defense, i have written an epic, as in a long narrative poem telling the heroic happenings of a happening hero. the first five people to click on my profile and send me an email will be invited to a blog i'm using to workshop my epic. that's an epic prize.

sorry, marian. you'll just have to wait for me to quit being lazy and start writing, again.

Hand-Me-Downs:

Threadbare, With Corduroy Patches

And the young, they can lose hope 
'Cause they can't see beyond today,
The wisdom that the old can't give away.
Hey, constant recoil...
Sometimes life don't leave you alone.

It's a cop-out to say
   the wait
     drove me mad...
  I was already a wreck
   when she appeared.
I took the vermin's path;
        ended up alone
     just like before.

  The Yellow Sun retreated
        from me,
      taking with her
    warmth.  In rushed
  the chill of solitude
       and vacuum loneliness;
     weak willed,
   I did little to resist
 the bottle hanging over
    my head by a frayed thread...
  I found the carrot,
          got beaten by the stick.
   Oh, if
 I could have been just fun...

This behavior's not unique.
 I figured myself damned to
   end up alone, like I began:
single in Carrboro, stumbling
   blind rage, foolishness.
 Fuck or Fight.
Touch me, I'm Dick.

 I'm sober, again, now...
             everything has chains;
    absolutely nothing's changed.
 I cannot take back
    her entrance;
   cannot chase her out of my head.

  The lights are out on these
     quiet streets,
quiet dark houses where
    clear conscience sleeps.
  I tread lightly,
      listless,
           aimless,
     an insomniac mouse,
             alone
        just like before.

Today on to another today;
   but this place is not so
                       God forgotten?
First comes Love,
       then comes Pain...
    Such is the game.
   I accept my insignificance.

I've put away my sledgehammer
    and my wrecking ball.
   I will be okay; and
     I have faith—
    it's been said
           a million times over,
   "All you need is Love."

arrogance is bliss

 or
I Stole This From Kurdt

The point creates space
and all of infinity
collapses to a point.
Singular Being: Existence exists.
   identity or blasphemy
 not condescension
   only transcendental consequence—
              who am I?
           I am who I am.
But me and not me,
         self and not,
    play complements
   in
    quantum coincidence...
 Perception keeps life
           reacting   to the now—
     My hand wringing over
            yesterday
        brings neglect
                  and entropy,
                              today.
I understand that
                  it makes more sense
                  to live life
                  in the present tense.
True words,
        and not my own.

     I sit,
         cigarette lit (I know I should quit.),
      sipping my coffee...
               have I learned
                  to accept some friends
               of ridicule?
      Can I be a disciple of The Clown?
"My whole existence is for your amusement
   and that is why I'm here with you."
          Follow him to nirvana;
      The Jester's only
                    satirically
                  a lonely character, right?
Does Enlightenment
     silence the dull
        and constant
      hum
             of being alone?

Tongue in cheek,
      foot in mouth,
   head up ass,
does that make me a yogi contortionist?

stretch and a yawn

I will get out from under
  my rain cloud; put away
         my hopeless situation;
   fill in
     the mud hole I've
        wallowed in so the
   sun couldn't touch my skin;
let wild flowers grow over the
    sleepwalk beaten path
            visited
          and revisited...
   I've long suspected,
         but now I do believe
    these were all chosen destinations,
                    safe houses
            of settling,
     secure self-sabotage,
a low bar for half-hearted achievement.
       The
  same lame methods of self-neglect,
coffee, booze, and cigarettes,
         empty sex
       and cold hearts...
  I'm no more special
than any of the other fat
   and skinny asses—
    we're all sending ourselves
          to our deaths,
      and it's not painless or
                        quick,
                    in the least.
But it's easy.
I've grown tired of easy.
         My body aches with atrophy.
        My soul aches from apathy.

imcliche

"If you love someone and they love you, don't fuck up...'cause you are left with less than nothing."

A surplus of indiscriminate venom—
         this is my stumbling block,
       my problem to fix.
  Is ego or modesty
                my mask? 
Perhaps, the answer is in the question.

        Here, I wear
              the crown of shit
     upon my liar's chair.
             I let you down.
             I made you hurt.
    There, I boiled over,
            drunk and angry, again;
          a cloud turned grey.

     The division I caused
                left no remainder;
 ashes of a dream
            scorched by nightmare...

Now, I can only
   curse the day I became
            a nothingman,
       brush myself off,
   and learn how to walk
                  carrying memories of you.

One day at a time

Cabaret or crucible?
     It's a choice,
             I suppose...
But as for today, I'm tired.
   Loneliness reared its ugly
     face in the mirror;
so I cut off my hair—
   it was a silly romantic notion
       to have felt like
                   I owed somebody.

   The fact is that I break things;
clearly illustrated by
               the smoldering ashes
      and pieces of
                     what was,
                 now past,
             debris
        left in my wake.
  I chopped down my
           beloved dreaming tree
      for firewood.
   The bridges I burned
          glow faint red,
    revealing just how green
         it was on the other side.
My syncope at
           past deeds recounted
      amounts to a feint retreat.
  I've named my sins,
          repented,
         asked for absolution;
    but the facts of my destruction
            remain.
My spiteful ego
       is no less a part in my Gestalt
   than are my empathy
           and passion.
At times, I wonder,
     could I have been anyone
           other than me?

But how do I forgive myself
           for the fear and
       bruises
                  I've inflicted?
     How do I ask forgiveness
               from those I've injured?

I cannot go back and undo.
      I am discredited.
   My vows ring out hollow,
              like empty lip service.
    I have squandered and wasted.

Take the bottle from these lying lips.
              Smash it.
     Use the shards
        and tear open my chest,
   scrape away the black bile.
        I swear there's a heart beating
                         underneath.

  Create in me
               a clean heart; renew
         a right spirit, within.

caterpillar body and butterfly brain

I've been scrubbing stains
   for the last decade,
        with steel wool and
      bleach and
         scalding water,
       cigarettes
            and a bristle-less
          toothbrush—
not that they've been effective.
  It'd be easier, i'm sure,
           if my scalp would split
        and the ten years
                    of dead skin
      and wasted talent
             fell to the floor;
but i was raised Lutheran,
          we preach Grace,
      and love the flog (in private).
Guilt
    is its own justification, after all
simul iustus et Peccator.
  Yeah, but Luther was full of shit,
                            wasn't he?
What's it mean when
           all the penthouse Christians
     earn their scars
                avoiding the painful scab?
Faith without deeds is dead,
      what are deeds without faith?

   Take me to a river
                and hold me under
           until a dove descends
                      or I turn white...

There's got to be some better way to come clean.

cinquains 2-5

revolt.

youth of today

crowded the Tahrir Square,

Arab Republic of Egypt.

raised fists.

 

borrow.

disconnected

lost laws of conservation;

one nation, undeniably

in debt.

exploit

humanity,

find cheap beasts of burden,

build a banana republic

at home

wake up,

sleeping daydream

nation, comfortably

coddled by flashing distractions,

riot!