WHAT IS A POET LIKE

a poet is like

a geiger counter

one isn't sure

is working properly 

THE COMING WEIRDNESS

 

everyone will have to gather strength

where they can

wiles and defenses if you do not have them

must be learned

you may not see me

for days at a time I'll be gone

but this should not in the least

be of any concern:

though I have no strength

nor any skills to speak of

it's OK 

until i can make it back 

i promise

i can breathe this air

i know my way around

and as for survival, fear me not:

my self-loathing has never let me down

TOMORROW

 

“To those who do not know that the world is on fire, I have nothing to say.”

--Bertolt Brecht 

the sky will burn a pale sunset 

for your national epic

painted in broad strokes

executed

with you in mind 

beginning in bland strokes

like a chemical burn

whose origin and gradual spread

at first

you'll barely discern

you'll go on sensing nothing in fact

until it's hard to tell

if it’s dawn, or sunset, or noon

or hell

and then you’ll feel something:

look for it soon

because it will be scorching even 

the eastern horizon

TODAY

revelation always interrupted 

by dropping of darkness

or another distraction

in a maze of fading

possibilities

 

ORACULUM NEGATUM

 

Instead of perfume there will be rottenness;

and instead of a girdle, a rope;

and instead of well-set hair, baldness;

and instead of a rich robe, a girding of sackcloth;

instead of beauty, shame.

Your men shall fall by the sword and your mighty men in battle.

And her gates shall lament and mourn;

ravaged, she shall sit on the ground.

Isaiah 3.24ff

 

 

But that won’t happen to me

no

that will never happen to me

 

the campaign has just begun

it's the first day of spring

and I'm immortal

 

HISTORY LESSON

 

we have been sowing 

and living in

such garbage garbage

for so long

and subject for so long

to dodgy cartoons

bad sound

and jerky animation

characters clearly insane

voiced by vaguely familiar voices

to say nothing of the iffy coloration

all relieved only by commercial breaks

gouging us

on many levels

 

the world’s too sad to be reported

dreaming wiggling children

smile from far away

from far too far away

but not too far away

 

we watched tv

and went to sleep

others loaded amnesiac bullets

for sleepless bastards

who died allover the world for our precious                  freedoms

but you know

they were very low-utility freedoms

 how can ordinary human behavior

result in so much pain?

too bad for you

empires die like suns

trying to vomit I see only stars

SAINTS

 

a lot of people get saints wrong

so i'll break it down

right now

a saint might have eaten shit

in an elaborate way

at the hands of a roman

or barbarian king

a saint might have levitated or learned

the cure for madness or rabies

a saint might have endured years

at the top of a mountain

or in the dark recess of a cave

these things make them awesome 

but not saints

they must all be re-evaluated

so listen:

i'll tell you what a saint is

and then you can canonize

whomever you want:

a saint is one 

who tears a hole 

in reality

    from the outside

and then splits

CONCENTRATION

bad dream

like moon in

pig water

bad water

like moon in

pig dream

bad moon

like pig in

dream water

bad pig

like dream in

moon water

ANTHROPOS APTEROS

 

last night somebody 

got high

and ate my wings

READY?

from a standing position

shuck pyjamas 

and without falling down

get dressed 

underwear t-shirt

shirt pants socks

as fast as humanly possible

so you don't have to see your body

C U IN HELL

What are you saving that stationery for you freak

those golden days

when you will be at your escritoire?

dashing off cards? 

bent over loving letters?

those days aren't coming

No, somewhere along the line those days have been changed into

stupid dreams nobody wants to hear about 

it’s not your fault

the world will do that: take a turn

which like a horde of bullshit butterflies

changes everything. 

                            Everything.

And then what had seemed perfectly reasonable

in terms of plans

is transformed into 

ridiculous jokes

like sitting in a chair reading a book

or learning Italian 

or as I’m saying now

sitting at your desk

and writing me a letter

in which you will say

(in ways only you still can I bet)

how much you miss me

and really appreciate the slow but steady progress

my poems are making

if we can only dodge time’s preemptive terror

and butterfly bitch-smoke

i bet we can use up our stationery

but we gotta act fast

don’t think about it:

just grab a card and write ‘c u in hell’

and put a stamp on it 

just write ‘Wake up asshole’

don’t even sign it

I’ll get it

and I’ll read it

and whatever it says

I’ll know what you mean

BEFORE WE CONTINUE

before we continue

don't hate me

or at least don't hate me because

my prophecies are always

correct

    like 100% correct

it's not my fault

            you see

i was born with a crystal ball

instead of a heart

all i have to do is peer into the damn thing

for a moment

and, well, you already know

i'll admit one or two minor events

have surprised me

but regarding the big things

and the deep things

and the things

that move in darkness

all around us

right now

my crystal ball have never let me down

not once

FIRST DAY OF SPRING

to the doves remaking their nest

outside the kitchen

and who flip out

every time I open the window

i say chill freakazoids

to the young environmentalist

who referred to me as

        a boomer

i say 

        excuse me

                    missy

i am generation X

and will thank you just

to remember that

to my dogs who will not stop barking

at coyotes and delivery trucks

with equal fury i say

keep it up

to Solaima I say

stand by:

the poem is on its way

to everybody else 

thrashing around in the whole end-of-days

scenario

 i say:

don't have a hyper-spaz

it hasn't even started yet

IN APOCALYPSIN

 

what boneheads everywhere

fail to grasp

but will soon learn

may be found under Apocalypse, the

in my upcoming glossary:

apocalypse is not 

the event itself

happening in the unspecific future

not that occasion

when the comet of many fucks

will turn the sky

the color of dogshit

make everything seethe and boil and bubble

            with eruptions and awesome

            slime from the crypts 

(however much those things will

all happen to you) but no

the apocalypse is not an event at all 

but the uncovering 

a thing already happening

full-on

that is why I am conducting a sun

come with me

radiant one

we will occupy that age

that aeon

    between breaths

    and deaths

    and flares

    and stairs

and make our sauts de cabri

through caves

and graves

and river valleys

and well lit alleys

and crown the dying world with a verse:

whatever one, let's say, is not too burnt

at the end of our long day

though it will surely

be partially burnt

                               

NEXT!

butterfly harming

pesticles already

in my blood!

fascists are visible

in that reddish cloud

in my urine

a cologne called

"Vanity of Monsters"

is all up in my olfactory

region

and i love it

i dine on plankton

and whale

petition's not gonna cut it

CARNAL READING

 

pace St. Augustine

at the end of the day

very few meanings 

are spiritual

in the literal sense of the word

OK I'm ready now:

make it hurt

DIES IRAE DIES ILLA

on that day

when everything is thrown

into the fire 

and the sky is red

like a livid patch of psoriatic skin

and rivers are acrid

turgid 

and grumbling

like a

sweaty drunk

and the air itself is 

like a bowl

of poisoned

frijoles

and you are small

and alone

like a gerbil

in the rain

you will remember 

these similes

and say 

goddamn man

Thomas called it

EMPIRES DIE LIKE SUNS

dear America my heart

is a bluddy sponge

from cleaning up yr messis!

amnesiac bullets

for sleepless-eyed bastards

roaring from your guns

a flaming head of wax

full of children 

burned beyond their skin

empires die like suns

it's not a fail or malfunction

there's nothing else for them to do

the final days however 

and this i hadn't foreseen

are all in slow motion

no need for you or the kids 

to miss a single 

burning frame

my poems you son of a whore

is a bluddie mop

from cleaning up your braines

IT'S A PROMISE

 

when a voice whispers in your ear

I WILL DECOMPOSE YOUR

BULLSHIT

LIKE A FUCK

you had better listen:

it's not a ghost

it's not a god

it's KRONOS

and you've been told

CONTAINER

madness

grows to the size of its container

this has nothing to do however

with biomass

nor

with being stoned off your ass

most measurements in fact

won't factor in 

thank you!

for the leftover nachos

regarding which I was about

to take a certain precaution

but now I think I won't