Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human






So It Seems

The mind forgets itself,

so big strange thoughts move in


and out.  You tell your wife you don’t

believe she ever wanted to be your wife.


Maybe, she just never wanted

to be a wife.  She just wanted


you.  Over the years, it seems you no longer

wanted her, but still loved a wife.  Neither of you


reach out to the body right next to you.  Affection is

a complicated animal making it all a broken


state of affairs.  You never became what you wanted

to become.  She forgot that  she kept forgetting


who she was for so long, and once she remembered

you already didn’t like her.

Vessel of Sound

Here’s a world, imaging one

with you: the songs which would sound

our days.  Lyrics


which pass over my lips in breath

onto your skin

would give the gift of dance              swaying in our hips,


in perfect timing.  Hearts

keeping rhythm like steel drums.

The Palpable

Hunger only sounds here

at home.  Searching for sating.


The components of what we have

become is our own becoming


wrong.  The callings find whispers

that are pretty skyline without


Contrails.  Like a dream we forget

when we had it, so it manifests as peaking


pains of hungers.  Isolation when among others is

a strange sensation which disguises itself as complacence.  Maybe


it’s that unsaid understanding that amazing has

not been attainable for recent and distant


memories.  Not that there wasn’t good, truth be

told, there is always beauty, but sometimes it’s just


witnessed by a single person.  Hunger is the easiest thing in

the world, sometimes it becomes a faraway sick


and twisted entertainment.  Examine what it means

to live a life worth living


then feed the famished body.

What’s Left

When they found 

my body, it was 

mummified. Dehydrated skin 

stretched like beef jerky over my 

fragile bones having been 

encased in a coffin of laughing 

fleas. No one knows how long 

my body lay frozen in rot.

Semantic Opacity

Beyond the socially-imposed identities, we weep

while we’re weary of the world we face.  The lexicon

of power has made illiterates of us all.  Weak.  Defenseless.

Away from judging eyes, we’re all scared.  And rightly so.  We

adopt thoughts, “Glad that’s not my

coastline that’s being destroyed by a nuclear leak, and you can’t

make me give up my weapons”—Denial of the conspiracy

of light: they only go out when you stop shoveling

the coal.  That is unless you look to the stars

when night falls, then you understand something different.

Then you realize it’s only this breath

that knowledge is exposed.

Each Feather It Fell From Skin

How do I continually find myself

as the soft fleshy object

of fiction? I offer real, tangible, havable

affection, Love, I get


ignored. Preference is given

to thoughts symbolizing me

instead of my diminishing, darling,

deadly door to reality.


Is that all I’m good

for? Being a fantasy

to man? I open

myself up to show


all of my blood on route through

the veins of my body breaking

closer to the surface of skin

daily for decades now

just to be ignored for the imaginary


world I could never really be

a part of. Threadbare, barren,

broken, beaten by my very


existence. I’m not afraid

anymore. I just am


experiencing life as nothing

more than a make-

believe thing. Shrines,

obelisks are erected

in my honor. Giant


paintings made in my likeness.

The charcoal smudges

on a framed paper. Ink smudges

on particles are more real

to men than the same ink

smeared along my left hand.


Know me. Embracing me

is so different than knowing

the disdainful beauty that is me.

Wasted Human Activities


We are here to people the Industrial remains

of the Wastelands. There is no innocence

permitted in the space of polluted breath.  The uncorrupted

smile of an infant offers nothing alluding to

hope in this world of progress.  The children have been

abandoned anyhow, since

grammar schools have been invaded

by tools of rage. Innocent coos

berate the listener—if listening well

enough—about the vast inheritance of

misery bestowed on the unknowing

lips of the child.  In the beginning, it all

seems so promising.  New crocus blossoms burst

out of the barren frost-bitten earth trumpeting in

the vivid purples, oranges, reds, and blues of lush green,

front-yard gardens.  Bright eyes look on to

ripening backyard fruit trees with salivation,

while knowing the soil is too diseased to taste anything

growing out of it.  When the child grows enough to reach

for the apple, rot oozes from the fruit still clinging

to its home, the branch. Sustainability promises to be

a trap of chronology.  Don’t bother looking

in the future it is always changing.  There

is a legacy of dust left over to people.  April’s

acid rain’s corroding the gears that function

in the market called free by some legislative body.  Working

in an economic machine, freedoms dwindle to red

scans and beeps of something thing

that claims to be

need. That is what we know:

mass confusion of wants.  We have determined love is

a platform launching campaigns of distraction

cloaked in a thin veil of hate that goes by the name

Money, so we pay more attention to

the wanton sex-lives of generals more so

than the need for help in the wake of

a disaster usually given a woman’s

name.   Brain-damaged, we consume

ourselves so ravenously the trash shrouds

anything significant.  How much do we need?

The debts of our behaviors have diminished the lives

of trees, and who knows just how much

significance that is.  Nothing

untouched.  Are roots to clutch

dust, what branches grow out of dust?

With systematic blindness, we name externalities.

Memory moves like waves from the ground

of a small town in Witbank, just outside of

Johannesburg, South Africa: a reminder that

there is a burning hell underground

entirely made by man

which promises to make everything blaze

with the thickest hazy smoke screen

while it burns.  That truth burns somewhere

in Pennsylvania too, and the town it’s in has turned

to ghosts. What a profane menagerie

of sin locked in the prison of human

skin. See every rotten contradiction in

the electronic hiss of everything around. This,

my friends, is the evolution of

sound, and how it shapes every knowledge

thought to have been learned.  We forget

what we really don’t know, and never seem to seek it

because we are too damn distracted

by something different. It’s always

been, and we have never learned.  Stories

are stories for the purpose of acquiring


what it means to you.  Seething tissue

looking for home, constantly


swallowed whole and wrapped with everything,

outside of anything pulsing, that’s what we really possess.

When shall we be as the swallow?  One can suppose never,

given the fact that grace is disdainfully

beautiful.  We fumble through this short space of breath,

pretending to be our own lissome savior of

moments, and choosing blindness

when encountering everything we can’t

see.  Ignoring the sound of everything

around.  Advertisements, they trick us into being

the pill causing the sickness which causes the need

of pills, and they make a killing with that

approach.  We are dying with no

patience.  Hear each breath

with tears.  The backlit plasma screen, our eyes

conceal our own un-translated epitaphs

presented by a simulation

forging the signification of a book

saying it begins with a face.  The face is

just an external expression of

what the heart wishes it could

say.  No one recognizes

the system defining the elegy of our

breeding.  We’ve been prisoners in this

astronomical vacuum of ego.  Be mindful

in the obvious pain hidden by the banal

analgesic named distraction.  The distinction

between mental health and mental

wealth has been blurred, so everything looks smudged

like fine penmanship bleeding from tears on onionskin.

Everything is pixelated, same

as the fragmentation of our being.

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