Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





Radiation of Sound

This word Radiant keeps being

repeated. I doubt


the adjective.  Language is not

science.  At this moment, words fail


to accurately modify the Object

grammatically, except in Science.  Of my


energy, as Radiant as you say it is, it claims

to be nothing more than exhausted.  Depleted.


Drained of every discreet

packet of photons.  The electromagnetic


waves are gravity keeping me on my knees

as to pray.  I do pray.  Not to any Idol or God,


but just so I can hear the sound of the Words radiate

from my bruised knees to the top of my skull (with all


its pits and divots from banging my head). Just words,

words, words will every inhalation and expel of oxygen molecules.

Original Mode of Staging

I know the stage.  I know

the verses.  I know


he was wrong.  Maybe, I am

like that woman whose last


name is forbidden to be spoken

in the Theatre?  Tragic flaws are usually


attributed to the male characters, even if they are

supposed to be women.  The men, including the old


Bard, have always made of me whore without

ever given the chance to be the Virgin.  Women


were never even given a chance to ask questions

as Hamlet did.  Oh yes, you can say things


have changed and woman don the stage from one

Meridian to another, but I can tell you for certain


that is all just an illusion of the stage.  I am only worth

what’s in my pocket, and I don’t have any.

Burn While Eaten Alive

You know it is only going

to get worse.  Sometimes, I wish


the Sanatoriums were still functional,

instead abandoned and decaying.  Drug


me up and set me in a chair with wheels,

in front of a window looking out at gardens


and at tree lines. I want to sit there in my silent

weeping life to watch it all burn over and over


again. Each time the flames burn higher

engulfing more and more until nothing


recognizable is left.  When I take the time to walk

into the bathroom, my shaking hands grasp


the white porcelain, so I can look plainly

in the dirty looking glass.  My reflection


is distorted.  My own eyes reflect emptiness

back at me.  The world has tapped me like a maple


having already been infested by Japanese invasive

beetles.  There might be a drop of maple left


somewhere in my veins, but hell if I know

where it is.  In time, the beetles always kill the tree.

He Said: “She’s a Doll”

A motionless doll prone

on the floor, I am wet


with weeping.  Being indignant

for being treated by the world


with indifference, I will be pulled

up by the strings of my Master.  I will


swallow the pride lumped in my throat, to play

whatever role they allow: Corporate


Whore, Grease Monkey, Farm Hand, Dirty

Prostitute, Walmart Cashier.  Naturally, I bend


flipping about the masks painted with grand

illusions of want representing human


intention.  Nothing about my character is fluid

because I am frozen by rituals of everyday


life.  I am lost in the stuffing.

She’s Undone

Nothing is written.  The grey

outside has swallowed


my heart.  There is nothing

to say.  I can’t go on, but I keep on


going.  The world as I know it has been

lost.  What has replaced it has no creases


where cranes can hope to exist.  There’s no


such things as angels, yet the air as cold as it is

keeps repeating my name…the name


I wish wasn’t mine.

Lighter: Shade or Blind


To burn a life in ruins is to save

oneself through self-immolation. I will


not cough out sad, smoky hymns of ash.  Sitting

full-lotus in the middle of Saigon for all eyes


to see, Thích Quảng Đức lit the match

to set his own body a blaze in hope.  The hope


was to stop persecutions.  Currently, doesn’t matter

if it’s Cambodia, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Syria, or here,


the masses prefer persecutions over self-

sacrifices.  Welcome to Rome where Semper Fi


means nothing at all.  Everyone gets left behind

at some point, especially now everyone around is


completely detached from reality here.  The only

memories, a remastered Youtube video of some monk


burning himself alive for a reason no one cares

to know. The Nothing People are too apathetic


for conviction. They do nothing

with their lives.  These words are scrawled on


every overpass, archway, and gate: do something


to disrupt the delicate balance of terror.  I refuse to be a

cockroach on my back in bed.  Virtue is a stain on


the sheet of grace delicately folded

into a crane, shoved between the pages


in an empty notebook I set on fire as I sit cross-

legged on the floor in a little green room


where no one can record The End but me.

Will Remain Untitled

The world I am barely alive in

makes of me the reluctant martyr,


or maybe it makes me like Sisyphus

with blunders and deceits


only damaging to myself, so I can only brace

myself for the rock to hit, or maybe,


the rocks are in my pockets

when I take the longest walk i-


n Misery Bay.  I make a life stealing

what I can.  Early, I learned if I don’t become


a skilled thief I’m as good as

dead.  At this crossroads, what is life


anyway but banal platitudes we all harbor

a secret hatred for but participate in


anyway, because like herded goats,

we don’t know anything


else?  Move with the herd, or die

under hoof and foot.  Even


though, I am not done with this

life of trauma and suffering I have


been given, I cannot join the helpless

herd being corralled mindlessly


in this direction and that.  I won’t play

the martyr. I have to ask

these questions of myself


to myself, is it even possible

to leave the pestilence behind


us, and just admit we don’t know shit?