1,044,437,121/2,520,000,000

I put so little thought into breathing
and the fact that my heart is dying slowly,
not from missed kisses, turned heads,
and whispered nos, but with them,

marching forward into these gray moors
that blur every horizon and i'm made of sand.
Hard packed as it is, i'm still leaving behind
the footprints that, too, in time, will wash away.

It's too late to turn back and i could never find my way out now.

These abstractions make for poor company,
holding onto lips that i'll never even touch,
witnessing eclipses by shadows cast on ground:
i want to finally see even if i go blind.


But will you hold my wrists still for these railroad spikes
just so I can say I suffered too maybe even more than you?
No.
Don't touch me. I am made of dirt.

Tendering Resignation

Hey, check out my faceplace page
for updated blogs on my fantasy death squad.
I got Dick Cheney, I got inflation
and next year's hurricane season.
I'm willing to trade Osama for Obama,
but am holding onto China for the upcoming match
against the Dalai Lama.

Can you see the joys of democracy?
We are free to choose our very own apocalypse.
Like Capitalism, it's a CapitalOne idea:
My wallet? It's got nothing but debts that I can never repay.
I am broke. My glasses broke,
but i got contacts, got a fave five.

I just spray and pray.
I pull and pray. Give me AIDS. I want
ribbons of red pink yellow and black:
A Wheel of Misfortune.

Bury me softly, just roll me in the hole.
It's how I want to go green.

Sure, I still believe in God. I pray everyday,
just not for teddy bears or fluffy bunnies anymore.
I pray for Jesus in a chariot of fire
with a machine gun in the mall.

Salvation wasn't meant to be the toy in the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.
Yippie-kay-yay.

Dead-on aim and a hair trigger,
I pray to be the victim, not the crazed gunman.

Let this be an epilogue, my epitaph
an obit in the classified ads.
Let it go unwritten and unread.
Let this overshadow everything else.

The Crack in My Head Flooded the Basement and Ruined My Shoes When I Stepped in the Dark

Fostering ideologies
like little bastards, orphans:
empty bowls, empty bowels.
Drinking water there's no drinking water.

We trade dictators like baseball cards,
a golden glove award:
the junta's in between my spokes.

My carbon footprint's in the blood.

I ignore the poetry of Obama.
I read the survivalist:
hoarding up their chickens and guns.
Mason jars are just a metaphor for another teenage blowjob.

Does a doorway cast a shadow?
A mirror describes itself to you.
The juror touches her nose and smiles.

Am i the one on trial here?

We're responsible for the votes we cast.
We're electing our apocalypse.
Death rides a barrel of pork.

I voted for him twice.
He panders to the masses.

The Video Bar

The video bar over there on the left of the page are video/poem things I've made. I don't know how well the medium works, but I enjoyed making them.

Non-Violent Resistance

I lay down and play dead.
All of your wars pass right over me.

I train my heart to skip a beat.
I will keep a blank, steady stare.

I will not bleed again when they check for signs of life,
their bayonets. I will not bleed for them.

I will watch day and night chase each other
across the sky. Children run around the maypole.

The ribbons weaving in and out. A flag
with no country. My movement is growing.

We're playing dead. The bodies
pile up. The flies are gathering.

Panopticon Pornography

Closed-circuit camera on premises. I watch her from three different angles. I watch her
count money from her drawer. I watch her push a broom. I watch her
wash her hands.

The way I view pornography: click a link and save the images. Moving right along.
I prefer the amateur sites. I prefer the see-my-ex-girlfriend-naked sites.
A smooth transition.

Everyone watches. No one sees. The money shot.
Zoom in until it goes black. That's the soul. Come on,
big money.

Locked in this room, I feel closer to you. Tracing fingers on captured images.
There's even a camera where I watch myself. Now, I feel closer.
Now I'm outside.

Chapter 1.1

The metatextual nature of the subject suggests transcendence.

I scrape the skin off my skull using a butterknife, the lack of serations
prevents non-uniform chaffing

a sculpture formed from a bar of ivory soap

art is supposed to be clean.

I find my way into something white.
The ivory soap takes on the form of a man and a woman
tangled in copulation.

I sever the corpus callosum
and close my eyes
I know nothing.

Teaching Children How to Kill

(a poem from a newspaper)

1.
Start now. Only the strong need apply. Unless the scenery falls down. Meanwhile, I am happier disease free. Look closer. Experiment with the flavors. Reduce the fear of the hole. That's the nature of the game. To keep pounding away.

The patriots failed early.

2.
The approach into a bunker could dissolve. We'll get what they'll get: killing at least eight.
Died Thursday. Died Saturday. Died Sunday. Shame on you, barbed-wire.

Children playing in the streets.

3.
You're invited with certain death looming. I didn't come this far to turn back. All killed separately. Slash the mutilated bodies. Call your local agent. A variety of grief at the petting zoo.

The perfect holiday gift.

4.
Experience the death of a child. Our goal is improving the lives of mothers. Kudos to an evil suicide, lesson learned. Often messy, funeral services: a child snared by voices of addiction, a child loved through death.

Just step back and take a deep breath and you'll realize what a big deal this is.

5.
It's my right to meet my father, he might not be the savior. A side-by-side duel. Cops can be dangerous, passing attack in order. Band together to fend off cease-fire. I killed two cops.
That's the nature of the game. We're one dimensional with a pair of pistols.

Final days to save.

6.
You cannot force your mother to give you the deadliest year on record.
Remove your head. Blasted out beautifully. A pile of smoky rubble. Killing 199 people.

7.
Time to prepare for the election, a special focus dealing with death. Binge eating interested people.
E-Z-Carve. Unhappy with your survivor's support, you will receive domestic abuse and violence.

Campaign to cleanse.

8.
The nineteen year old king. His craving: wanting to die. Gun-fire sucked into his body. Starting a new war. Conditions are hazardous but not intense. Fall-apart 65 feet from the hole.

One shot victory in the children's miracle

9.
I'm still missing a leg. Get rid of a wing and a prayer. The art of making jam:
Burn their mouths off.

10.
The confession of a gypsy: Going to wreck the crash, the victim. I was able to gather gun-fire. My passion to serve is pure black.

11.
Stimulate free expression nailing online predators. Her body was stashed in a window into your soul. Not everyone watches.

Today's hangout is tomorrow's dead zone.

12.
World of war. The logic of this approach: Push her around. Step it up! A social justice issue.
It keeps the playing field fair. It's a very close count. 850 American troops died.

Kill him.
We're just one click away. Venture past the boundaries. Your goal is loving chaos.

Addiction to pain
killers. Collapses and dies. Collapses and dies.

Most of you have heard my name, heavily damaged by smoke, Resident Dies
2 slayings plead, "Strangled! Stabbed! Spur of the moment killings!"

She had been shot as a tool and die. The small caliber rifle didn't know the victims.

13.
The death of a loved one. Grieving parents support education. Raises bleeding. Like a sexual orgasm dropped off a cliff. Conventional battles. A three block war. Troop surge.

What will your miracle sound like?

The Bulletproof Backpack

Should we stand here in broad daylight?
We should meet under the dizzy

hypnotizing, descent of a flare.
It creates and destroys our shadows:

an epileptic God with mood swings.
It's safer that way.

I always day-dream of explosions
in my chest, exit wounds expand:

a flower blooms and you stop,
breathless from the beauty, the oohs and ahhs.

I want to take a bullet for you, and lay
bleeding, dying slowly, like a fish

with a wire sewn through the gills
and confess I've always loved you.

You kiss me like a soft wave
and neglect to wipe my blood from your lips.

I cough shallowly, bleeding out with a smile.
I take a bullet for the music box ballerina,

but I wear this bulletproof backpack
for the lunchtime firefight, the air strike, the briefcase bomb.

When you're in a foxhole, being an atheist
I'm collecting dogtags, i'm a missionary.