Neon roses bloom
In front of black curtains
Forever, with its back
To the sunset
Forever, facing the moon.
Neon roses wilt
Behind black curtains
Never seeing the sun
Never seeing the moon.
The flicker of impending death.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Neon Roses
The Birds
The birds are the lone speakers
In the velvet silence of daytime
The only ones not afraid
To be heard
To be seen
To be felt...
The crickets take control of
The nighttime silk
But they don’t want
To be seen!
Only heard
Only felt...
The Autumnal Night
In the slow, thoughtful wind
Shadows lurk in the sharp night
Swimming in the forgotten,
Crimson lake of leaves.
Weaves between the haunting
Song of a neurotic owl.
Trees appear as pillars
Holding up the sky
This is what I feel on
An autumnal night.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
So it Goes
The scalp of the moon lingers behind a lone skyscraper, lamenting into the bleak windows, awakening its apathetic entrails.
I gazed out of my top floor window into the early light of my eternal darkness. Nine a.m., so my towering and wrinkled grandfather clock exclaimed. I can’t trust him; at night I can see his gray, rusted hands plotting my death. We’re in an autumnal depression; November 15th 2011 with no leaves, no trees, no sweet burning odor that was sustenance to many a poet’s soul.
Journal Entry- I will forever yearn for the return of the sun. It left our poor world July 24th 1990, the day I inhaled my first ribbon of air, the day of my birth. I do not, and most likely, will not ever know the joys of absorbing the pure energy of a sunrise. All I know is the awaiting of the moon’s arrival to gladly accept what little warmth and light it has to give. I wish I could hang myself upon its lunar surface and bring it down upon the world.
-November 12th 2010
I reluctantly tear myself away from the window and look around at my room; a bare mattress, a desk, books piled on all four walls from the depths of hell to the heavenly ceiling. The ceiling is another thing; on the half that actually has drywall, I’ve painted a mural of the many interpretations of the sun that’ve been brought to life by the poets and novelists that I frequently read. A thick, fraying rope hangs from one of the naked rafters on the other half; a docile noose eagerly waits at the end.
Journal Entry- My third suicide attempt has failed miserably. The gun that I held to my head is in perfect working order; I just couldn’t bring myself to pull the damn trigger. It always happens like that; all I need is the will of the tiniest muscle to end it all and to see the infinite sunlight of heaven, and I reveal my cowardice.
-November 13th 2010
Freezing mornings followed by deathly nights, this is how I live my days and the reason I never leave the comforts of my top floor apartment in this ghost town that is Chicago. My building is without a heat source, so every room flickers a waltz between the light and shadows of a lonely candle. My primary source of heat and light comes from a lone lamp that rests on my desk; it’s always lit.
Kurt Vonnegut was dead wrong when he wrote: “Everything is supposed to be quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds” because there are no birds now, all dead, cannot get to the frozen worms in the frozen dirt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The withered old man struck three p.m. with a pathetic moan. I walked barefooted over to my cluttered desk; the cove of my creativity, the sponge of my emotions. Digging through the depthless sea of my journals and poetry, I wept onto the pages as I searched for my only hope. I discovered the blurry, dull glint of my drawer key as I lifted my old portable typewriter. I unlocked the drawer, which made a sound that seared the silence black. I pulled the drawer open and took out a rag spotted with stains of tears and oil. Slowly, I unraveled the rag to reveal a silver-plated pistol, which I thoughtfully raised to my left temple; my increasing pulse absorbed through the gun and into my trembling hand, creating a rhythmic concerto of fear and hopelessness. The firm, dulcet sound of the cocking hammer stretched across the room and struck with finality as I closed my eyes, awaiting the action of a courageous muscle.
Journal Entry- Dante! I am one with your soul. You’ve written about the light and I yearn to see your breathing words in person! I trust your words; they provide the temporary light for my darkened soul.
-November 14th 2010
A hollow, yet robust, click! filled the room with a dolorous echo; the mournful sound of my failure as I unloaded the gun and locked it away for another moment that will, yet again, tear away my paper mask of dignity to reveal my raw, dastard flesh.
My glasses are sprinkled with the tears of my depression.
“I can’t stand this pain anymore!” I bellowed to my schizophrenic ceiling, wiping my glasses on the cuff of my impeccable black sweater.
I glared at the stacks of books, intensely searching for the holiest of all, The Divine Comedy. There’s only one thing I can do to end the pain that was surging through every vein in my body. I spotted the old, leather-bound volume, held it to my heart, and dragged my desk chair directly under the fraying hemp rope. I turned the chair to face the window so I could stare at the moon directly inside of its fatigued eyes, placed my glasses onto the corner of my desk, and stepped onto the creaking, brown wood. I grabbed the dangling rope and tightened the noose around my neck; it tingled my throat with warmth that was previously unknown.
The rapidity of my heartbeat increased with every blink of my eyes. I glared at the ground, the ground that I will soon be so desperate to embrace once again. As I was about kick the chair from under my feet, the glimmer of some unknown light appeared in the window out of the corner of my blurry perception. The faint shape of a seemingly round object was slowly rising above the scalp of the moon. Impossible! I thought. And for the first time since I was a child, a smirk began to mold itself out of my mouth. I desperately began to reach for my glasses that remained resting on the corner of my desk; at the same time, I was trying to remove the clinging rope from my, now, crimson neck. My feet slid off of the chair and knocked it onto its side. I tried to get my fingers under the grip of the murderous rope, but to no avail. My legs whipped bag and forth, flapping like a fish in the smothering desert hills of Death Valley; my eyes remained on the returning solar sphere. The resentful old man began cackling his dusty cackle at my struggling body, and, slowly, the sun gradually became dimmer until the world began to absorb into the hole that is the forgotten sun. A warm, intense prickling stretched across every acre of my skin. Thick, dead darkness.
So it goes…
Journal Entry- If I ever find myself within the proximity of the sun, I will succumb into its seductive grips and let our souls meld together.
-November 15th 2010
I gazed out of my top floor window into the early light of my eternal darkness. Nine a.m., so my towering and wrinkled grandfather clock exclaimed. I can’t trust him; at night I can see his gray, rusted hands plotting my death. We’re in an autumnal depression; November 15th 2011 with no leaves, no trees, no sweet burning odor that was sustenance to many a poet’s soul.
Journal Entry- I will forever yearn for the return of the sun. It left our poor world July 24th 1990, the day I inhaled my first ribbon of air, the day of my birth. I do not, and most likely, will not ever know the joys of absorbing the pure energy of a sunrise. All I know is the awaiting of the moon’s arrival to gladly accept what little warmth and light it has to give. I wish I could hang myself upon its lunar surface and bring it down upon the world.
-November 12th 2010
I reluctantly tear myself away from the window and look around at my room; a bare mattress, a desk, books piled on all four walls from the depths of hell to the heavenly ceiling. The ceiling is another thing; on the half that actually has drywall, I’ve painted a mural of the many interpretations of the sun that’ve been brought to life by the poets and novelists that I frequently read. A thick, fraying rope hangs from one of the naked rafters on the other half; a docile noose eagerly waits at the end.
Journal Entry- My third suicide attempt has failed miserably. The gun that I held to my head is in perfect working order; I just couldn’t bring myself to pull the damn trigger. It always happens like that; all I need is the will of the tiniest muscle to end it all and to see the infinite sunlight of heaven, and I reveal my cowardice.
-November 13th 2010
Freezing mornings followed by deathly nights, this is how I live my days and the reason I never leave the comforts of my top floor apartment in this ghost town that is Chicago. My building is without a heat source, so every room flickers a waltz between the light and shadows of a lonely candle. My primary source of heat and light comes from a lone lamp that rests on my desk; it’s always lit.
Kurt Vonnegut was dead wrong when he wrote: “Everything is supposed to be quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds” because there are no birds now, all dead, cannot get to the frozen worms in the frozen dirt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The withered old man struck three p.m. with a pathetic moan. I walked barefooted over to my cluttered desk; the cove of my creativity, the sponge of my emotions. Digging through the depthless sea of my journals and poetry, I wept onto the pages as I searched for my only hope. I discovered the blurry, dull glint of my drawer key as I lifted my old portable typewriter. I unlocked the drawer, which made a sound that seared the silence black. I pulled the drawer open and took out a rag spotted with stains of tears and oil. Slowly, I unraveled the rag to reveal a silver-plated pistol, which I thoughtfully raised to my left temple; my increasing pulse absorbed through the gun and into my trembling hand, creating a rhythmic concerto of fear and hopelessness. The firm, dulcet sound of the cocking hammer stretched across the room and struck with finality as I closed my eyes, awaiting the action of a courageous muscle.
Journal Entry- Dante! I am one with your soul. You’ve written about the light and I yearn to see your breathing words in person! I trust your words; they provide the temporary light for my darkened soul.
-November 14th 2010
A hollow, yet robust, click! filled the room with a dolorous echo; the mournful sound of my failure as I unloaded the gun and locked it away for another moment that will, yet again, tear away my paper mask of dignity to reveal my raw, dastard flesh.
My glasses are sprinkled with the tears of my depression.
“I can’t stand this pain anymore!” I bellowed to my schizophrenic ceiling, wiping my glasses on the cuff of my impeccable black sweater.
I glared at the stacks of books, intensely searching for the holiest of all, The Divine Comedy. There’s only one thing I can do to end the pain that was surging through every vein in my body. I spotted the old, leather-bound volume, held it to my heart, and dragged my desk chair directly under the fraying hemp rope. I turned the chair to face the window so I could stare at the moon directly inside of its fatigued eyes, placed my glasses onto the corner of my desk, and stepped onto the creaking, brown wood. I grabbed the dangling rope and tightened the noose around my neck; it tingled my throat with warmth that was previously unknown.
The rapidity of my heartbeat increased with every blink of my eyes. I glared at the ground, the ground that I will soon be so desperate to embrace once again. As I was about kick the chair from under my feet, the glimmer of some unknown light appeared in the window out of the corner of my blurry perception. The faint shape of a seemingly round object was slowly rising above the scalp of the moon. Impossible! I thought. And for the first time since I was a child, a smirk began to mold itself out of my mouth. I desperately began to reach for my glasses that remained resting on the corner of my desk; at the same time, I was trying to remove the clinging rope from my, now, crimson neck. My feet slid off of the chair and knocked it onto its side. I tried to get my fingers under the grip of the murderous rope, but to no avail. My legs whipped bag and forth, flapping like a fish in the smothering desert hills of Death Valley; my eyes remained on the returning solar sphere. The resentful old man began cackling his dusty cackle at my struggling body, and, slowly, the sun gradually became dimmer until the world began to absorb into the hole that is the forgotten sun. A warm, intense prickling stretched across every acre of my skin. Thick, dead darkness.
So it goes…
Journal Entry- If I ever find myself within the proximity of the sun, I will succumb into its seductive grips and let our souls meld together.
-November 15th 2010
Mr. President
Where is your sympathy Mr. President?
Do you hide it under you oil-stained pillow,
or does it still remain in your wallet?
Where is the truth Mr. President?
Is it buried in the garden,
or does it still remain in your conscience?
Mr. President, does it bother you
that everyone knows where you sleep?
Mr. President, what were you thinking
when you introduced the Constitution
to your paper shredder?
Mr. President, does it bother you that your American flag consists of one star?
Do you hide it under you oil-stained pillow,
or does it still remain in your wallet?
Where is the truth Mr. President?
Is it buried in the garden,
or does it still remain in your conscience?
Mr. President, does it bother you
that everyone knows where you sleep?
Mr. President, what were you thinking
when you introduced the Constitution
to your paper shredder?
Mr. President, does it bother you that your American flag consists of one star?
The Doors of Yearning
Love and hate can inflame
the desires of the insane
They can open the doors of yearning,
after knocking on them for years
They make the face of a desert
exude its first and final tears.
But where is the boundary
between love and hate?
Does it lie on the lock
of the blood-stained gate?
Or do they coexist inside
the entrails of compassion,fighting a fruitless civil war.
the desires of the insane
They can open the doors of yearning,
after knocking on them for years
They make the face of a desert
exude its first and final tears.
But where is the boundary
between love and hate?
Does it lie on the lock
of the blood-stained gate?
Or do they coexist inside
the entrails of compassion,fighting a fruitless civil war.
Metropolis of Mourning
O hollow Saints!
The sky that you strive
Runs away from your fingertips
Higher and higher into the rising moon.
Dig the stories that unfold in the stars
They narrate the past lives of Saints
Who have reached the sky
And watched as it opened into
A metropolis of mourning
A Mecca of meandering minds...
You chased away the sun
As you reached for the sky
Our light
Our warmth
Our state of mind
Where is it now?
The sky that you strive
Runs away from your fingertips
Higher and higher into the rising moon.
Dig the stories that unfold in the stars
They narrate the past lives of Saints
Who have reached the sky
And watched as it opened into
A metropolis of mourning
A Mecca of meandering minds...
You chased away the sun
As you reached for the sky
Our light
Our warmth
Our state of mind
Where is it now?
Burn the Wind
Velvet clouds of raw crimson
drop molten iron rain upon
the satin plateaus of the ancient world.
Crumbling hilltops mark
the beginning of Earth’s disintegration
into the vast valleys of space.
Birds are sinking, oceans are rising
As politicians exclaim
“Let’s burn the wind!”
No roads to roam
Only seas to swim
This is my prediction!
drop molten iron rain upon
the satin plateaus of the ancient world.
Crumbling hilltops mark
the beginning of Earth’s disintegration
into the vast valleys of space.
Birds are sinking, oceans are rising
As politicians exclaim
“Let’s burn the wind!”
No roads to roam
Only seas to swim
This is my prediction!
America is Dead
I remember when I was able to see my future in the lake; now when I gaze into its depths, I see my coffin looking up at me with a curious, anticipatory expression. The sky is darker from the toxic breath of society; smelling of ignorance, hate, lies.
America is bleeding! And you do nothing but look away towards the 6 o’clock news as it pumps lies into your hollow skull. Don’t you notice that the birds sing a different song? A song that has no lyrics because their throats have been slit!
I don’t know when the human war will end, Mr. Ginsberg. It’s not looking good. Society still identifies and discriminates according to race. Don’t they realize we all have the same color blood? America is dead...
America is bleeding! And you do nothing but look away towards the 6 o’clock news as it pumps lies into your hollow skull. Don’t you notice that the birds sing a different song? A song that has no lyrics because their throats have been slit!
I don’t know when the human war will end, Mr. Ginsberg. It’s not looking good. Society still identifies and discriminates according to race. Don’t they realize we all have the same color blood? America is dead...
Monday, December 3, 2007
December
If you ever take the time to notice, the December air is more silent than any other month. The sad snows descend shyly, the cold, biting winds steal the air out of your lungs, the naked trees whimper for their leaves. December, what a sad month, what a sad month...
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Pitch Black!
Pitch black! That's all that I saw when I opened my eyes. They must have thought I was dead. They needed to get rid of my body so they put me into this hole. Where am I? A ditch, a field, a family's backyard? Will I die soon? What hath God planned for me? Is there a God? Where is he, what is he doing? Is he playing cards with the grim reaper, or is he watching everybody's lives on a picture-in-picture plasma T.V.? Where is God with his mighty shovel to dig me out of my literal and metaphorical grave?
With an almost unconscious mind, I think about things other than the fact that I'm slowly losing oxygen in this makeshift casket constructed of plywood and held together by the bloody and rusty nails that confined Jesus to the cross. I start to lose my sense of fear that has loomed in my head ever since I opened my eyes to my premature burial. WHY WAS I CHOSEN FOR THIS HORRIBLE FATE!
With an almost unconscious mind, I think about things other than the fact that I'm slowly losing oxygen in this makeshift casket constructed of plywood and held together by the bloody and rusty nails that confined Jesus to the cross. I start to lose my sense of fear that has loomed in my head ever since I opened my eyes to my premature burial. WHY WAS I CHOSEN FOR THIS HORRIBLE FATE!
Friday, August 10, 2007
It's Your Home
Come join me my friends!
Wander with me into this house of paranoia and hatred
Take a look at the decorations!
The mirrors, the clocks, the blood-stained kitchen table!
Cigarette butts and newspapers linger on the floor
Take time to delve into the many rooms of this house:
The bedrooms, the library, the bathroom with the broken toilet!
Before you leave,
Please try, with your best efforts, to remove the tears in the library
Once you've attempted that impossible task
You'll realize this house is not a house,
It's your home...
Wander with me into this house of paranoia and hatred
Take a look at the decorations!
The mirrors, the clocks, the blood-stained kitchen table!
Cigarette butts and newspapers linger on the floor
Take time to delve into the many rooms of this house:
The bedrooms, the library, the bathroom with the broken toilet!
Before you leave,
Please try, with your best efforts, to remove the tears in the library
Once you've attempted that impossible task
You'll realize this house is not a house,
It's your home...
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