Accidental Art

You brought me my skeleton.
A driftwood representation of my soul
is the explanation I would give to the art society,
gnarled and contorted, hollow and brittle
it sat, being examined, scrutinized.

The jagged gashes represent missing pieces of myself
torn out during the storm of life,
they nod politely. The dark black staining:
my mistakes and/or shame. Yes yes, very nice.
The worm holes, now those I could not explain well,
but it is something about the surprising fragility
of humans and diaries and poems and relationships
and how they are shattered so easily.


one of my favorites

Reddit Poe-em

basically I just took my favorite poem (dream within a dream-by poe) and replaced them with reddit themes. Nothing special.

Take this Upvote upon thy karma!
And, in parting on my saga,
Thus much let me allow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my votes have been on a meme;
Yet if karma has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
On some bacon, or on none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a meme within a meme.

I stand amid the rage
Of an up-vote laden front page,
And I hold within my hand
Arrows to the golden land-
How few! yet how they roll
Through my fingers to the troll,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One for the pitiful slave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a meme within a meme?

Bigger Pictures are Cruel

The day you were born
your father came home sober
and your mother, drugged
on painkillers. And the snow
suffocated the landscape with its
purity. He peered into your
nebula eyes, while you lay in your reed-basket,
swept along the nile, terrified of tabula rasa.
How dare you be born at such an inconvenient time,
was his first thought.

His second was on the subject of existence:
Do we persist after we are forgot?
Can we exist if we are never known?
And you floated down the nile,
out into the vast delta,
into the constant change that is life.

Fetal Pigs

Dissection is an ugly sport,
was written on one of your bio papers.
But really, it seems so clean to me,
just a scalpel, latex, formaldehyde
and all systems are go. First you cut
the memories, time for picking the brain,
next is the assault on the senses and emotions
then the rose that blooms somewhere inside,
it happened too fast, cut, butchered, gone, then
the wrists, but in all the wrong ways.
Now you are propped up,
well preserved, yet falling into pieces.

sorry for the morbidity, I got carried away with the theme set in the first line, and once that happens I just run with it no matter how crazy it gets (actually I do censor myself to a certain degree). This poem makes me sad.

Vagabonds

Prodigal clouds wafted in this evening,
gilded and gaudy, they moved with the santa ana winds
that swell and ripple through our rocky valley,
bright travelers in a strange land, worn and tossed
they followed the inevitable path over mountains,
blessing deserts with rain, loitering over florescent cities,
and finally, drifting out to sea.
Lost into the coffin that devours us all-
Dissolved with the dusk.

Pondering Wheat and Tares

Drop me off here, on the ashen asphalt, I am feeling just fine,
propped up between two cars, just like uncle's cobwebbed wooden crucifix,
benignly watching over the dusty floor of
somewhere I forgot to remember, to forget about
because I'm feeling just fine and this old conscience of mine,
rusty and sharp, has been smoothed abit, but it still bites.
So come here. Yes, really, I'm feeling fine.
Help me forget that I care.

I have a very strong conscience, and sometimes I wish it would shut up, sometimes it would be easier to be amoral or just have a more lax conscience, but I cant escape from it. It is part of me, for better or worse, as are many other things that I was taught since birth. Sometimes it feels as if our breeding is inescapable, I am molded, set.

Other times I am thankful for it, I am thankful that I really do care about people and ideas and places and things. I am glad that I have some ideals, but it is crushing to realize the reality of the world: the realization that no matter what you do or try to do, the situation is only going to get worse. I am thinking of the economic, military, and political situation of the US. We are screwed no matter what because the system and situation is just too entrenched and complicated to be worked out.

So I just sit here with my headphones on, read the news, shake my head, and just enjoy the music.

gnight yall

The Eyes of Orpheus

He was going to be president,
someday, lost to the transient, raging
wind that flows from east to west
as the earth, clutching us and binding us,
turned ever so slowly.

He really was going to be Someone
who lived up to and exceeded
the expectations of each dew-kissed day,
who knew his path, and was strong enough
to force his way through the walls
of air that blow from nowhere to nowhere,
now just scattering ashes
until they condense into form:
to lean pale features, to sinewy and scarred hands,
and the cold, focused eyes of someone
who has seen it, lost it,
And still desires.