Thursday, September 30, 2010

its so weird being a human

its so weird being a human. i can never get used to this body, or the strange way of seeing everything as if it were a painting. walking paintings, all over, but wild animals, pure spirit in the eyes all yes and solar prominences, death like a sick tree, branches waving across the moon's soft skin, saw my friend dressed up and ready for war, how brave, to walk into pieces of metal at high velocities for the sake of other animals, but i'm glad i'm not him, my war is under streetlights like a coward almost anyone can get me.

but what should you be here for anyway? i'd be ashamed to vanish into a disgusting paradise of placid air, frail as i am. what were you born for anyway? to be a thing? to be a dream that ends with a shrug? to give a cigarette to my possible killer, to be so much blood and brains on the street running into the gutter, at least i could say, when the world was burning down, i dragged people from the fire. and when the fire offered me television as antidote, i said stick it up your ass.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

drops of glass

big cities, humming towers, little squares of light in razors of silver, quiet downtowns in the night, young kids getting wasted in many ways crossing the streetcars' scars that run down the abandoned street, the damage retreats indoors as the corporate tyrants swallow up the main streets, where all the light is. they go back in the dark and die or disappear or become new sewn together souls. like a shattered mirror grown back like a cut tree. like a wasp drowning in a cup of coca-cola. the glass melts when it is bombed and deflowered with fire.

corporate tyrants (eyes roll) (then-sigh) they gave up giving up a long time ago.

the trajectory is this: from nature, which is the life of staying ahead of starvation, if you see a seagull its the same now. watch it fight for food. that was you, a million years ago. then cities, then torches in the night, then spears, then big men, then iron, steel, gunpowder, gasoline, uranium, allkinds. then there's you, flicking light switches while electricity hums, while special planes fly overhead like graceful hammers. then one day space, when they leave you behind in big ships. and the sun burns.

children born haunted by their ancestors, because they have no names. error we call insanity. wayward slaves, all they need is wine and television (eyes roll) i forgot you knew that and were over it, or something. the wires that run along your veins, they are natural. the reality of screens.

maybe just maybe we could run and make some kind of fort in the woods, and have little laboratories run by panhandlers and wanderers, and they could teach us how to make elegant power plants in the shapes of jackpines,

you know, if communism was good for anything, it made a lot of lone soldiers. maybe that's what we miss most about it now. it made doctors and piano players into guardians of us all.