a drawing

the bodies,
strings tied in knots and
stained in blood,
bending the bubble
next to reality
tapping on color
through some mask
sketched like a bats wing
preying on
the streaks of dawn
and the residual
spatter of god -
resting body on clay tables
delicately picking
life from the air
and leaving beauty drawn . . .
marking the shift in layers,
distortion in fantasy
and my other world.

dinner with hitler

it's all very amusing sometimes,

the voices in my head

that always sound underneath

the "real" actions;

they're like sirens

dancing on the sidewalk

trying to tell you

to look where you're walking,

hoping that your breathing

is as honest as your soul

(or, desperate that your soul

is as good as you think it is).

a funky haircut only

blends you in to some

contemporary canvas,

a facade, an illusion -

if i asked you who i was

the answer would be

like a file cabinet

in your office:

meaningless memories,

wonders of hanging excrement,

filth lodged between the edges

of a hanging sconce

trying to shed light

on the room

. . . still making shadows

on a martha stewart pillow

that only has place

in one place.

a spot,

a single existence -

physical -

jumping for the fight

waiting for a hit in the face

to taste reality

when, finally,

it jabs you in the gut

and kicks you on the ground

stirring up the rain

and the mess everyone else

walked in.

we don't actually look

like the magazines,

holding on to the

last eight weeks

we were praised

in print,

looking at the still

shot of our abs

painted on by some

250lbs. kid with a degree

in computer science.

if i had dinner with hitler

i would know what to say,

there would be no

subconscious battle with myself,

just a big fuck you to the third reich.

everything moral

or self aware

should be that easy,

but it's just not.

driving to nirvana

driving next to thousands
of people - thousands of lives -
living lies - living lives -
similar to those
with the large muffler
next to them,
compensating for the
abandoned nature of man:
a penis and an engine
mean nothing without
the soul driving it.
that highway lined
with lights
and souls
and all else motivating
different directions
from parallel lines
and a poor robert frost
knock off.

anger sits in a dream
on the shoulder
waiting for pain
to somehow be worth it
in the end.

i kept driving
without bedside manner
past black and white photos
disguising those disgusting figures
behind the tinted windows ;
disguising the demons
in the hammer lane
as a student or a factory worker
or a business man or a mother
or someones child
or a god of that automobile
waiting for that right turn
to ascend and find
greatness.