.

The mail came today: a notice from the humane society and three issues of National Geographic. On the covers of the Natty Geographics were depicted outlandish, various places like Antarctica and the moon — places the average person will never go, but which cost the scientist thousands of dollars to attend, money which could have gone to better the public food and housing programs in the city of Chicago. The humane society is in my old living place. I don’t even live there anymore and they’re still sending me things beckoning me to help out animals, while in my town the hordes of impoverished smoke crack and rob banks, and a man emaciated to a horrific straw spindle, hand shaking on Wabash Ave. with empty cup extended, starves and thirsts to death in Chicago’s Loop, as tourists decorated with reams of shopping bags mope systematically by: the wheels keep turning.

When the lights in the skies
Are fighting with each other having
Killed off the grey night
As hard as it tried
The day sends vials of elixir
To the true, hungry
Fighters moving like gristle
Of bones from ankle
To hammy lament,
Oxidizing the brains
Of life’s very spectators

In being
This human machine
It’s best to satiate yourself
With
Being inside a mysterious ball
That only lets you breathe
Just enough oxygen and not
A creative amount and then
When
You toggle
Back
And forth
Between beholding the
Sun’s moons and shadows it will
All come naturally, the bequeathing
The night as
If it’s a phosphorescent
Frame of your former self

Always
Wanted
To be a good boy
I never talked
Looked down
Said thank you and had
Dreams of flying a plane
Far over dark territory
And firing missiles
Scourging the planet of the pestilence
Like
A cold, steel America
To be forever
At one with the void but
Slackerdom
Knows
No bounds so I
Bound into the cafe
And peruse the magazines
Looking for Guitar World or Guitar Player
Or somebody stirring a soup with the neck of a guitar, anything
But up stomps a misanthropic
Attractive 18 year old girl
Who probably has
Father issues and STD’s and
I see female breasts on the magazines
On the shelves
My di** doesn’t even move and
My eyes avert
Breaking the girl’s heart and
She will go on to bound
Into bars of girls wearing next to nothing
With single-celled plankton hitting on them
Telling them they want an “anal blow job”
Before up, high ahead
Will fly the cold, steel void
With eyes like green photosynthesis
To drop missiles down on our country
He always wanted to be a good kid,
Looked down,
Smiled and scowled,
Carried in his back pocket a seven-foot-tall can of Raid…

When walking down the street in life, it helps to not have a person on your back, says the amateur who’s never carried anybody.

The World
Standing naked
In
All
Its impossible complication
Shines blankly into my eye,
.
Bestowing no feeling and
Comprising of various seemingly unrelated entities
Which like a computer I absorb and assess as a
Prelude to a bastion of fear,
As the sages pronounce apocalypse.

People will sometimes do things for the purpose of just exploration, or the zeal of living.
This is something I realize — our bodies oxidize and we look around at the trees, it’s sometimes not a quest so much as it is a compulsion.
In fact, reproduction is done in this exact mode.
From this logic, it follows that there’s less of an explicit purpose of reproduction than there is in, say, accepting your credit card receipt during a trip to the drug store to purchase allergy medication, your yearly ritual.

The loudest talker,
He was the loudest talker,
In the room, the loudest talker,
He was
In
The
Room and
He was
The loudest,
Loudest talker in the room,
And he said,
.
Pride always goes before the fall.
.
How’s that for irony.
.
Well, everything goes before the fall,
Whereas the whole point is to forget it.

In places taking no vision
Wielding like lackluster paint
The bottom of the thought element,
They
Are so sure that they are grand,
Bellowing to the masses
With any little dance of vulgarity
And the left foot’s scars
Will paint themselves
A thousand shades of night

All
Will now be sequestered
Within
.
The new essence of compulsion,
Obviating
The eventual conclusion
.
That existence is a flat, lying plane,
Enshrouding your mind in the temporary vision
That you are separate from other people