Your Promised Serving of Nonsense

How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits
Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks
You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self
Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly

Absorb information like paranoia
The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana
How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence
It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done.

The length of a breadbasket will often determine
the size of the loaf
The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade
The worst kind...worse than the worst

This document is not intended for distribution
during the lifetime of the author
Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for
the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes

The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense
have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction
Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor
As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder

The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings
Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia
The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in
Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in

That, my friend, is the beginning from the end
That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road
I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion
Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out

Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring
The nonsense is at this present moment complete
Ready to serve, ready to eat
and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep

Morning Recognition

Separate the lies
Can't close it once it's wide
Didn't know what you were getting
A way of life
Pull up the slack
Yesterday happened
Eros ascended
Left me alone this morning to write about it
Blue news
Black ink from the morning paper
Staining

Wait until it's all over and done
That's when you really find out
Is it going to make sense?
Will it bewilder?
Erotica doesn't care

I wish you'd never told me I was beautiful
Because I know you would never lie
"Just look at yourself"
And I know I could see it through your eyes
If I only could shed this morning slumber
It would be easy to pretend
Vanity, get the best of me
Routine drags me to the mirror
I remove my clothes and stare
At this person who arouses him
I look harder
I gaze at the hologram in the glass
Whose eyes blink with mine
Whose chest rises and falls
With the same rhythm as my own
Who looks at me with the same intense curiosity as I view her
I wonder what she sees?
Does she see the same beauty that confounds my love?
The expression on her face tells me
She is as clueless as I am

I turn to leave
She turns with me
I walk away
She vanishes
I wonder if she looks forward
To seeing me again
If she looks forward, as I do, to our next meeting
For I cannot get her out of my head

My God
She's so beautiful

Misplaced Song

Stuck here in the middle
with my thoughts swirlin' 'round me
Like a storm come to sweep me away

Too much thinking,
I'm so tired of my own voice
Won't be quiet, ain't got nothin' to say...

...says it anyway.

sorrowful songs

I'm bottoming out again
My masochist atmosphere
Littered with notes, a minor key,
Of a melancholic symphony
An old, familiar enemy
Without the courtesy of knocking
Threatens to break down the door
Only to catch me bathing
In blood-thick self-loathing
Listening to Gorecki
Ringing out the thoughts in my head
In yet another vain attempt at description
But I'm thwarted by words
And my inability to place them in the proper order
To convey the physical sensation
Accompanying hopelessness, despair
None of which would be so bad
If it didn't feel like home

The Protection of Infancy's Garb

He was slowly drowning in air
He was fading away and he just didn't care
He knew somewhere in his heart
There had to be something better out there
Just out of reach, forever denied him
...or maybe not
...or maybe not

I recall we were friends
He and I raised some hell in the old days
At least I thought we were friends
He bought me beer and I gave him a ride home
He told me stories how his daddy would break down
How the old man had laid a burden on him
Something he never could tell anybody
How the pain brings a serious change
He knew, he said, from a very young age
He was cursed to be curious, different and strange
Perhaps that's why we got along so well
Both of us taking solace in each others' personal hell
Each others' highway to hell
Adjoining rooms in our different hells

There was a moment. There's always a moment.
He would think of every day for the rest of his life
It would haunt him until the day he chose to die
Some will say that he didn't even try
Some will say everything he ever said was a lie
...and I sometimes think those people are right
...and I won't deny it

A scarecrow hanging from a rope in the bedroom
Moon shines through an open window
Bathes the crow in the gleam of the moonlight's glow
Swinging back and forth as the spirit breeze blows
Just a scare crow, not so creepy
But what's it doing in the bedroom?
I gotta know
I gotta know

Circus

Somewhere up yonder
A roll is to be called
One day and on that day
Rest assured
I will be there

I can't help it
I haven't felt it
But I think about it all the time
Whole notes are ghosts
Too often trodded upon
Lost in evolution
Or left behind
In the chase for nausea and bliss
I think about it all the time

You were expecting a circus?
Relax, baby, why you so nervous?
Settle down, babe, here, hit this
It'll redefine the term "circus"
You'll easily catch the blatant innuendo
Poorly hidden between the lines
A sort of circus envy for air-breathing man
Burning and bleeding man
The arrows which pierced Sebastian
Were meant for me and you

Who wants to listen to a little Duran Duran?
What?
Nobody?
Even if it's "Hungry Like the Wolf"?
Especially "Hungry Like the Wolf"!
The white wolf does get hungry
But it does not sit around bitching and moaning
Complaining about trivialities
London's infamous fang
Taught me everything I know
About wolves
This knowledge and understanding,
Almost a transferral of will,
Has saved my ass on many a treachorous occasion

McCartney...Sir McCartney...James Paul McCartney
I would likely have been much more popular in school
Had you chosen to use instead of choosing to be called Paul
You were called, Paul
Paul, you were called
Paul, you were called to a ministry
Of healing
Healing of the soul
Paul, you were called
Many things by a few
Their critical words vanished
Sucked into the void, infused with pollen
Your majesty's a pretty nice girl
McCartney won't you join me on my death bed
I called out to you as I was dying
I saw it clearly with my own two eyes
A prophecy, true and sure
Psychotic Messiah, Paul McCartney
You live in the future, you live in the past
But you die and are raised every moment by moment
Psychotic Messiah, not GG Allin
Who loseth thy soul long before severing thy mortal coil
Opening his heart to the foulness
Reveling in degradation
Pain blunted by much heavy use
Who drinks down deep the costliest grace
Without knowing
That
A trumpet will sound and a roll will be called
And if you're breathing the air
You're gonna be there
It doesn't matter what you think
Or what you believe or you do not believe
Justice is and will be served
Love overcomes hate in the moment


I can't pretend you give a rat's ass
For the words that are spurting from my brain
I won't pretend I ain't hurting, I'm not a Superman
My mind has deserted me more often than I remember

It's Dracula at the door, dear
Won't you let him in?
What's that you say?
The paths that Dracula doth trod
Are enshrouded with the fog of decay
None which pass his gaze are safe
From death and damnation
I beseech thee, leave the door open until he leaves.
I say, won't we be considered discourteous to our guest here?
Let the heathen think it if they so please
This visitation must be the portent of some novel evil
Hideous harbinger of an unhappy day
When the roll is called up yonder
When the trumpet is sounded I'll blow my own horn
You'll hear it for miles carried by a north wind
You may not recognize it as the trumpet of heaven
It might sound a lot like Miles Davis to you
Turning that horn into a life force

I can't help it, you know I can't help it
All the singers on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 are dead
I could be wrong but it's hard to imagine anyone living that long
They're dead as doornails and some flat plain forgotten
And it's a super shitty world that'll do that to you
Ride to the top, the top of the charts
Dig your way into a million hearts
Some forgotten, some revered
They sang they're song
Now they're gone
And that's why I'm gonna listen
Gotta pay my respects to the old crew
They never knew new wave or metal or punk
Brains not contaminated with that horrid boy band junk
They knew a good tune when they heard one
They carried that weight for a short while
Everybody knows the voice of a singer
Is a glimpse into his soul, her beautiful soul
A glimpse most would die for
Even if for a day
A long day and tiring, glad for sleep
With it she shares more than even she knows
Understand that an aeon begins and ends
As surely as the day

Eagle Felled

Pray for the poor bald eagle
Felled by a bullet from a gun
Killing eagles is surely illegal
You better harness your weapon and run

Play for the old bald idiot
Who pays to see your crappy old band
It's him who keeps hollering "Play Free Bird"
When you've just finished playing "Free Bird"

He's an idiot
Killed a majestic bald eagle
Someone took photos
Isn't that also illegal?
Just an idiot
weilding deadly propulsion
clinching the deal with precise aim
He's no amateur
Just sloppy, careless
Might as well be an amateur
Don't feel sorry for the creep
He killed a big old bald eagle

Stay in your homes, for no reason leave
Comfortably dumb in the webs that you weave
Trapped by the ridiculous things you believe
Pray for the eagle, and grieve

Now you come to realize
Roy Orbison was the man
But you never played any of his songs
In your dreadfully crappy old band

The crowd could chant "Pretty Woman"
For all the good it would do
Your crappy old band couldn't play it
Even if they wanted to

Secret Codes

I looked to the western sky at sundown
I saw it as the Canvas of God.

I stared into the deep infinity of the night sky
I imagined every star a pin prick in the black horizon
offering tiny glimpses of the Light on the other side.

I came to realize
heaven is to be found
in the moments after sleep consumes the intellect
just before dreams tease the spirit.

I feared inner peace and sought distraction
to the point where distraction took the place of inner peace
and I was content with it.

I sought to deny myself
thoughts,
beliefs,
experiences…
I had sacrificed them
to a code that prohibited them.

I tried to do the right thing
when most of the time I hadn't a clue
what the right thing was.

Awake now
I celebrate diversity
and seek to tear down the walls of intolerance.

I closed my eyes and thought
"This is all there will ever be".
Thus I taught myself to love darkness.

I opened my eyes and thought
"This is all there will ever be".
Thus I taught myself to love light.

A guru led me into a place within myself
neither light nor darkness
he told me "This is all there will ever be".
Thus he taught me that if I wished to find it again
I must empty myself 
surrender to the Supersoul.

It was then that I realized I knew nothing.

I read the Bible.
I read the Bhagavad-Gita.
I read the Koran.
I read a lot of other stuff, too.
It all made sense and I thought to myself,
"God has always been my favorite author"

Then I wanted to be a philosopher.
Then I wanted to be a priest.
Then I wanted to be a hero.
Then I wanted to be a famous rock star.
Then I wanted to be a mentor.
Then I wanted to be a scholar.
Then I wanted to be a Marine.
Then I wanted to be a champion.
I wanted to be a lot of things.
Too many things.

One morning I saw a storm brewing in the eastern sky
and I gave God a high five.

I willingly lost myself in the dreams of others
then felt used and manipulated
when the credits began to roll.

Science nurtured my intellect.
Thoughts nurtured my mind.
Imagination nurtured my spirit.
Dreams nurtured my soul,
satisfied with poet's nonsense,
content with someone else's song.




Grey Clouds (a song)

One day all the pain outweighs the pleasure
And the memories, each and all begin to fade
You can only pray for better weather
But grey clouds always threaten rain

Grey clouds threaten rain

The bliss of joy, it lasts but a moment
Cherished and treasured for it's rarity
A precious gift lost in impermanence
One more blessing depression has stolen from me

Grey clouds threaten rain