All at Once All the Time

Jerry broke his tooth, but his tooth didn't go

Maggie won a race, but she also ran slow.

Devon loved a woman whom he killed once or twice

And Ada was a model with a head full of lice.

John jumped to his death, but John could also fly

The happiest man ended laughs with a sigh.

Slave-owner Bill sold himself to another

Kim was a monster, a saint, and a brother.

William held the moon on a ransom

And the Elephant Man was voted most handsome.

Jailbreaks rallied themselves back inside

While some mayors burned down their cities with pride.

Gravity's rules changed however it pleased

And well-to-do women lay the diseased.

But if good is bad, then bad goes good

And if a thing shouldn't, then also it should.

So hate the world, the people in it

For if you did, you also didn't.

Be the backwards, move it forward

Turn away to pivot toward.

Dance it poorly, dance it fine

Hate the bitter, love the wine.

Someone broke it all, my dear

The world, I mean, as such we feared.

But that's OK, because it's not

Time to live, then die, then not.




Sometimes I wish you could grab my heart to feel how strangely it beats. To call us mites with heartstrings might be hardly unobscene. We latchers, hatchers matter as an asteroid might a star. We're tripping, reckless, wrecked, and, all in all, as close as far. Machine head mold homegrown and sold in packing peanut boxes, in love, unloved; in bed, inbred; just rabid, sly-less foxes. We bleed in cautioned color, but inside we're gross and blue. Nobody cares we're dying or, inside, dead through and through. Guilty, filthy, mean, but filled to brim with endless thought just wasted on disadvantageous dreams dreamt up for naught. Some filibuster feelings inconvenient to their plans, living less for point and purpose, more for skills and brands. When it's my turn, I'll burn, you'll earn the right to say goodbye; wave me off with laughter, tears, applause, or with a sigh. Sometimes I wish you could grab my heart to feel how strangely it beats. For now, I guess you won't. "Now, sit down, children, take your seats.



Tired Tigers

Sometimes even tigers get tired, so give the beast a rest. Butting heads like battling rams, that ain't us, no, at our best. Change me like a channel; I won't go nowhere, no sir--just like a zebra's still got stripes when you cut off all its fur.

Painless asked his neighbor, Painful, "Are you happy with what you are?"
Painful smiled and closed his eyes, and said, "That couldn't be more far."

Forget not we're just fleshy feelings, a Big Bang bag of bones; just dreams made out of dreams dreamed up out of endless unknowns.



Poor People

Indifference is different these days. Take for instance: an abominable population hopped up on "going the distance", when reality will casually drop hints that we're all casualty, at cause because we profit off the losses of the populace.

But if the bobblehead society could avert their mental atrophy, they'd discover that their finish-line-eternity has a currency. Though bittersweet the truth may be, the gospel truth's emergency. There's misery that doesn't have to be, and hunger we ignore for free. It's a planet separated by the weight of fearing charity.

And if philanthropic topics bother those on top, then stop it. Hell is hotter than the tropics with those zealots in their Prada. Water, food, and health, that ought to get them talking, but it's not. A lot of pissing off the order, burning bridges for their border, doesn't help if all we get is pushed aside or get ignored. Or if you want to give them credit, debt is just as bad as death and if we want to be the bigger man, we'll put ill thought to bed.

But after all, it's not about us. It's about us, but they're not us. Not a system for the people or a handout for the modest. When they shot us, they were quiet. “Why it mattered, we’re astonished. We're the party for the people and our scripture is dishonest.”

It's a pity pithy gospels are projected out to brothels, novel homages to better minds who goaded we apostles. They have ears, but never listen; they have brains, but they've been christened. They're a group of firm believers in the power of addiction.

And the only consolation in this masochistic nation is the fact that we're a rock in illimitable rotation. It could all go up in smoke, explode in mushroom clouds of coke, and if it all came crashing down, then all the optimists misspoke.

But then, the day begins, and then it ends, and then again, and in the end, will you be what you ought to be... or what you've been?



Paralleled Perils and the Human Culture

Drugs are good. War is great. Love whoever loves to hate. Kisses hurt. Whores are best. Pick your poison, then the rest. Books are bad. Love is funny. Shoot up, smoke, and burn your money. Dig yer hole. Take yer pick. Waste your time, but make it quick. Shut your mouth. Bite your tongue. Hold your breath, you charcoal tongue. Man is bored. Issue thunk. Fun is bottled, powdered, drunk.



The American Civil War

Be good, beauties. Babies in the wind. Fluttering and floating. Unnatural law rescind. Better for the worst of it, and worse than ever bested. If one you've lain, then lain, you won. Goodnight, the chicks un-nested.




When the West defies South and the North defies East

or if natural law's guard and protection were ceased,

then away would the wonder of gravity fall,

and the grace of our lives dead in each of us all.

The wind were a warning, now eternally blown,

carved of the humans and born of our own.

Kill a cub and fear the mother, kill the mother, fear your death;

the dirt is skin like any other; the wind's the ravaged, spoiled breath.

But under spells and wicked charms, we drunk this mighty thing.

Dodged the owed and claimed and sold with no known ode to sing.

Even suns and moons would bow, before their better interest,

A nod to rise, unrecognized, alone but all the richest.

Plagues of passion warn the wardens of the earth

That business of hurricanes a long cry for worth.

The edges of space and we're rolling right toward it,

Tired, old stars finally calling a forfeit.

They killed themselves, the moon and sun, as much like any other.

Hapless stardust unconvinced at last it'd find a lover.

We drown, we drown. If blown up, blow. Once come, then that is that.

So busy, we, unfortunately, we kings of tit-for-tat.



The Whiskey Witch and the Parlor Snitch

The whiskey witch and the parlor snitch

and the pig between with the hungry itch,

one fallen from clouds, one brought from the ditch,

that whiskey witch and parlor snitch.

Scaly and brutal, the monster's beast

Grown up to hold high its virtues least.

Then golden and pure and the darkness all ceased

was the quicker and wickeder seraph priest.

Neighbors and strangers and demon and sprite

One does by wrong, and the other by right.

But then circumstantial per things come to light,

To whom do we turn, the demon or sprite?

Down they go, bent low on their knees,

one for pleasure and one to please,

or for the same, men bury their seeds,

whether done by love or love's misdeeds.

Mothers and daughters and fathers and sons,

killers and liars and fathers and nuns,

lap 'round their brain like the skies to the suns,

beat back and forth like the rattle of drums.

Never was the coupled counsel wont of being wanted

on account of making choices on account of feeling haunted.

An eager man with conscience can not help but feeling taunted,

but therein's that counsel, unforgiving and unwanted.

They weigh your shoulders down and they keep you on your toes,

shoulder-floating phantoms whom no man or woman knows.

Each of separate places every man and woman goes,

the golden light of shame and the demon witch of woes.