Debbie Downer

Sometimes, I don’t give a shit anymore. Sometimes, I wouldn’t care if my guts hit the floor. Hey baby, wanna cyber? Lust is blood pumping through my brain supplying it with nutrients made of nothing. My mind is a field outside of the forces it influences. What hurts the most is when I convince myself that I don’t matter. Energized with lies, the disguise manufactured out of smiles and confident guile couldn’t help me hold up the gimmick in the light of day.  Every day is Halloween and I always show up dressed as myself. Fucking fraudulent fallacies. I keep chewing the ice cubes and keep trying to keep cool, even though it all seems to be falling apart. Power to the people! Where are my people? “And where is my family? They've all gone away. Though it's I who have left them.”

Sure as shit, the sun rose up from behind the horizon again today.

Awes Tins Itty Bitty Ditty

Break down the walls. Stretching out like dawn along the border. Yawning in disorder. The anarchy of my lust leaves me empty headed and I don’t care. Silver line designs on some future that doesn’t look bleak. Charlie scored the notches. Blues busted on my belt. Soul hungering, lumbering, through the goods; burrowing in the fleshy folds. Coiled grey matter bathed in splashing colors. Oh! The effluvium, the busted words my mind spake. Funeral sparklers, chewing on cheek, watching/feeling fine as the dark rises to meet the moon, caressed by the borrowed light like a lunar spooning. The muddy angels grab the gold and fan the flames, burning away the debris of me. Texas time flows out from the flatlands. The tears run out along the cracks and crevices. Drought stricken, block writers , knuckle biters inside the ragged red eyes that pierce the blues skies and then the clouds come again. A tumult. A tempest. A tortured man-child with second-sight...gather me the gear and wander off into the brush.  

AnchoresTeem!

I see my tenderness from afar like the swell that becomes a wave in the ocean.

I see my core as something to pick apart and eventually get bored of.

The lock-box, like Davy Jones' locker, appears to be only hackable with the demise of self.

Goddamn it, the horizon always beckons like Hank's places o'er the hill he's just got to see.

Can I not see? I'm a tear that streaks across the land like a river along Earth's face.

I am a fire burning in the sunken eyes of a haggard, high plains drifter.

My calls fade into the distance and diminish into dust.

Time is the champion. Time is King. Time is the thing.  

Shit? Shinola?

Not walking anymore...now I'm floating in a shit gondola.



I Was Drunk At The Pulpit - Bonnie 'Prince' Billie

Melding Time

I can stand on two legs, dammit. This world melts my heart and I howl at the moonlight. The Beast in me. The Beats in me. Ticky-tack, rat-a-tat. Eats at me. Swatting at flies. The roads are merging into one. Is it one? The one? The sun burns my world into a crisp like charred mesquite burns the meat. All the flavors sealed in. I'm holding it in. Bottled up like a beer bubbles into my mind. Where were you when I needed you? Let me touch your soul. I'll light you up like a Jack O' Lantern or a Yule tide tree in the crisp winter sky after Summer's tragic death. Tears flow where the river grows into roaring terminus. The mist spraying, dancing rainbows glimmer and fade. The catterwaul of the grackles streaking into the blue yonder snaps my head and leaves me busted, broken from the gravity of my bittersweet reverie.   

Mormons and Muslims: The True Extent of My Quaking Apathy

'Mormons and Muslims'

Board games for bored lames

"Quit, you're scaring away the dames"

It's all the same ship sinking, deck chairs all astir

Spur of the moment oblivion

Cult of self reigns through steam, just hot air blowing out between lips 

Flippity-flapping, saying all the things you'd expect their owners to say

Bleating, bleating American heart beating to the march of its war drummers 

In Gobbler's Knob, Phil Connors talkin' 'bout, "Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."

Tastes Great/Less Filling arguments killing me softly from the inside

Gleaming guts glittering with the detritus of the factory machine munchies Gorged at 2AM truck-stops gliding on the factory suds 

While the crowing, cawing rooster/crow chimeras blather 

About beautiful atrocities

Screaming nothing in particular, really...

Cruster The Robot

Hollow shell games, the perfect people play outside the smoldering museums

Hallowed ground, dopes naming their possessions after working days of the week

Clock bell jargon, cuts the glass ceiling bringing stale air from human exhaust

Cluck-cluck, fowl faced frowning hurried pace headless moniker gimmick shtick

Satire slump, the sarcasm wails like catcalls beckon zombie whores from their dead

Satyr sheets, played out like a tragic deck, hands wringing whining minge mouth

Right is ripped, and torn asunder, the split divinity, the glitch in the program

Roaring light, pressed in glass, ironing out the irony, the map and the territory

Confused cockamamie, drown the heart, quench my soul, the thirst comes first

Clamoring crowd, pushes the urge to the edge, leaves psyche a creaky construct

Memory blocks, filling the void with useless information, no room left for pain

Monkeyshines, tricked into spilling secrets, down the drain, last words, dying dish

Veiled references, it touches the dawn, blinded by the reverence for empty meaning

Vast expanses, clutches the waste, a sea salt sacrament, rusts cheek bones, manic rouge

Tackled touch, time seized by guards, the hen house foxed, the wasted weasel smiles

Tough as nails, shielded from the sun, by choice or denial, it puts the words into sin

Un Poco Avergonzado de Mi Sobriedad

I'm on hiatus from God's own golden concoction. In the garden, my tools lay impotent, rusty and worn from chipping away at the weeds, which, overgrowing their picket boundaries, have sullenly, yet surely, begun creeping their way out onto the sidewalk; never-minding the futility. The rabbits, nibbling to bloody stumps, their paws, peer expectantly from their warrens as the sun slices my eyes and pierces my brain, simulating the hangovers and dredging up the cracked tooth proclamations of health to the heathens populating moldy tables in taverns; hovering over dollar store candles on all of those untold days and nights of decidedly delicious debauchery. I am done digging the jaundice creep. I am done with feeling the vagus burn. I all too done with being caught awkward with the gravy stains on my Sunday best. Finding my way back to the spastic womb, the birthright quickening, the bully boom of her powder keg streets, casting sideways war torn glances at all of the people basking in the false morning calm as I quest for full fair and gainful employment and a breath of fresh air. 

Sometimes, I miss my memories, most times not, but I am left with some scars, and the slippery unease of wondering exactly how the hell I arrived here in one piece, a dollar debt on my life, and so many souls in tow.