dream of a future memory

i have this dream of a future memory
where i am on a suburban street at dusk
and i'm a middle aged man
with sweat and dirt dripping down
like a polluted river
i am wailing with a sledgehammer
on my new laptop and my iPhone
scratches of shiny metal and plastic are exploding
outward and i have gashes over my arms and hands
from where the shards have nicked me &
the mothers are covering their children's eyes
as they stand on their emerald 1960's lawns
you just see their gleaming engagement rings
and slender fingers as eyes, and then the
little black egg of the kid's open mouth
and i wont stop until there is just a puddle
of silver glitter over the smooth black tar
but then every single thing that i have ever written
is also in the street
in tall surrealist stacks of yellowing paper
and I am pouring gasoline over the skyscrapers
and the gas is glugging out of the red plastic container
and sloshing slimy rainbows left and right
getting in my hair and into my pores, so everything
is wet and smells like danger
and then i light a whole pack of matches
a little square of fire in my stone palm
and i ignite the giant stacks of paper, which by now
have doubled in size
a giant SUV of paper
and finally there is a red bonfire the size of a house
burning my eyes and glaring
in the middle of quietly trim street
and the mothers are shrieking now and running
in to call the police.
i throw in my big metal watch which is ticking loudly in my ear
and then i understand why i still feel angry
so i jump in.

Hope-- our disorder; a confession

I wonder how many writers have the same disorder, where they share their bullshit so they can get enough pats on the back to sustain enough ego to keep writing what they really believe in. We share the mediocre, just enough to get a rise out of people, and never the treasure. Thats for the post-humous  party. That's for the cloth bound. That's for  years later when people have forgotten us entirely and we have grown accustomed to our new beards and disguises. I never share the work that I love most.  I would have done well in Sophie's Choice. I know the children I love best. I hoard their foldable bodies in my drawers that no one sees.  I rework my writings, with their lamb's wool, so many times, that they become frankensteins of their former selves; the edits could only be described as major surgeries.

The poems you see are just the gangly pre-teens of future refugees and guerrillas.  They can barely stand on their eight toes that I have written for them.

I don't know why I let you believe that this is my writing. It must be some kind of psychological thing. Some kind of hope that I never knew I had.  The hope that if I don't indulge your senses for long enough--feeding you thimbles, when the feast comes you will mistake it for salvation. Maybe you will forgive me with this confession: I am starving you, but I promise that the bank is growing fat so that when the oracle sends her message, you will eat like kings.

gend error

*

I’m not sure what gender is. Every morning I ask myself am I a man? Am I a woman? And the words are so non-essential, melted sopping paper that is no longer useful to wipe anything up, that they disappear in the mind. I lay under the pale sheet and touch my chest and wonder what it would be like to press my palm against my ribs without imagination. Isn’t the earth round enough? I want to walk the plank.

Anatomical Soap Box

*

WAKE UP you stupefied, sheepish, white collar eukaryots! Brain commands endless messages of agony, your daily Morse Code of rusty daggers and cyanide. Are you watching the news? Electrons are streaming in our cities like a shower of bullets, shooting up your babies and lighting your houses on fire. THIS IS A DICTATORSHIP! Stop watching TV and recycling Zoloft wastes. Brain has never felt pain in her life! She can’t even feel pain! She sits in her castle, while you are being electrocuted and tortured. She has built this system where she sends all nastiness away like a flock of bats to haunt you so she can rest undisturbed. For Godsakes! IT is TIME for a Revolution