090614A
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Sometimes I think,
and no longer try to stop myself,
before committing another act
of thought.
Sometimes thinking
something
in our society has died,
and we are its many victims.
The victims of its slow decay.
Some say that it is God
that has passed away,
and others say it is our own souls
that have left us.
I used to try to stop myself
from committing acts of thought,
as if that might save me
from something,
though never knowing what.
Sometimes I felt guilty
for committing an act of thought.
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090614B
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I don't know what the answer is,
so don't even ask,
as all I will tell you
is that I stopped trying
to figure it out.
I gathered up all the questions,
the way a corpse gathers knives,
trying to determine something
about where it goes in
and where it comes out.
Life is like a slot machine
that keeps stealing your money,
denying you a winning combination.
The lock never opens,
no matter how you play the numbers.
They keep redoing the surface,
but there is nothing underneath.
No matter where you dig,
you always come up empty,
never becoming anyone's treasure.
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090614C
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The sins of our ancestors,
that we are forced to repeat,
indicate the truth as to how
the devil never splits a family up.
He might keep them apart,
but he never really splits them up,
after they have passed on,
beyond for and against.
Others can use them as weapons,
to break things down,
the way a wheel grinds grain,
into chafe and dust.
It is never about an afterlife
but about those afterlives lived
that come before one dies.
Teaching that history has to repeat.
We never really meet again,
but somehow some do live on,
and some of us never really make it
from the cradle to the grave.
A world of rags and bones,
with nothing new
for something old.
The failures of remembering.
There is a devil,
and there is a hell,
but don't expect heaven,
because nothing is ever that good.
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090614D
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All my clocks are running
out of time.
I am running ever faster,
as to getting further behind.
No way to catch up.
No way to get up ahead
of all that running.
Running out of time.
You do not get what you need,
no matter who you happen to ask.
It's always a barter
that gives you something else.
The incipient tragedy,
as the statistically predictable outcome
of anything
that is begun or ended.
The out door is marked in,
and the in door is marked out.
And all the clocks are running,
all running out of time.
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090614E
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Victories given or denied,
by those who have usurped
their throne from God,
demanding they be given
nothing less
than all the hallelujahs
in exchange for wine and bread.
What difference does it really make,
as there is never anything left
except the simple fact of resistance.
If I go this way, you go that,
pulling it all apart, in between.
The snake still eats its own tail,
and Eve always wants a new apple.
All those endless synchronicities,
designed so meticulously,
to darken every sense of wonder.
Comprised of countless numbers
of unconnected disconnections:
those harlequin harbingers
of immanent destruction.
All I can honestly tell you about
is what is always worse,
than isolation,
and sometimes that is all
there really is to say,
so I will tell you various lies
that you demand to hear.
What does it all mean
when it keeps coming down,
the way it keeps coming down,
each and every day.
No one really knows anyone anymore,
not that it really matters,
if no one does anything anymore.
Romance has been revised
into various chapters on the subject
of all the ways as to killing desire.
That includes the desire to be free
of everything you do not want to be,
and do not want to know.
It is all about killing the desire.
There is one small truth
that someone forgot in an empty basket.
That is the simple fact
that no matter what you seek
as being your freedom,
it will prove the most difficult to get,
because that makes it into freedom.
We live in a world of ghosts,
and ghosts have only one purpose
in the whole world.
That is to break hearts.
Always trying to turn the living
into ghosts.
No way to banish all the ghosts.
No silver bullet, magic circle,
no bell, book, candle,
no orison of chains, or other joke,
can banish the ghosts
that would make us into ghosts,
living in a world of ghosts,
against the power of ghosts.
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090614F
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I never go there anymore,
having given up hope
as to ever finding you.
I found too many others,
who were always the opposite
of everything I ever wanted.
Something in me died
among the loneliness
of various forced conversations.
No longer feeling entertained,
by those interruptions
of a feeling of total solitude.
I wanted to get away from those
who neither want nor give
any other sorts of offerings.
I thought of you the other night,
but they have denied me
the strength to dream.
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