I live in the absence of presence
proximity filled by emptiness
I look for a god in the machine
but the schematics are held by noncompliant fingers
tightly clutching my rightful deeds
and pointing in the opposite direction.

I’m alive so I feel compelled to live but don’t know how
so when I want to have a night I’ll never forget
I get ****** up
and when I have a night I never want to remember
I get even more ****** up
I think I’m having a good time
but my memory is pretty ****** up.

But something shines through my ****** up memories
a vision of when we first met
you asked me, “What are you up to?”
I misheard you and responded, “Yeah, I’m ****** up too.”
then we talked about this ****** up zoo
and how we could help each other through.

The connection we develop engenders nightmares
I have two kinds of ****** dreams
the ones where I have *** with people I don’t want
bizarre **** like relatives and ghosts
even ghost relatives—and relative ghosts
those dreams can get pretty ****** up
but the dreams where I’m with the people I want
are factored by the power of two
and are exponentially more ****** up.

The dreams become fantasies I can’t reconcile with reality
burying me in insecurity
thinking what keeps me alive is impossible to hold onto like air
I keep wildly grasping in desperate futility
suffocating in deprivation
until eventually I can’t feel anything anymore.

You notice my weakness and attack
you’re a vampire bat
echolocating past relationships you enjoyed more
I tell you you ****** up
and now must slum with a *** instead of number one.

I keep eating up your batshit insanity
contracting your coronavirus
I just want to sleep
I feel like I’m going to die
your fever dreams are sweat submerged stress nightmares
once I start drowning I try to scream
but all that escapes me are the bubbles I live in
they float on the surface, eventually popping.

You keep calling me a clown
so I joke you can juggle my *****
with dismissive sarcasm you respond I should try stand-up
but that’s already what I’m doing
you tell me to jump off a cliff
but I already have
exasperated, you scream I should literally **** myself
but I already write of my own death every night.

You separate from me like a head from a neck
after the noose that tied us together severed our connection
I fell to the ground and realized I was still alive
and started downplaying the bounty on my head
which seems much larger when one sees it on a wanted poster.

I’m not looking for a person
I’m searching for a feeling people are capable of delivering
I don’t care where I find it as long as I do
people often ask me if I’m more attracted to men or women
I find the question somewhat annoying and I’d rather not answer
but if you forced me to choose by putting a gun to my head
that might turn me on even more.

You’re a heavy hitter
and I’m just a runner
afraid of getting tagged out
so I avoid the other players
and their neutralizing touch.
I don’t have a proper stance
hands drowning in my pockets
to avoid a strike zone
shoulders wide.

The force
field of romance
rebukes all contact
causing loneliness
limited to lying
low in the dirt
dour and hurt.

So I avoid your touch
to avoid your warmth
to avoid your essence
because I’ve learned enough lessons
to know on the other side of your silk skin
lies my skeleton.

My fingers will form barbs
that will cling to your hand
and sink into your skin
until you see my sin
is in holding on
and your presence is my prison
I’d commit crimes to remain in.

Your face is the Behemoth
that roams my mind.
Your words are the Leviathan
that swims through my blood.
God loves both of these creatures
despite their destructive force
He transposes that love into me
yet when I approach them
I am gnashed in the teeth
of a gargantuan beast.

I live between church and society
never entering either entirely
I go to church and sing with God in me
but each memorable melodic monody
sounds increasingly odd to me
when there are only flaws I see.

Last night I had a horrid dream
I was with my worship team
when their worship scheme
resembled war ship steam.

It seemed like a normal service
but tonight we had special guests
the kind that can afford to purchase
every bell and whistle, nothing less.

I was to be their guide on tonight's spiritual ride
I trailed them like their extravagant robes
wishing to be someone people flock to in droves
but all I have are my words
and the Holy Spirit
so I sing like a bird
with radio interference.

Despite my best intentions of making a good impression
the service was a disaster in need of a master
unchecked videos wouldn't work
preplanned cues were missed
responsibilities were shirked
and I was ******.

My worship team started complaining
in a manner I found to be draining
because my must-see team of trusty steeds
had morphed into prima donna demon llamas
passing the buck and saying "that *****".

Under our Jesus painting
a sight has shanked me
a fire breaking
through our mistaking.
When the fire is small
it's no big deal
but once it grows tall
it becomes real.

We all had to evacuate
for firefighting to actuate
our realization of facts too late
that we'd failed a task too great.
I take my family to the church attic
away from all the stampede traffic
I think up there we can hack it
and look at the area impacted.

The sanctuary is a giant ember
yet dripping wet
I want to return to sender
fire grips me best
and grows at my behest
an emerging inferno infects
the sanctuary's rest.

Understanding danger
I escape with my family
outside with strangers
who all stand with me
we cry over spilt ilk
and brick that wilts.

But people toned down their tears
and stifled their sobs
like silencing fear
was their only job
so as the church was mourned
a makeshift line was formed
to consign Satan's scorn
and be alive and born.

They lined down the street
a church without seats
they still needed to speak
and seek out the meek.
They started praying together
praying for healing
not for the church to be better
but each other's feelings
their friends that were reeling
still needed the word so appealing.

I look back at the church
but I don't see it there
I don't lament its worth
or complain it's unfair
I save my despair
for those that need care.
A humble abode has replaced the opulent cathedral
where the ****** of the masses once found its needle
now there's a house that's meek like the women inside
could this be the house by which God wants me to abide?
I open the doors
and walk right in
I can feel in my core
the removal of sin.

Nighttime is perilous
pestilential predators lurk
evisceration entropy envelopes everything
wounds are collected like keys to doors leading underground
and I can hear a jingling in my pocket
so I denounce the nighttime
unlocking the door to a home
where one can sleep at night.

But once I go outside in tomorrow’s morning
the sunlight shines into my soul, cooking my sutured skin
along with the keys I’ve collected
burning through my clothes
and into my body
flies can smell subcutaneous sizzling a mile away
they yearn to feast, buzzing all around me
crawling through my insides
multiplying
while vultures fly laps around me from above.

So I throw a nocturnal drape over the tumultuous foothills
and begin imparting my basement keys onto others
an imposing locksmith
a charitable safecracker
Johnny Applekeys
prowling with pouncing predators
masking my petulant bitterness with false wisdom
my edgy perception of maturity tells me to be jaded
hey, that’s just the way it is
I call myself an honest realist
a self ordained keymaster
I wear my key ring proudly
and distribute keys to those around me.

Stuck between persistent motion and paralysis
my key chains start swinging like pendulums
dancing like an opposing militia
like my eyes once I start getting nervous
waiting for the receipts to my exchanges
reflecting how I’m living in the red
and the debt I owe others
I can only pay in keys leading nowhere.

I try to convince them that the doors I unlock lead to riches
but we all know they’re paths to the hell from whence I came
my words are for myself
like the hell I man the ferry for
selling keys to scary doors
used as lifeboats in my shipwreck life
surviving off of other people’s strife.

The keys are overflowing from my makeshift pit
they poke into my veins like needles from the past
suffocating me like a rat in an hourglass, buried in sand
I imagine it’s the beach to the shore I can reach no more
unlike my swamp where I act as lifeguard
to a lagoon no man inhabits
I say “the water is fine, hop on in”
when I don’t even know how to swim
so even the trees think that I’m dim
when I hang my keys on their limbs.

Surviving night means eat or be eaten
yet my decisions effect daytime treatment
when scars put me behind bars
I inquire as to the depth of the dungeon
digging a subterranean home then diving deeper
finding company at the bottom with grim reapers
where the ostrich that flies is ostracized until it’s fossilized
so I sit in my estranged egg
not wanting to ever hatch
but no matter how much I beg
my keys unlock the latch.

The internet connects culture.
We used to not know how to act
and took cues from proximal role models
or distant stars.
Now we take cues from the internet
or those who are
and we become one person.
Everybody wants to talk about the daily melees and brawls
nobody wants to talk about Super Smash Bros.
and how when it came out the internet wasn’t really a thing
so people had to learn to play on their own
and each person you faced was a new experience
but now everyone learns the best strategies from the internet
and pick between only a few different characters.

Most people understand fighting is immoral and shameful
(plenty of exceptions obviously).
People also understand there are situations where one must fight
(to maintain agency).
So the idea is to avoid those kinds of situations
(to circumvent compromising morality).

For a company, an economy, our species to succeed
everyone must work together
but not literally everyone
just enough to perpetuate sustainability
so some feel free to burn bridges to clear their own road.
Professional wrestlers use the phrase
“Going into business for themself”
when someone has to get all their **** in to display their move set
or no-sells their opponent’s moves to make themselves look tough
like in improv comedy
when one of the performers doesn’t go along with any of the jokes
it can be very funny, just not in a collectively beneficial manner
the audience laughs recognizing the performer as the standout
while the performer steps on their colleagues’ jokes
going into business for themself.
Capitalism indoctrinates us
to go into business for ourselves
like Bill Gates
driving companies out of business through economic hostility
then buying back his soul through economic charity
a tribute to those fallen—it’s a fractional penance
the apex predator keeps the lion’s share
adhering to the jungle mentality ingrained in us
telling us to go into business for ourselves.

Ghost Adventures is a joke
a TV show and a hoax
for people who’ve toked
and superstitious folks.

They’re live streaming an episode on the Dybbuk Box
for viewers to gimmick watch
The Duke and Earl’s
farce to unfurl.

They bring in a rabbi
to play along
to say what’s wrong
but the rabbi says there’s nothing to the Dybbuk Box
in response the ******* scoffs
because the cynic stopped
his thickened plot.

They tried to use the rabbi’s trade
to substantiate their charade
with credibility of a higher grade
but the rabbi protected his religion
better him than someone indifferent
who’s living in a paycheck prison
instead the rabbi made the decision
to stop the derision
with a logical incision.

The weather is foggy
because the bog bleeds
like my problems lofty
making things foggy.
These problems haunt me
when the forecast is foggy.
I start to become not me
after my reflection lost me
in this hellish hot spring
where the fog is accosting
my vision’s focus and locking
until I absolutely cannot see
through this mist so foggy
my brain gets groggy
with the pain I’m dodging
blasting through the fog feed
making this innocent dog bleed
under the leaves of God’s tree
the same tree that made God leave
where an apple made things foggy.

You were asked if you wanted to get together and
you said probably. Now that answer’s haunting me
after seeing how quickly  probably turns into not
with me. You just promised me probably for a
proper flee from damaged property. Do you think
if you said maybe I’d assume you hate me? No
would’ve been the correct route to go instead of
engendering excessive expectations for my existence.

Pastors probably preach patience but paradigms
shift once penetrated by paramount peer pressure.
Answers are hard to find when only probably is
spoken by God to me. I’m probably an oddity that
doesn’t know what probably means, but I guessed
it meant yes unless something unforeseen happened
to be. But probably just means you’re not for me
less awkwardly.

I don’t know where to begin, probably when you told
me my live for you was a sin. I don’t know when it
ends, probably when I have no more time to spend. I
don’t know who I am, probably the guy that fell for
love’s scam. I don’t know what I desire, probably to
extinguish love’s fire.

Competition is ingrained in us
from the very beginning
in its simplest terms
I live / they die = I win.

Enveloped by evolution
everything progresses
competition no exception
pervading the minds of the sentient species.

Humans understand there are shades of grey
and know that you can live more than someone else
they see the difference between kings and serfs
and how this dichotomy shapes our self worth.

There are metrics for everything we do
measuring our productivity, our efficiency, our importance
which affects our self esteem
which effects our productivity, our efficiency, our importance.

You can run faster than me, so I say at least I’m smarter
or have more money, or friends
if I have to face the fact that you’re better off than I am
I’ll rationalize my life is harder—so I win.

When you know something I don’t
I feel inferior—this epiphany stings
enough for me to run away in my mind
and believe my wrong ideas are right.

If you choose someone over me
then you’re a fool
I could love you better
as long as we perceive better the same way.

There’s a self-replenishing buffet
but I eat off their plate
ensuring I eat more than them
and when that’s not enough, I eat them.

Anthrax says who cares wins
while internet trolls say who isn’t mad wins
but I’m too mad to care
stuck in a last man standing mentality.

We’ll see who’s winning when I’m ******* on your grave
in this world where crossing the finish line amounts to a loss
there’s no use in crying over spilt milk while I’m milking the clock
waiting to be victorious.

I want you to course through my veins
but you shoot into my muscles
bringing subcutaneous agony
not getting me high the way you should
a dagger twists inside
missing the mark—maiming me
leaving a hole in my arms
I must live with the inflammation
but life without you makes me sick
so I find a new guy
who has his own needles.

We used to watch our lives together
then you got tired of the show
yet you wanted to keep up with the story
so you downloaded my life on audiobook
narrated by my friends and family
cropping out sections to protect themselves
skipping chapters to give you the plot points
you get the fan edit of my life
and critique a children’s book.

Childhood chills
sledding down hills
adrenaline adventure
barrel to the bottom
sensation celebration
reluctant realization
arduous climb back
ascending again
legs languid
exhausting escalator
planting a flag at the peak
finding breath in fresh air
inspecting the landscape
made for more
hills become mountains
formula for faster
avalanche astronaut
garnering Gs
the bottom bottoms out
cavernous canyon
can’t climb back
ground too uneasy
shifting environment
hazards harass
some keep sledding.

Submarine sailing
subaqueous submersion
floating through darkness
resisting radar
circumnavigating sonar
avoiding armada armageddon
torpedoes armed already
silent running stealth mode
eliminating unnecessary sound
surveilling would-be attackers.

Submarine suffering
sapphire scenery brings beauty
obscuring obsidian vanishes viewing
blinding black proximity paranoia
observing the unknown
behind titanium walls
contending colossal tentacles
extending from my kraken mind.

Caterpillar crawl
underwater undulation
supplies sparse
a city is needed
shore seems nice
party port
reconnaissance recognized
rejection redeployed
pebbles tossed in the ocean
sink to the bottom
but never die
and start submarine sailing.

White *****, red spikes,
flight stalled, death blight,
tight walls, bed bites,
night falls, headlights
burn in my brain
I learn from the pain
and my burdensome shame
that this quarantine game
feels horribly same
to life in my lane.

Everyone wears masks
everything is sanitized
I have one simple task
and it’s my ****** demise
while the planet cries
I stand aside
infantilized.

I hide in my holler
counting my dollars
counting on scholars
to make me taller
but for each one that builds me up
there are three to cut me down
so I’ll drink from their cup
and hand them their crown.

If I go outside I’m browbeaten
but I feel boxed in
from the callous crowds’ treatment
pulling my **** skin
promising it’s not spin
until their battlebot wins
then their cattle **** grin
spreads like coronavirus kin.

So I sit here homicidal
inside my domicile
thinking God is vile
for this awful trial
that some call a pandemic
but it seems like my existence
where I look for a grand medic
but only find social distance.

I live out of a shopping cart
and sleep in a broken down car
I pray for a stopping heart
to end this life where I starve.

I’m outdoors people
because I ignored the steeple
and implored what’s evil
by sporting a needle.

I try to keep my windows up
in this lonely truck
but it gets hot as ****
and sometimes they get stuck
and I have to deal with bugs
that see me sleeping snug
and start reaping blood.

I can’t feel their biting tinge
while I’m sleeping off a binge
so mosquitoes feast on the unconscious
was it God who brought this
locust plague so noxious?
They eat my sleeping body
the way they eat the rotting.

The mosquitoes torpedo
into me like a needle
a million eels
poke into my skin
which has been unsealed
so they dive in
showing their hunger is real
and they’ll win
they cover my shins
and blanket my arms
their proboscis pins
build a blood farm
built on my harm.

I open my eyes
to my insect surprise
I detest these flies
covering my size
so I shake to try
scaring them from my sty.

A plume of black
lifts from my body
it’s blood I lack
to get them off me
so I’m left to their mercy
and they continue to hurt me
attacking en masse absurdly
eating the unworthy.

I feebly swat them away
while my body decays
I’m dispersing the fray
while hurting in waves
brought by a flood
of those that **** blood
I start to feel sick
but I guess I would anyway
when the needle sticks
this is the start of everyday.

The world is a waiting room
where we wait for the end
there is no ending to all the endings
the reception desk is located near the exit
in case of a fire
while the doctors sit in the back
arched over their notepads.

The waiting room is getting crowded
as the mosh pit inside
infects one another
jockeying for position
like horses racing to their stall.

The waiting room is getting hotter
from clients with essential oils
and patients with black lung
the air conditioning works overtime
eventually breaking
leaving us overheating—suffocating.

Sitting, staring into space
waiting in the flatline
watching decay repay
our waiting room ways
the building starts crumbling like a glacier
while we wait for its weight to fall upon us.

I close my eyes to find you there
and find despair
I open my eyes to see you’re not there
and find despair.

My house is an empty home
made of stone
without you in it
I become a cynic.

I look
and see nothing
so I shook
any feeling of loving.

Life is pain
life is sorrow
so I watch the rain
and pray for tomorrow.

We are afraid of new information
for fear of what lies in the unknown
fundamentally
this is expressed through horror movies.
New information is a chance to scare the audience
utilization manifests in
turning on the headlights
(What is in front of us)
or closing the medicine cabinet
(What is behind us).
Some people tell themselves what they’re seeing isn’t real
others use comedy to cope
with the new information acquired
and the horrors that lie within it.

I feel depressed
I need to get out
but once I join the rest
my head’s filled with doubt.

I go to a party filled with fluff
and people worshipping stuff
is just going enough?
Or should I act like a ****
to get out of this rut?

I want to be me
but I want to be loved
how do I get free
from anxiety’s glove.

Should I be the crazy guy?
Or the wild card?
If I use charismatic lies
will they be charmed?
I look for ways to disarm
my anxious self harm.

I tell myself I’m trying
but in my mind I’m crying
laying on the ground writhing
wondering why I’m not finding
an interpersonal binding.

I start to wander
without a responder
I’m at the Battle of Gondor
and can’t find an orc
I see the flight of the condor
but I’m just a stork.

Do I need to stay?
Or should I lead the lame
and flee away?
I bleed out shame
at the speed of rain
when I see my game
bringing pain
to my strung out lane.

I tell myself I don’t fit in
so I grab the gin
to grasp a win
putting my paralysis
through dialysis
to try some bliss
yet something’s amiss
so I clench my fists
and start getting ******.

I say I’m above this
these people are loveless
I blame my brothers
and name them others
as shameless lovers.

I develop an air of superiority
as a defense mechanism
I feel them stare toward me
after I’ve made my decision
this is the attention that I crave
this is my version of being brave
no longer shall my presence be staved
and I’ll take this mentality to the grave.

This world is defiled quite
when the wildlife
try all night
to exile light.

A bunch of pompous pawprints
mark cacophonous coffins
where differing dolphins boxed in
fell to a bomb with topspin lobbed in.

The waxy ghosts
make flaxseed toast
while black sheep boast
that they’re lacking most.

The hyenas just laugh
at the beleaguered giraffe
sticking his neck in the path
of a snake oil salesman’s trap.

Now the derelict spiders
are perilous fighters
but carnivorous biters
lit them with lighters.

The alabaster wall
makes ever-after small
and lesser actors tall
through the collapse of all.

Now Cerberus
returns to us
as we burn to dust
for serpent trust.

So the deadened world is dismantled
like someone stepped on an ant hill
with a deafened anvil in a stampede standstill
because killing animals is the jaded man’s will.

I walk a delicate line
down a hallway through time
the facade bends along with my apprehensive movements
to reflect my subjective individuality
until the walls are penetrated by insane interlopers
—zillions of zombies of zero—
their hands reaching into my thin corridor
shattering the windows I use as mirrors
giving way to a banshee hurricane
intimidation disorientation
kissing the wailing wall
heavy seas pervade my proximity
barely breathing under a wave of seething
manipulation is found where I drown
channeled beneath a turmoil spill
that fossils fuel through hostile schools
of thought advancing their plot
flooding this face down floater
so they can send a conniving boater
to enter my hall and lean me on the wall
to turn me into a mindless voter.

They say it’s darkest before the dawn
failing to mention dawn only lasts a few moments
before light illuminates what we’ve become in the darkness—
dumb and heartless.

Dawn is used to clean oil off penguins
who are grateful to wash the muck away
they feel they are able to keep trying
only to end up feeding sea lions.

We used to fear a red dawn
which gave way to a red dawn
the sun goes down on my right
in America’s tumultuous twilight.

After the dawn of man
we waited for the dawn of reason
only to find the dawn at hand
marks the end of that season.

You asked me how I was doing
my answer was good enough
so you left well enough alone
until I didn’t feel enough home.

I post my death on the internet
and am told it’s good e-*****
but good enough ain’t good enough
so I’m not good enough.

How much is enough?
It’s never enough
my coward’s reach is too short
so good enough is my only export.

They called my bluff
of good enough
so I wear these cuffs
of good enough.

I’m writing a threnody for a friend of me
who became an enemy after his entropy entered me
transferring pain centering around chaotic energy
mentoring me developing this melody.

This ode is a code for the road
so I know where to go when I’m alone
to avoid foes in your afterlife glow,
they’ll just slow the big show.

This lament will be a vent
for all the dents in my tent
you lent wherever I went
until I bent into descent.

I draw my rhythm from our schisms of derision;
constant decisions to steal my vision
put me in prison until an incision of division
helped me listen to what glistens.

I write a sad song
for a bad dog
who stabbed God
once I grabbed on.

The record starts to spin
once I inherit sin
humming hypocritical hymns
so long as I win.

The CD stops
once the heartbeat drops
like the fish when they flop
dancing until they finally stop.

Last night I slipped into a nightmare
you and I were deep into a game of Madden
when my player fumbled the ball
and my emotions overtook me
as the controller flew from my hands
breaking on the unforgiving tiles.

You looked at me incredulously
your disappointment apparent
I fumbled for the words to call a timeout
as I could feel control over my image loosening
and falling with your respect onto the turf
where everyone feels free to pile on.

Unwilling to fumble any more moments
I texted you when I woke up
fumbling for the right words
to tell you I love you
and you called me a ******
as the phone fumbled from my hands.

—After Sum 41

Through your social distortion of extortion at the
most absurd proportions, I realize I need a doctor
not a proctor for when I test the helicopter you said
you’d never offer to a lowly pauper. You could say it’s my
bad I even tried that so now I cry-laugh in the lilacs while my mom
throws bombs through satcoms to lighten the weather. I should’ve
known better and left the head sever nether that continuously had
me tethered to the emotionally unfettered. I really need to find an
honest man before I enforce a plan of a 1000th trimester abortion.
                                                                                              bortion
                                                                                         bortion
                                                                                     bortion  
                                                                                bortion
                                                                            bortion
                                                                        bortion
                                                                    bortion
                                                                bortion
                                                            bortion
                                                        bortion
                                                    bortion
After all the fat lips you gave me I
realized I’m a matchstick baby and don’t
need your rabies to save me. I don’t think I want
to live in your lair with your despair share stares turning to
a bitter taste once I start to face the human waste
falling on my head when I fall in your bed instead of my
king sized comforter singing trumpeter of a simple time—
childhood confined, morality defined by design until I become
the demons as you free them for freedom until they’re just another
lover to call my brother. The hits to my lips caused a casualty
of me casually even though I was never alive actually. Of
all the fists fighting me, it’s you I’d like to remove from society.

Drifting forward hard
drifting toward car
lifting off the tar
near a shifty corner bar.

The engine sputters
the radio stutters
between my mutters
cursing others.

Headlights flow like a waterfall
down this upward incline
without vision I start to stall
unable to read the signs.

Control and vision are lost
like traction to the frost
contraction’s chaotic cost
I keep drifting until I’m tossed.

There’s a daily ritual
of pain habitual
a desperate visual
when I fall in love
and you don’t return it
so I find a drug
and decide to burn it
as I try out discernment.

You only became hotter
after my ritualistic slaughter.
You cut me open and read my innards
informing you that you were the winner
as you ate them for dinner.

After your painful x-ray
I skipped the next phase
of averting my gaze
so I’m diverting to craze
through my ritual of shame
where I feel despondent
from the response sent
in our correspondence.

All my peers
act like seers
showing me their crystal ball
where I stand tall.
But the Ouija board
had me seething toward
a demon *****
who seemed like more
to eat my core.

The other animals in this zoo
are trying to be you
but I can see through
when they say “me too”.
They can’t impede blues
the way you easily diffuse
so I just drain the goats’ blood
at the shrine of no love
where I cry and eye rub
as they die in the dust.

I kneel before the altar of sorrow
that is my lonely bed
I lose all vision of tomorrow,
it’s replaced by red
and images of the dead
who never really lived
all they did was bled,
that’s all this ritual gives
a million shivs
poking torturously into my sides
I try to use one to cut off a piece of the pie
but end up gouging out my eyes
repeating a ritualistic chant of why.

Candles and pentagrams
are where the deadened land
fed up with the rules of man
I bring Satan my demands,
him and regret hand in hand
offering advice to the damaged ******.

I gave a blood sacrifice
to the needle
I stopped acting nice
to be evil
to deal with people
and their oppressive steeples.

I became cold
danced around an Asherah pole
then begged for mercy for my soul,
the one my rationalizations couldn’t hold
after breaking the hypnotic mold
of having my humanity sold.

These rituals I’ve performed
have summoned a storm
and left me forlorn.
My harvest of corn
came in barren
so now I watch ****
or go to a harem.

I’m an immature insectoid in a *** void
a walking stick wandering annoyed
looking for a hole to burrow in
escaping the cold is a win.

I connected through love
we connected through ***
you connected your shoves
through physicality and texts.

I held your thorax
through all the attacks
through the dotted tracks
until the **** started to stack.

I thought you were Don Cheadle
but you’re just a dung beetle
preying on the dumb feeble
putting a ****** needle
on the stinger of Weedle.

Parasite envelopment
Isn’t good for development
so I decide to stay celibate
and not ***** for the hell of it.

Detaching my proboscis
makes me sad I’ve lost this
but the aroma made me noxious
and your insect bites are not missed.

Vestigial limbs of a memory forgotten
itch like bicycle shoestrings tapping every spoke.
One day my brother asked me to visit someone with him
he said the guy was my age and feeling down
because his cat ran away
I said sure, that sounds like a nice thing to do.
After 20 minutes I realized why the cat ran
I was planning my escape route as well
this guy was miserable
completely negative
—it was annoying
and then he said it:
"System of a Down sold out with Toxicity,
which was a garbage album."
the layers of stupidity sent me into a k-hole.
Millions of fans would **** Serj Tankien's ****
if only SOAD would make one more album
but yeah, their sellouts, and your cool.
Clearly, screaming, "banana, banana, terracotta pie" repeatedly
is just telling people what they want to hear.
I tried to change the subject to politics
but he made it clear he had absolutely no interest,
well no **** he doesn't understand SOAD, it's pretty political,
but because art is subjective he thinks his opinion has value
and it does—it lets me know to stay away from his negative idiocy.

Kind of like a car ride I shared
with an older right wing friend of my father.
He scanned the radio like a crackhead
searching for a song in the shallow pool he enjoyed
his lexicon limited, our selection scarce
like a lost cat trapped in a garage
unaware of what is and isn't food.
We came across I Got A Name by Jim Croce
and he said, "Nope. No Jim Croce in this car."
Really? ******* Jim Croce?
I guess I wouldn't like his music either if I voted for Leroy Brown.

It'd be naive of me to think these people
don't work for The New Yorker
calling Ford V Ferrari "empty and hollow".
**** dude, I hate to break it to you
but if you can't find emotion in that movie
that's a flaw in you
and the hordes of imbeciles
approaching art with a "this better ******* impress me" attitude
tearing apart any movie that aims for anything elevated
to be just generally miserable or to show how "smart" they are.
Meanwhile, sniping at an actually empty and hollow movie
is seen as punching down and a waste of time
so a subculture of cynics is developed
infecting others with toxicity
to see art as a challenge to one's intelligence
rather than honest emotional expression
then people miss out on the full capability of art
and consume it improperly
and regurgitate it in front of me like a feeble feral cat.

There are cracks in the pavement
messages the grave sent
the dead are beyond containment
escaping earthly enslavement.

Their absence in the adytum
brought by the *******'s gun
leaves a black star sun
burning the master's son.

He's burning alive
he's burning to die
he's burning so I
burn one and sigh.

The burnt coal
on my burnt soul
burnt whole
until cold.

What is Free File?
Not someone sexually attracted to the inexpensive, that's a freephile.
Not the potions you start Diablo with, those are free vials.
Not a useful new shower pan, that's pre-tiled.
Free File is a deal between the government
and tax preparation companies like H&R Block
for the government to not create its own tax prep software
this software could be released for free
and the uniformity would benefit tax processing
but this would hurt—maybe destroy— the tax prepping industry.

The government capitulated... obviously.
The government asked for a concession from the tax preppers:
offer free tax prep to people in lower tax brackets
but clients are marks for siphoning
and the poor contain the largest pool of marks
so of course these financial advisors did everything they could
to hide financially beneficial information from their clients
of course Intuit just got in trouble for hiding TurboTax Free File
adding code to block it from Google and other search engines.

What is Free File?
A capitalist's answer to subverting capitalism
their product is antiquated
so they anchor down society
so it doesn't pass them by
multitudes of businessmen halt progress for selfish gain
automation frees us from soul-draining work we need to live
to pay bills to shysters who nickel and dime us.

In this age of hypercapitalism
where entire industries are built upon
lobbying the government to make progress illegal
the government's solution
is to ask these capitalists to sell their product for free.

The piano towers before me like a black monolith
its keys are the bones I'm learning to swing
teaching technology tediously
until I can explore space
between man and self.

I put myself in stasis
while I battle my machine.
The piano assumes autonomy over my command center
cutting off my air supply
until I'm completely disconnected
floating in space.

The piano requires my focus and dedication
so I go to boot camp
to pay my dues.
I see everyone marching in the same direction
I want to put soap in a sock
and make them stop.
But they willingly wash out one by one
the commitment too demanding
they **** themselves in the process
but I'm able to survive
because I view myself as a joker
allowing me to accept abuse.

Applying the skills we've learned
becomes war
everybody's trying to shoot me down
and firebomb me.
How am I supposed to compete
when they'll **** the audience's **** for five dollars
or snipe at me from inside their homes?
I'm safe behind the cover of my piano
but they've got me pinned down
and I can't move.

I need a nightingale to nuzzle up to my ear
and chirp the secret chord or lyric
that will allow me to enter the gates of Beverly Hills
with one simple word. Fidelio.

I want to be so successful
I'm able to get into Illuminati ******
and walk around looking like a witch doctor
saying, "Yo, they're really ******* on the coffee table, nice."
until I'm ordered to get back to playing piano
and start wondering
if at my highest aspirations
I'm just a rich man's *****.

Orion's Belt is all I need to find Orion
three stars show me where to go

Alnitak brings frankincense
Alnilam brings gold
Mintaka brings myrrh

their constellation brings consolation
they bring their gift to me
—an introduction to Betelgeuse
(who I'm told will explode someday).

Three stars connect the top to the bottom
a sparkling connection helping us
connect the dots in the roadmap of the sky
showing a grander perspective
from that of the Earth.

Some see Earth as a desolate mountain
ignoring the burning bushes
building barriers of banality
but those who look toward the sky
are guided by three kings
illustrating a bigger picture.

****** treadmill
run fast
life of dead will
can't last.

Druggie dreaming
money scheming
problems teeming like goblins screaming for honey feeding.

We play the Duke and Earl for employment
we're tarred and feathered for enjoyment
cracking our avatars of annoyance
we learn townspeople avoidance.

Drifting like a raft on a river
the Mississippi becomes the Ohio
a bridge extending from Kentucky
enters Cincinnati over dormant currents.

Addicts wander like an incomplete
translation of a foreign language
unable to understand their anguish
society deems them brainless vagrants.

A card to use
play dumb
light the fuse
draw gun.

Treadmill running
looking for something
hedonist hunting
life is about one thing.

I've been warned for the first time before
I'll be warned for the first time again
just trying to ignore what's in store
death is not a matter of if—but when.

Standing on a narrow bridge
above heavy waters
holding a bag of rocks in my hand
rocks collected during vacations and at bus stations
are dropped to see the splash they make
for a moment, there is peace and stillness in the chaotic maelstrom
as the water separates to avoid impact
like Moses parting the Sea of Reads
the rocks only feel air on the way to the ground
the satisfying splash turns out to be a disappointing thud.

A butterfly hangs from a tree
inside its formative cocoon
a cold front blankets the ecosystem
bringing predatory desperation.
A spider escaping certain death
crawls in the cocoon to survive.

Silk womb Christ-like chrysalis
the spider is an honorary pupa
finding safety with another species.
The time of snow angels passes
frozen doors thaw revealing freedom.

The butterfly an involuntary good Samaritan
nightmares of treachery tinge its antenna
fears of graceful charity being repaid by the ungrateful imperial
shake the inside of the inside of the inside.
Moment of truth, of reckoning
will the arachnid drifter show gratitude
or will nature conquer itself?
In order for flight to emerge
we hopefully rely on the benign gratefulness of the venomous.

Burdened hands
with bird in hand
burn in demand
to burgeon man
he lays still
reading the playbill
drinking his DayQuill
unable to change will
burdened hands crave ****
burdened mind shame filled
burdened time grave hill
burdensome brains spill.

After going to law school, my knowledge of law
                                        gives my legal opinion more credibility. After going to medical school, my medical opinion
       has more weight than a layman’s opinion. Yet I could
  study politics my whole life and my opinion
  will always be conflated with casual opinion.
          They say, “Well, that’s just your opinion.”.

On a certain level, political ideology is based very much on opinion.
Do you favor austerity or charity? Do you favor justice or mercy?
These fundamental philosophical questions don’t have clear answers
because of this many assume politics is completely based on opinion. There is a foundation of knowledge and introspection that must be built to functionally manifest the desires of your political ideology.

Therefore, one must determine a clear ideology
based on logic and reasoning.
One must take time to intellectually determine their priorities
and vision for the world.
Otherwise, one is unprepared for political discussion.
If one is unprepared for discussion
they’ll probably obfuscate the discourse.

My current president, Donald Trump, is a perfect example of not developing an ideology. All of his views are reactionary so it’s difficult to know his stance on any given topic. While allowing for more potential flexibility, this has negative impacts like adding needless chaos to the stock market and general uncertainty in the minds of foreign leaders less willing to conduct diplomatic action.

A former presidential candidate, Ron Paul, is a perfect example of developing an ideology. I generally know how president Paul would act; with Austrian economics and libertarianism in mind. If I agree with these concepts more than any other candidate’s, I’d feel comfortable defending his opinions because they’re concretely based in well defined political theories. This can have negative impacts when you’re ideology becomes so rigid compromise becomes impossible; I get the feeling Ron Paul would shoot the economy in the foot out of a blind faith in the free market.

   Your ideology shouldn’t be as loose as Trump’s
                     or as stubborn as Paul’s
but it’s a good idea to know what your ideology is.
Not knowing your ideology puts you in high risk
             of shouting reactionary nonsense
                     or not participating at all.

If you believe in God, it is your duty to participate. If you hope for the evolution of humanity, it is your duty to participate. All that is asked of you is to clearly understand your opinions and your arguments for your belief in them and keep an open mind. This may seem simple but there’s plenty of people who simply react to whatever happens to be going on and conflate other well developed highways with their dirt road.

They say, “Well, that’s just your opinion.”

Opinions are like *******, they’re usually ****** and nobody wants to be told how to clean theirs up, myself included. Most people live pretty clean lives anyway, but once I start to smell ******* I show them my opinion.

In this stuffy church
I’m roughly hurt
by bugging jerks
judging worth
until I’m dirt.
They drag this out
until I’m filled with doubt
I scream and shout
on a team of drought
I seethe and pout.

I’m the small child
running through the aisle
through their perception I’m wild
I traverse a sea of begrudging smiles
hating my unique style.
They say I’m defiled
and put me through trials
like staring with vile
or spewing their bile
until I’m exiled.

They say I don’t know God
but I see him every day
in art that is beautiful
so no matter what they say
I know I am dutiful.
If they could view my soul
they’d ignore what the losers told
and not abuse my home.

I don’t want to call them heathens
but it seems their grievance
isn’t rooted in my allegiance
or anything I believe in
yet they keep yelling treason
for ulterior reasons.

So I leave their cathedral
of sinister evil
I’m finished with people
and their oppressive steeples.
I project my situation
onto one of the most varied ideologies on the planet
I say they’re all the same
they all play games
of lies and shame
or are boring and lame.

I feel the venom
of resentment
so I won’t reach heaven
or contentment
just what dissent sent
through judgment relentless
I see Satan as a temptress
telling me to end this.

Government secrets undermine democracy
in the same way lies undermine honesty
by circumventing accountability
at the expense of truth and credibility.
As citizens we should have a say in decisions
which is impossible when they’re clandestine.
Proponents say that’s why we have a representative democracy
we choose who handles our secerets
which is fair enough I guess
but once the secrets start *******
how are we supposed to know who should represent us
when we don’t even know what they’re doing?

You’re my afterburn anchor
your array askew
alike an abnormal apparition
an affecting avalanche
asked to dance
with an atom ant.

Size is relative
to the hell you give.
You aggressively grow
in my mind
I shrink in size.

I feel your essence
weighing down on me
like an anchor in my cognition
scraping the bottom of my brain
kicking up dirt from the trenches.

Floating
in space
I find a black loop-
hole and crawl inside
to find the avarice
of imagination.

A fantasy develops
where a disciple
stands before God
and is treated as an equal.

A reality develops
where a heretic
stands before God
and is punished for living in a fantasy.

Circum-
navigating
this frost pit
I consult a locksmith
who’s actually toxic.

Apothecary land-
mines can confine
My carcass kind.

I reach into the abyss
and I’m handed pills.
I sense something’s amiss
once they remove my will.

I’m no stranger to rejection
I only need to hear no once
And I can accept it...

... to a certain extent

Just know if you’re rejecting me
I’ll take your answer seriously
But I’ve already crafted a fantasy in my mind
Where you’ve said yes a thousand times

Can you feel that?
Ah, gifts
** **-**-**-**
** **-**-**-**
** **
** **
** **

Drowning deep in my sea of clothing
Wanting your purchase I feel
(Will you give it to me?)
It seems what's left of my nice side
Is slowly changing in me
(Will you give it to me?)

Looking at my own reflection
When suddenly it changes
Violently it changes (** **)
There is no turning back now
You've woken up the naughty in me

Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Open up your gifts and give them to me
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
You mother get up come on get down with the Christmas
You ****** get up come on get down with the Christmas
Many are the gifts that have been given to me

I can see inside you, the naughty is rising
Don't try to deny what you feel
(Will you give gifts to me?)
It seems that all that was nice has died
And is decaying in me
(Will you give gifts to me?)

It seems you're having some trouble
In dealing with these changes
Living with these changes (** **)
The world is a naughty place
Now that you've woken up the ******* in me

Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Open up your gifts and give them to me
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
You mother get up come on get down with the Christmas
You ****** get up come on get down with the Christmas
Many are the gifts that have been given to me

No mommy, don't stiff me again
Don't do it again
I'll be a nice boy
I'll be a nice boy, I promise
Why do you have to stiff me like that, mommy?
Don't do it again, you're boring me
Why do you have to be such a *****?

Why don't you
Why don't you just ******* and die?
Why can't you just ******* and die?
Never stick store brand in my face again *****
*******
I don't want this ****
You stupid sadistic abusive ******* *****
How would you like to see what's real mommy?
Here it comes, get ready to buy

** **-**-**-**
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
Open up your gifts and give them to me
Get up, come on get down with the Christmas
You mother get up come on get down with the Christmas
You ****** get up come on get down with the Christmas
Many are the gifts that have been given to me

Eric Bischoff ran World Championship Wrestling
Otherwise known as WCW
The only wrestling company to beat the WWF/WWE in the ratings
(At least in the modern era)
Eric Bischoff made many mistakes
And they're well documented
He had many triumphs
And they're well documented
But on top of his successes and failures
Is a mountain of lies
Which are well documented
By wrestling's version of tabloid journalists
Otherwise known as "dirt sheet writers"
Who sell lies and gossip to their marks
They sell the delusion of knowing the inner workings of wrestling
They sell the inner workings of a dirt sheet writer's imagination
Negativity, cynicism, petulance and paranoia
Eric Bischoff has a distaste for these writers
Because their lies taint the viewer's experience
He tries to fight their lies with truth
But his effort is futile
Because there's an endless amount of pessimists
Willing to believe any cynical narrative thrown their way
And there's only one Eric Bischoff

There are crickets in my room
Somewhere not reached by my broom
They keep chirping
To alert me
Of what hurts me
They’ve made a mess
In my nest
But I can’t find it
To confine it
Like I’m blinded

Mistakes were made
Hurting my name
Bringing me shame
So I live in a grave
Where crickets lay
They can’t be slain
So their noise remains

The crickets are beckoning
Bringing my reckoning
With a sound that’s threatening
Because it’s so deafening

The crickets infest my home
So I’m never really alone
They live in my basement and attic
Chirping until I’ve finally had it
I jump out my window like a rabbit
To avoid their noise so emphatic
But out here the crickets sing prouder
With a chorus that’s even louder
The crickets buzz like an alarm
Reminding me of my harm
They’ll sing for me to disarm
Until I change or wither
So I’m a plagued sinner
Who’ll never be a winner
Wrestling with damage inner

I eluded their noise
So nukes were deployed
And my nation destroyed
By a sound that annoyed
Me until I couldn’t avoid
Not being conscience devoid

I ask for forgiveness
All I hear are crickets
And cops giving tickets
In this concrete thicket
That I need to picket

Why do I speak in tongues?
Is it just for fun
Or to leave people stunned?

The Holy Spirit fills me with joy
I want to say something beautiful
But no words are beautiful enough
So I speak in tongues

A demon possesses me with misery
I want to say something evil
But no words are evil enough
So I speak in tongues

When words escape my lungs
I speak in tongues
About the life I’ve spun