UBU

 walking through those doors

my eyes had been opened

but I was still just looking

through the shop window

it was all a celebration

of being true, of being you

but I hadn't a clue

who that was yet

I mean I shared a lot 

with everyone present

but the glamor, the bling

the attitude and masks weren't me

maybe that was why they had all come

maybe that is why I had too

to be someone else

who wasn't rated less

to not be a second-class citizen

to not feel the backside 

of your father's hand after he

found out who you really are

but to feel the acceptance

from familiar strangers and

love of self that you had

thrown away long ago

because every stare told you

you didn't deserve it

every sermon from the pulpit

every discriminatory law 

every joke made at your expense

sold you the lie that you're not worthy

 but the beating pulse

of the rhythmic bodies

the queen named Bruce

serving drinks at the bar

you watching me

watching him watching you

the tragedy of future lovers

and unforgettable loves that never were

the sweat and heat and flesh

and tears in lonely cocktails

all of this queer chaotic scene

told you not only are you more than worth it

but there's more than just you

you're not the island you were born as

not anymore, no longer

you are part of the most brilliant sea of souls

that illuminate the darkest parts of this life

Dear Michael,

your birthday was so close 

to my favorite holiday

and you decided to leave all of this

so close to my birthday

that would have been 

a really shitty present

if you had intended it

but I know I wasn't even close

to being on your mind, then

I wish I had known 

what had been on your mind, then

not sure if I could have made you stay

not sure if I could have offered

something that would have 

changed your mind

and what a fucked up place

to leave from

I mean Omaha of all cities

but I guess that wouldn't have

mattered much, then

I know not a lot 

mattered much, then

except for the pain

the inescapable emptiness

of course I'm just guessing

but just in case you can hear

what I'm telling you now

just in case by some chance

these words get to you

I know the world misses you

and that it's not better without you

even if you thought that, then

and if nothing else

I would have wanted to call

you friend

Re-habit

 he has a bad habit

he stole it from a nun

23 years ago

well, she never used it anyway

and to him it feels

like the fibers of cloth

in the belly of a moth

the sinking feeling 

that perhaps he did 

something wrong

at some point

so he's just waiting

for the finger to point his way

but he hasn't seen it yet

through the bottom of his glass

for that's how he views

a lot of his life

through the bottom of his glass

as the drowning feels better

than the sinking

well, he lives in a desert anyway

and the phone hasn't rang

with a nun on the other end

asking for her habit back

 

Pocketful of change

 currency is just a faith we all pay

for the flesh

and faith is just a currency we all attempt to pay

for the soul

the confusion of these results in religion

in all its gawdy array of manifestations

and nightmarish words of knowing

what the great mystery actually is

and worse yet words of what 

the great mystery wants

but currency is no saint either

it's just the opposite face of the same coin 

it shares with faith

currency itemizes the worth of everything

when so much of existence is completely priceless

and not a single cent can purchase

the first or last breath

a regret or the lack there of

a missed opportunity of the lack there of

emptiness or completeness

currency can't even buy the faith 

that is the make up of it's very existence

that takes the human psyche

in all its floundering absurdities,

inhibitions and desires

which brings us back to the price of faith

that so many find themselves indebted to 

and there's only one coin one can spend

to realize the validity of that

Samhain seduction

 constant is the voice

out in the dark

beckoning from the sky

across celestial seas

singing the hymns of the stars

descending and nestling 

within the serpent of the spine

knocking deep within the chest

melodies that have led kings to ruin

that have led mothers away from children

and uprooted trees from forests

this voice that speaks

from the great mystery

an utter seduction of the soul

to shed existence

pull open the sheer veil that wanes

and pass through to eternity 

no greater gravity is there

than what is between us and the unknown

Reluctant zombies

 belly up to the bar

and pick your poison

anything you could ask for

anything you could want

to numb the pain

numb the sorrow

lift the spirit out of mundane boredom

because let's face it

the everyday drudgery is just as taxing

as the extraordinary trauma

this spinning globe has to offer

for this a place to escape

escape anything you're running from

the ghosts that call to you from the past

the monsters lurking at your door now

or those unseen horrors anticipating what's next

because whatever it is

that is pounding at your chest

playing your nerves like the strings of a diabolical symphony

they can be paused

they can be temporarily vanquished

from this liquid in the bottle

or that chemical pounded pill

or that puff of smoke laden with Shangri-La ha ha ha

to make you coo and purr and sleep this all away

as if all these sordid emotions

these ongoing, my-fucking-god burdens within you soul

or these debts that just keep growing

like ticks fattening on your heart's own tits

are just some horrible nightmare

you can watch in the wee hours on some low budget cable channel

but their not, and this is not

and it is rarely a good idea to ignore all this

but as is tradition, bottoms up

better the illusion than...

Upon reflection

I'm a mirror 

so most hate me

because they hate themselves

except for the few vampires

 

Flight

 cradled in the darkest feathers

carried through the night

moonbeams falling on pale flesh

wings heaving through the air

chilling to the skin

thrilling to the soul

forest hymn arises from the wind

heralding the choir of chaos

calling from the stars above

eyes darker than the nocturne veil

peer into the innocence held in its bosom

no issuance of terror from lips

frozen yet in the hypnotizing abyss

behind the wings, and feathers, and eyes

yet this theft was freely given

a release from a cell of misery

originating within crosses and clergy

rooted in judges, scripture, and fire

this order that knows no bounds

except for the ones they indulge in

ignoring the natural order of the chaotic choir

that descends from the stars far above

the creatures calling from the wild

offering the escape from those prisons

on wings that sail through the unknown

fueled by the reaper's breath

freedom passed on through truth, love

or in this oh too often case, death

The uninvited

 trauma is a sneaky bastard

that carries a knife behind its back

it will take that blade out subtly 

and decapitate you when you're not looking

to replace your head with its own

it will lie to all your friends

telling them you're too busy for them

just so it can keep you to itself

it will hurl stones at your family

so they will keep their distance

while it wines and dines you

to the bottom of a bottomless glass

it will start speaking in your place

cloning its temperament onto your own

you will become its patient for impatience

leaving a bitterness in your mouth

and a shattering chaos in your heart

it will shutter the windows to your soul

so you will only find disturbance outwardly

and not a note of peace from within

it will do all this so it may spread

as the viral illusive beast that it is

so you not only serve as its victim and host

but its most precious servant and tool

biding its time within you until

it seizes the moment to strike again

 

Red maple wet

 phantom of a plane

drifts through the low 

hanging whispers of 

this day's downpour

the beads of its blessings

stain the windshield

on the chilling journey home

advancing green turns

slowing yellow and halted red

in the mirrored streets

and echoes of the darkening day

all those shiny streets

and miniature rivers flow

home to Ruthman and fading

flora faces looking down and humble

below the giant, red, maple, wet

The stone

 it was your eyes beneath the moon

the waves in the breeze

the fluid of your clothes

the waltz of your hair

the stars were candlelight

glowing in the chamber

we were enveloped within

this chamber that pulsed

to the sanguine rhythm 

of our heated veins

it was your eyes beneath the moon

that lured me into your chest

you caged me there

a prisoner to your desire

as I slumbered to the sound

of your thumping heart

the fading faint percussion

within in my prison cell

it was your eyes beneath the moon

the smoke rolling off your soul

inhaling, suffocating, surrendering

collapsing at the precipice

that echoed your name

shouting it through my bones

I would gladly sip your breath

to relinquish your final rest

 

Of what returns

 some of us are comfortable 

with the idea that we will return to the earth

but I haven't met anyone comfortable 

with the idea that some things return from the earth

but it's heard from pulpits and tents

ye must be born again

yet if it's actually done

it's damnation of the soul

even from those whose lord

asked them to eat his flesh 

and quench their thirst for his blood

and he himself stole from the tomb

bringing life from death

becoming the rebellious spirit

that had previously been cast out

always the daring to be used for visions

and then burnt at the stake

drained of their potions

then pressed with judgements and condemnations

robbed of their philosophies

and drowned in the public's poison

for fear burns in the unknown

and they're willing to sell their souls to know

but none of them are willing to actually pay the piper

and return from the earth from whence they came

 

 

 

Internstellar

 my heavenly father wears

Icarus wings

will he crash and burn

like they did in Roswell

will the earth be scorched

like Helios' folly

is that how Hell was built

were they all chiming in

on the same tale

of my heavenly parents

the stars themselves

no longer able to shine

faded and fell

giving their bodies to the earth

is this dust their flesh

is my flesh their dust

do I eat it in remembrance of them

and give thanks they live on in me

or am I the fragment

the tear that fell from heaven

when the waters parted 

and I am just here

in the ocean

with all the other fragments

Litter

 his styling 

a fine tuned engine

radiating from his chest

in preparation of perpetration

smirking reflection in the glass

as future phantoms run

their fingers from dimpled cheek

to chin

this made up façade

ready for a nocturnal ride

the glamorous splendors

flowing from charmed fork tongue

light his way through darkened rooms

and drunken strangers

into glass after glass

and ash after ash

the final splash...

his pale flesh revealed

in morning

in the alley

in a pool of his own