The Harangue

 

For Sid and Nancies…

I am the new preacher, the neo-preacher, same as the oldest preacher, before the Christ preacher came, we never Went, we are just priests, there is no difference between you and me, this is Our sermon…If I told you tomorrow was the end of existence would you believe me? Why would you, why wouldn’t you, is it not possible, that tomorrow should be the last, or maybe the day after that, does it seem so far fetched and strange, or do we already suspect as much?…frail, old, wise men, who stumble about on bar stools looking for something in their pockets, for something they have lost, something they thought they had put away, to pull out later, but the hole that is in the pocket of their frail, old, wise pants is only meant for loss of some things…casuistic insomnia, gladness and terror, fear of thoughts, of madness of things that lurk outside, 10,000 miles away, down the street, treading on far soil, next door, hating you, -thinking, of their wantings, what you have, never to know each other, but in distant, momentary contemplations, dwelt predisposed…you’ve got two choices when you stay at my place, you sleep with me, or you sleep on the floor...quick-blink-fade escape, of a lost soul, softness and silent wing flapping of a murder of crows, taking flight at the sound of a single shotgun blast, Van Gogh is dead again…flapping violently to get nowhere, we are mired, looking dully at each other, wondering what to do next, someone burps, maybe we should have another drink…when I was young, I did not understand the world, things seemed simpler, of course, things also seemed to make more sense in that simplicity, no worries of physics proofs or mathematical theory, the world was fluid, as I grow old the static increases, now, I can barely walk without a shock of truth…mentioning the mood previous to the present state of your mind, you seemed more lucid then, addled and lost today, your eyes wet with red, ’I am not the same anymore’, you proclaim, as I finish my dinner with a nod, it is not a new story, you just don’t handle reality with a firm grip, -loose hold on your life, this one is yours…subjective, everyone’s individual perceptions, seeing everything unlike the way anyone else sees, for him a focus on corners, for her geometry, or his sloping curves, one sees the faults and moles and scars, while another sees the eyes first and most, another watches the mouth, the teeth, the words dance from the lips, the color of the skin unnoticed, some blind of all sight, synesthetic awareness, one person knows every facet of their own face, from long, daily inspection, but another barely recognizes themselves when caught off guard, stunned with a sideways glance in passing reflections…whenever I awaken, and open my eyes on the world, (not all days, but most), I see so much beauty it overwhelms me, I want to cry, and then I see the hate in as many places, and I want to laugh, at the way we treat one another, what we do to ourselves, the pain Is pleasurable if you let it, it Is life-stuff, take care…the Plebeians raise right hands and cheer, ‘never again’, ‘never again’, ‘never again’, and with their left, strike out old familiar chords, echoing the songs of ex-history anew, refreshed, rebottled, rekindled, lit to burn once again, its ashes more than adequate for ample flame, with quotidian ambiance…oneirically pensive, contemplations far off, forgotten nothings of fantastic creations within a pinpoint of the mind, furthest reflections in contorted mythology, regarding the most important nothings in our worries, awaken, and forget, wiped clean from sore restorative attempts, unconscious, unbeknownst and fruitless…grayer days are sure to be the frequent presence of many tomorrows, until a brighter spring, long months from today, be grateful night is there, to hide the dreariness, the weight of frozen, hanging over all the empty streets in seasonal wedlock, with the sharp, whistling north wind…and when midnight comes think good thoughts of what was, what no longer is and what will not be here again…and it don’t smell like trees anymore…

 

Chit Chat

talking on the phone
for over three hours
to my ex wife
sex and fucking talk
seems she picked up masturbating
since shes not getting laid
and wants her vibrator back
I told her to come and get it
I’d give it to her
she told me we’d fuck again
and I look forward
to eating out her plump pussy
she enjoys like no woman I’ve ever met
and I miss feeling like master of something
whether it’s a vagina or a kingdom
a man has to have his realm

 

Time to take a little trip

Tired drives through a rainy city
dark at mid day
the station on the radio
always playing
the same song
scratching my face
with the relief
that no one wonders
where I am at
no one is concerned with my state of mind
or sexual relations

droopy eyed with sunglasses to hide
a yawn to give
nothing new to see
but flashes of consumerism
raplacing the failures of the past
to sell their wares
to those willing and with a buck
the song on the radio changes
and it’s the same song
they always play

I think I’ve been here before
and turn right at the light
as I always do
its not my car
I have nowhere to go
if I decided to keep on driving
never look back
no one would wonder where I was
except the man whose car I drive

I’ll be sure to send it back
in the US mail
first class
with a tank full of gas

 

Melody of Friction

T told A too much of this and that
B was not pleased and proceeded to throttle T
A just stood on shaking his head
occasionally letting out a small chuckle
as T received an unusually fantastic blow
in the end B was satisfied
T was repentant for now
and A continued to lose faith in mankind
with the sort of grace
an eagle uses to maneuver high in the clouds
on a clear cold winter day

 

shit

I hate
getting shit
on my hands
when wiping
away
a particularly nasty
you

 

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