Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Early-morning brain clogs with a drain backing up water,
And the plumber wont come calling until after noon
With caffeine, a monkey wrench, and an exposed ass crack.

These kids say they're tired but their bodies are restless,
Bouncing off the walls, with their tongues moving faster
When striking against the hard pallet on the roof of their mouths,
Syncopated with short, fast bursts of exhalation
--These hypocritical children are either dishonest with me
Or their prepubescent selves.

I can't focus in this hornet's nest of chatter
So it's time to crank up the heat
And sedate these suckers with a filmstrip.
They've learned well in knowing that their desks
Make one helluva pillow.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Living a life chasing pictures in-and-out
Of the frame of perspective possessed
By the imagination of the individual
Depends on how wide the frame is made,
And how clear the resolution.
When everything is distant and muddled
It equates to presentation without interpretation;
Instantaneous information is synonymous
With no thought, and no resolution.
Nothing is gained in the constant obscuring
And overloading of information.
No sustained thought mistaken
For the fault of the hyperactive individual
Conditioned with bombardment
And blinders attached to the sides of their eyes.

Some people never learned to appreciate
The potential of a still picture.
Dissecting and assembling it,
Learning to move within it,
Learning to expand the boundaries
Of a frame with golden paint chipped.
Those people just look at it
Without question, and just move on.
Passing judgment in a moving car,
Thinking that person always drive that bad.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Notes From Departures

Little kids on a leash coming off a stuffed-monkey's ass
Attached to the hand of glassy eyed parents
With white-knuckle grips around their coffee and brood.

Tittering teenagers acting too old before they even know
What being out on their own is really about.
Mom and Dad's plastic is in their pockets, searing white hot.

Dead-eyed co-pilots with the Thousand-Yard Stare
When not checking needles and flipping switches
They focus on the clouds until they see white blots while blinking.

Heavy-tattooed hipsters catching the Red Eye latte
On the last flight out to some festival with a band they envy.
Their soon to be white skin burned black and crispy.
When the near-blind man converses with the drunkard,
He can only sorta see what that fool's getting at.
Pecking away at the night with pungent breath
And falling deeper into the blackness
With hazy memories and hopes of self-control
As the only lifelines he has.

But each handshake exchanged,
No fucks
No shits
Are accepted as currency---
Not even traveler's checks are taken
At this establishment with these social bureaucrats,
Who focus too much on social protocols and procedures.
Everything has to be in order
Before they get what they want,
And even then you have to make your appearance
Near the end of a queue, with a ticket in hand,
Waiting for your number to be spoken through a pane of glass.
Let's rot out our teeth,
And all fall down.