clever, son, these women are

            oh so clever

they’ll break you, son, and leave you to your own devices

you might break one

            and you might break many

but we, son, we are not clever enough

            to break these cinder-block women.

we pound and pound

            bloodied fist to the sky

The dull thudding of humanity throught the ages.

but we, son, can not cleave our way into clever

mientras tanto

in the meanwhile
I write bad poems and drink bad beer
since the good sonnet and
the beer that won’t hang you over the ledge
is like the lotto ticket of the week
hard to come by
and worthless
if you buy in to late.

in the meanwhile
I wait for salvation and redemption
as if big church words
could make up for the small world words
that clog up the spiritual arteries of this
slowly fading
heartbeat of a world

I fear the police and I fear the desperate thud that will reverberate throughout
when my ideals crumble
in the meanwhile
I sit and watch as Death takes over my fish tank
by way of a dirty filter
and a lack of love.

My fish tank is something like the women who have fallen for me
,sans warning,
hard

There is something horribly wrong with capitalism
and the wars we have given our virginity to.
We lay here, bleeding from our collective cunt, wondering
what the fuck went wrong
not realizing that while we were so busy
being American
the world got tired of looking for a rubber
big enough

 
in the meanwhile
we turn around
and have our own fun
with the smaller, petite, countries
that have a fat, oily ass
which acts as lube and a little buffer too
because we sure as hell would hate to see them suffer.

it’s an orgy of ideals
in which we all end up a little fucked
and wake up the next morning
not so much worried if it was right or wrong
but where our wallets are
and how in the hell are we going to get home.

 
in the meanwhile
I sit here
writing the bad poems
and drinking the cheap beer
waiting for my fish to die
and for someone, anyone, to call
and tell me
“Chris honey, you ain’t that far off from the truth
and they ain’t givin you shit,
they ain’t given nobody nothing
but a hard fucking time”

and then maybe
just maybe
I’ll believe in us all
making it through

but in the meanwhile….

There is a certain side of me that wishes this were all a dream.

I really want to wake up someday, in a world I have forgotten, and breathe

,deeply,

an air so wrought with sincerity that it burns.

Somewhere below these base thoughts of mine

there is a recognizance of the difference between

the self

and the tragically mundane around me.

and farther down, below that which was below that which I didn't even perceive to exist,

is a sad little boy playing the smallest drum.

He cries little dripping tears

and ejaculates into the eyes of humanity.

Rumble, young man, rumble

because someday your drum will break

and the man that held you, like a chickadee, in his heart will die.

I, too, shall die.

I was once immortal.

But you're only immortal until you die.

Then you're only dead.

There is a certain side of me that sees the futility in writing all this down.

The madness will outlast us all.

The whores and the hungry are stronger than me.

They fuck and are fucked while I,

I am just a tit-hungry animal lookin' to score.

I see no form to this life.

Other then the bookends of birth and death,

not ends perhaps, commas and semicolons are more like it.

The breathe in between phrases is what keeps us guessing.

We like to think of it in terms of heaven and hell and some say rebirth.

But I think death is daily for us,

the whores and the hungry of this nation.

with my iPod and iLife

There is a certain side of me that wishes this were all a dream

and that really

            ,really really,

I am you.

Reading this, slowly at times, glossing over at other times.

You could be me.

Madly mundane.

A very Kafka-esque proposition, no?

(personally I have always hated cockroaches)

But no, you are you and I am I,

because the powers of soul have deemed it so.

So you will not know my pain evermore and I will never have to read

this bullshit

and wonder, what the fuck is wrong with this kid.

"Doesn't he know the Greats didn't write this shit?

Yeats had form and Whitman had purpose.

Maybe Kerouc, maybe that crazy sonofabitch would agree with this kid.

But at least he had Ginsberg to even him out.

Where is your Ginsberg, son?

What school are you from and why don't you suck a little literary dick here and there,

it'll fill you with something worthwhile."

I think I may have lost my mind many lives ago.

This is all facade.

We reek of corpulent failure.

We have glorified the pussy and objectified our wars.

There is little grace in being political

there is little grace in being, period.

The borders are broken and morals are playthings for politicians

And terrorism, true terrorism, is in the eye of every little

American boy and girl

who sees the TV

and shits their pants

in elation.

I need a cigarette and a beer and friend who will not kill himself.

I need a God who will yell me off when I'm wrong and a woman who will

shut the fuck up

every so often.

I need to focus on waking from all of this.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up damn it.

Wake up.

matadora ebria

(drunk matador)

You call
sloppily and slurring
ever so slightly, your words
you tell me how very much you love me.

I listen
sitting here, in my rented room with a midnight view of the neighbor’s yard,
and think to myself
[there is no hope]

Of course, there is hope
for the wars and the starving children and perhaps even for Fidel and Justice.

But for us
punch-drunk lovers
there is only a gory collage
of arguments and sex; alcohol and tears

Hemingway’s bulls knew love more than
you and I

So tell me, dear
how much do you really love me
and how much blood will we spill to realize
[there is no hope]

The early morning hues are spreading wildly
                                                prettier than all the pretty people.

They scream of your triumphs
                                    over me

And me
I’ll rest for now
,my tiny little matador,
for the fight is young
and there is not yet a hint of red
in these eyes of mine.

Young Minds Active

we take to streets like the young turned old

of some 3 or so decades ago

like them

we got something to fight for

fight against fighting

fuck the war they say

we take to streets because we have a purpose

though no one seems none to sure what it is

Immigration or Iraq

kids are dying to have a cause to die for

fuck the war they say

we take to streets because being locked up in your house all lonely like is hardly the

American Dream

we have clever banners and fight songs galore

no, we don’t kiss rifles with daisies

but we know right from wrong and this system is screwing us all

they say

but I’m well fed, and there is enough money for spirits and dancing

(though being hyper-social has never really been my style)

I don’t take to streets because to be honest, I don’t care that much

you’re a punk they yell, unitedly disgusted

yeah

I’m the lonely one locked up in my house

pissing into the wind with a cigarette in hand

I don’t got the gumption, brother

fuck the war I say

but I know full well

they are, all of them,  going to fuck us anyways

and I think

id like a little privacy for that