the other room

i don't know what i feel when i kiss you-
stranger. strange, strangled
by the expectations of conformity.

i don't know what i'm feeling-
stranger. strange, drinking
to drown out reality.

i don't know who i am without you-
stranger. strange, validated
by the maxims of society

i know i want you-
stranger. strange, yearning
for aoristic validity.

Installation 1: 'Oh The Crazy Things She'll Say'

Behind the Desk: Office Conversations

b: offices are not assigned by democracy.
s: [chimes in] they're assigned by cheerocracy!
b: (blank, frighteningly incredulous stare)

note to self: save that one for the members of the y-generation.

the metamorphosis of doubt

i never questioned inveterate decisions,
conferring to society’s maxims concerning “how it’s supposed to be”.
i followed ‘the’ path with sheep’s resistance
and, as a testament to irrational self-efficacy,
i, donning cap and gown, submitted to torturous commencement pageantry.
a little over a year ago i thought i’d change the world.
but instead it changed me.

with my, now, vestigial education and
a brain full of pretty, useless theories
(and a pocket full of debt)
i was shoved back into the life i loved leaving
and the routine (i still haven’t outgrown, yet):
“wash your fucking dishes,
don’t leave your shoes around the house,
and pick up the dog shit”
(…you let your dogs shit in your house?!)
it is the same old story the, now, lapidary rebukes
told in the same old ways…but to older ears this time.
ears that have listened to teachers
-for answers-
for fundations, for knowless and freedumb
but instead of finding illumination
only the usual impedimenta of life were gained:
a brain festooned with theory
and adorned with the barnacles of change
i soon realized that the theoretical lessons i had learned were far from sound
and in the ‘real world’ i could not sell real-estate on ideas that had no ground–
we are in a recession and that’s all that’s real in this state
and it’s the world i am indebted to, for my greatest post-grad lesson:
that condemning occupation is only a form of mental masturbation,
an unfortunate side-effect of the egocentric y-generation,
a voyeur obsessed with instant gratification
so thank you, world,
it seems i’ve been schooled by your economic education.

"The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles"

time is fleeting and we confound,
looking ahead
instead
with looking down.

(slightly sadistic) reading rainbow

-"where's the gold?" asked the child once he found the end of the rainbow.

-the leprechaun turned around with unbridled exasperation and asked--what he decided must have been the most idiotic little man he had ever met--"you know that we're in a recession right!?"

--the small boy stared blankly at the green clad child with a mans voice and facial hair--

-"goddammit little man are you going to make me say it!?" the words exploded from the leprechaun's mouth with a fire only rivaled by the color of his flaming locks.
"i sold it on cashforgold.com, ALRIGHHT!"

--the child cried and the leprechaun was found years later slinging pot and hoarding lucky charms in his 8 story walk up in paris.

life's a bitch. rainbows are pretty. the end.

space

we are all connected
but none of us are touching
we are all touching
but none of us are touched
how am i still one when there are spaces between my atoms
and you between my legs
how am i still one when there are thoughts that i deny
and feelings i relive, constantly
i am revived

how am i whole when voids exist between the nothingness,
holes in my whole i am existing?
and how should i feel if there is nothing real about you, or me
is life in fact a series of all things, anticipated?
is life to be lived anticipating, me?

are things ever done?
do we live in meta lives, in meta worlds, in the hives
of bees
busy, busy, busy
the universe works
in accord, accordingly. to the sound of the accordion
in accordance with it's chords, recording
breath. breathing in, breathe out.
expansion, contraction, relaxation,
empty, nothingness.
something is? nothing in everything is something.
everything in nothing is quite a thought, big even. odd.

but being even is often odd when times are hard.
and hard times measure oddly even on different scales.
and the oneiric burden of consistent easy days
can even oddly far outweigh
the challenge in finding pleasure, in often oddly easy ways.

grande (non) fata morgana, please.

a caffeine induced phantasmagoria of life:
of glasses half full and of minds half empty,
of feline spines encasing feminine guise,
of walking skeletons starved for attention,
of all you can eat and of pedicured feet.
regrets for the undone, regrets redone, and those done regretting.

of rubber and tools and electric machines,
of brain and mirco and aqueous waves,
of inspiration, of pain and of glorious dreams,
of the old, of the future and of modern day slaves,
of the man, of she-story, of remarkable progress,
of the plan, of restraint, and of growth, egregious.

of penchants for pain and sachets of patchouli,
of schemas brokered and of images bought and maintained
of market price, of retail value and gross domestic coquetry.
and the true effect of language: profuse universal mondegreen.

atlas,t.

a boundless sunrise raised mountains from my skin
standing on a precipice where possibilities converge
my bones were chilled with electric wind
as i stood tremendous against the incessant urge
to dive into the abyss of your infinities.
i was lost upon the shore of unknown futures, lands and histories

i stand there still, frozen in the expanse
of chance. yearning for your offer,
diffusing through boundaries set, to dance
in and about your wonder.
lines erased and redrawn accordingly
reflecting panoptic eyes inquiring nomadically.

the fructuous escapes from the everyday
weave the tapestry of life, free from distrait,
and the constancy of the inconsistent mind
providing safety where few divine
to dwell in the luxury of never
and the opportunities of always, forever.

tarradiddles

words are expensive
and you're broke.

a prairie waltz

as green as suburban grass
we know not the expanse
of time. and at the expense
of innocence
we wander.

on long plateaus,
long espoused
to weeds and wonder,
the peaks and valleys of reason we ponder
expatiating fortune's vicissitudes.

tracing fine lines
of jackal's tricks and labyrinthine minds
the road is often lost,
taking more than sunshine now to melt the frost
of age.

we can no longer love, unabashedly.
we know to much to live, irrationally.
it is the onus of the young
to bite their tongue
or be a flibbertigibbet.

the old doff the curtails of youth
and speak their mind uncouth
fearing not what others think
only living to drink
in life.

and before the days grow darker
than the nights of halcyon slumber,
we learn that life is a choice
an affect of our voice
live it, be or die.