The Human Condition As Portrayed By The God Particle At The Center Of The Venn Diagram (Would Make For Some Great Reality Television)

It appears to me
For all intents and purposes
That they are content

Day after day

Huddled around the water cooler
And coffee maker
Talking about their shared interest of things
Like

‘Brangelina’
‘Snookie’
‘HG TV’
‘Dancing With The Stars’
‘Entertainment Weekly’ magazine...

‘NJ Housewives’
‘DC Housewives’
‘Central Pacific Out In The Middle Of Nowhere Housewives’
‘Transgendered Housewives’

And if nothing new
Were to be discovered
From these morning summits

So be it.

They are comfortable with the same routine
Of living their lives
Through others
In a box
From a sofa
And existing to the next day
To tell about it.

Each one
Already knowing the answers
Dissing the others
For they passed by their GED’s
And got their doctorate
In such fleeting things
As important as this.

I’m sure many
Fall asleep
Alone
On the sofa.

The particle
Gets smaller
And

Smaller.

Destination Mars

It was day three
Of a four day junk bender
Which would’ve been longer
Except the money was running out.

The party was gonna come to an end soon
And that wasn’t gonna be pretty.

It was Dave’s turn to make a run
To the store
For a score
And he looked like shit.

Hell...
We all looked like shit.

When he came back
That was gonna be it.

We were gonna hafta find money
One way or another
Whether it was stealing
Selling
Or begging
Or else the party really was over.

But all of that didn’t matter at that moment.

I was playing DJ
Spinning records on the turntable.

There were plenty of pillows on the floor
And while Dave was gone
There were just three of us left.

Me and two girls.

We lay there limp and sprawled
White of a three day high
Chapped lips
Metallic breath
Listening to Einsturzende Nuebauten
Usted Ghulam Hussein Khan
Hement Kumar’s
“Songs From Hindi Films”
Gregorian Chants
23 Skidoo
Velvet Underground
And Iggy Pop.

When Dave finally crawled back
We could tell that he was already high.

We could see that the bag was short
Which was against our housebound junkie principles.

Technically
We were supposed to wait
Until we got back to the party
To get high.

We were really pissed off
And really jealous.

The girls turned
Their ‘Bitch’ mode up full volume
To the point of
Hysterical screaming
In stereo.

It was too much.
I couldn’t take it any more.

“Look” I said.

“Anyone of us might’ve done the same thing”

“Let’s just get high and forget about it”

We did.

The girls were pros and hit themselves.

I put on
Annette Peacock’s “I’m The One”
Bauhaus “The Sky’s Gone Out”
Minnie Ripperton’s “Adventures In Paradise”.

Things became distant and forgotten
Within the black channels of
Lydia Lunch
And Throbbing Gristle.

We drifted off
All of us
To the repetitive click
Of the lock groove
At the end of
A Cachao record.


I awoke parched
Lips cracked
The early afternooon sun
Illuminating dust.

I looked around
Lifted the needle off of the record.

We were all strange friends
Not to be trusted
Curled around each other
Mouths open
Like corpses.

I shuffled to the fridge for some juice.
I had a sweet tooth coming on.

The fridge was empty.

It was going to be a very rough day ahead.

Horology

There is a rip... there
In the sky
Where the moon
Is pulling from its socket
Like a soft egg eye

Dangling
Vericose
Swinging
Gently
From a thin blue vein

Slow pendulum movement
Like a dusty German clock
Geartrain spinning inside
Frictionlessly
Ratchet clicking
Antique motion work
In need of slight adjustment
And cleaning

Time slowing
As the bob falls lower
Behind cumulus clouds

The tall black trees
Stand there
Spines cracking
Vertabrae separating
As bones of hands reach high
To pass the hour mark

Waiting
With
Decelerating
Breath
For the fragile yolk
To break lose and fall

Nightbirds go blind
As the sky goes dark
Clouds disappearing
And somewhere
A clock keeper
Trips
And bruises himself badly
As he climbs
The heavy wooden stairs
Of the cold stone tower

He settles
Alone
Chilled
Weeping
As his bells
Remain silent

Blues For A Dying Marriage

It was a molotav cocktail

Too much booze
Shaken
Not enough love and tenderness

Lots of bitters

The garden
Once her pride and joy
Rested
Defeated
Surrendering all of it’s splendor
To ugly weeds and vines
Wrapping around the trunks and branches
Of the small flowering trees
Wresting breath and animation

A botanical of the grave

The fairies were missing

Devils had moved in

Within glass bottles
That would be hidden
In the back of closets
And under the bed

Forgotten about

Like the pot on the stove

Love and intimacy
Burned away inside
With the brittle chicken bones
Turning ash grey black with carbon

The flowers of romance
Long withered and fallen

Petals crisp without color
Spread around the base of a vase of clear glass
Of which the dark departed stems were visible
In the futid green foamy septic water

Let Me Tell You About Some Of My Social Shortcomings

Just as soon as I finish
Flipping off the asshole driver
In front of me and tell
Him to go fuck himself
Because he is driving
Too godamn slow
Causing me to be later
Than I already am
For something that is way more
Fucking important
Than his pilgrimage to the pharmacy
On his retirement schedule
Upon this congested two lane highway

This road to hell...

Coffee In Bed

Well...

I think I had
The WORST sex
I’ve ever had
Last night.

I mean...

Look...

Why even bother?

If you’re that boring
Why not just turn on the TV
Or listen to Justin Bieber.

This morning
She brought coffee
Into bed
And proceeded to ask
Dull questions
Like

“Where’s the strangest place you’ve had sex?”

Really?

I rattled off a long list of places
Others might find strange.

But
What I REALLY wanted to reply
Was

“The strangest place I’ve ever had sex was here in YOUR bed!”

Now that I look back
And think about it

The coffee wasn’t that hot either.

Datura Stramonium Delirium

I feel lovely tonight
As I lie in my bed
Breathing in the soft frocks
Spinning open like a ballerina’s skirt
On pointe

Floating
Simply
Couru
Glissade
Across the wooden floor
Like the ghosts
That live here
With me

One a member of the
First Nation’s tribe
Algonquian
That is trying to speak to me
In his ancestral tongue
Ojibwe
As the erect trunks
Of the Devil’s Trumpet
Reach high up into the midnight moon’s glow
Of the October sky
A good eight to nine feet tall
Orange bell flowers
Hanging just below my windows
Glowing
Like small lit pumpkins

I lie quietly in bed
Breathing in tropane alkaloids
Atropine
Hyoscyamine
Scopolamine

And I understand
As he tells me
How the Lord Shiva
Was fond of smoking the Datura
And that they smoked together once
Using the Algonquian pipe
Spending several days
Crossing skies
And galaxies

Holding hands
And dancing

Grand Jete
Entrechat
Fouette En Tournant

The Indian man presented his pipe
To the Lord as a gift
And they still keep in touch
As spirits can

The Indian man ghost
Closed my eyes
With his invisible fingers
Offering me protection

As ballerinas’ skirts drop
At different times
Throughout
The length of night
Landing
Upon the ground
Far below
Leaving their attractive white legs
Naked and exposed