osaka

i'm looking forward to being incredibly happy
rising with the sun firmly on my boundary
trapped far from myself and searching for answers
in the hearts and eyes of the loves i'll be lost in, with
no wonderful tongue to know, lost, lost in the
cherry snow, black dark black on streets and trains,
eyes and hairs all matched the same,
all merry madness unfriendly and tame.
i'm looking forward to low expectations
nothing from no one that no one owes me,
unthinking free from the firm hand,
selfish at last, unfolding in the garden of
my own end. they won't have nixon to kick around anymore
(I'm nixon) here, where
i could never be glimpsed, let alone seen,
or ever known in that full capacity through which
they would have known my awesome glory. oh my dead end
self-contradictory android nation, programmed for destruction--
i'll sigh when i see it go, having learned and always known
what not a single person could ever see in wasted years not listening
to me.

mothers thrown off lightly tonight, without a second thought,
their power grown from milk consumed rejected by their healthy sons.
nothing known, by nothing, no one--empty at last, free of delusion.
i'm your disconnected anchor, sinking slowly, smiling,
i've given you that pride you have, and you wield it so capably--
i have no need to fight you, son, because you're still my child--
i'd have destroyed you at any time, if that's what you desired.
instead i'll bow and take my leave, from this sad scene with no worthy audience
to read into the truth and lies and balance of morality--
or who is true and who deluded, who's to say for sure--
all i know is that i don't mind, all i know is i can't care,
i'll exit left with credits kept, the aftermath laid bare

shade

no rest
for wild droves in love,
rebellion, petty, profiting
from half a world away--
the rest of us are wheat and
chaff, shifting, reaped and suffering,
or rooted where we stay.

electric giants

darn those dadwives and please
pass me the baguettes--
unsafely steered cold aftermath by
an old power saved
from consequence. armed
by feet firmly planted,
each emblazoned and laced in
odd cardboard formations
and  molded plexi.
so glad we took the subway,
so we shuffle huffle by--

lagging behind luggage handlers
staring at ceilings impatiently. dusted mirrors
licked clean by idle fingers--
listening to whispering
exhalations of smoke
beckon me to breathe with them,
swimming in the downstream breeze,
scattered ash infects free wind and
empties into streets.

journal

ugly breathes a smoke ring ,
it catches up to clouds curling in errant hairs
on the necks of leather-clad bad asses,
kicking shattered glass splattered across
faded spaces in the parking deck,
unlit and set apart in equal distances,
empty pages unlike unearthed journal entries

ends

selfish friends cry for themselves
immune to your misery,
never change but of their own pain,
guilt, need, sometimes shame--
and no respect where it not learned,
my friends taught me that blind folks fleeing
for their lives can never tell who helps or why.

pop star

right swing that hope brings
easy over cholesterol
like sunday morning whores in church
with paper fans who laugh it off--
real over rich, pop that corn.
right like lite brite night lights,
scorn-proof like storm roofs--
even sleep in moonlit dreams.

here

here's my nothing no one reads
cause no one can
when it's suppressed, my blacks and reds,
exploding in my mind like seeds,
and leaving still rage in their stead.
nothing real and nothing made,
no sound collapsed or penetrates--
just simple mischief, grins through pain, an
endless cycle of simple games.

and all the hatred I declare disappears
like puffs of air--an empty vessel's offering
once swallowed whole by loves and family
satisfied, who'll celebrate the night you die
with the sparkling tears of crocodiles
from the soulless mirth within their eyes.

last words never heard, a throbbing crowd grows
thick with rattling hearts uplifting life in fear of their own deaths--
all showy mourning gives way to 
their fingers crossed for luck or lies and everything they've left.

here's the world we smoothly run on the pain of lovers broken,
who soak in blood, become our thugs, our victims and drug suppliers--
who boldly shoulder unknown weight that they take below unspoken--
buried in a shallow grave or forgotten to the ocean.

new age

new age
earns its name,
growing wings and blowing past
the last of its daylit morning
celebrating new age
nights and days,
lost in thoughts and calendar pages,
always forgetting from
where it came,
a new age darling
newly made--
freshly wet,  flock upset,
itself deconstructed and reanimated
or on the whole and never broken--
driven on, manipulating thoughts, unspoken
fears, denials, entertaining self
described movements towards
a new revival of empty spirit,
alone, untouched, unfettered and
aligned to its newfound destiny
in the ranks of mankind.