opposition +/- thought = act!

speed^aggression
trample
turn back - Rarity
on forwards future flee!
sunset remarks
issues time-and-space matter
meaning love-and/or-hate derives passion All!
seek all + zero = instant

Dreams are free!

My life is product placement.

My mind, a canvas.

Not for creativity, no—

that’s for les artistes.

My life is product placement.

My mind, a canvas.

     MCDONALDS  

    BADABABABA 

      I’MLOVIN’IT         

I’ve lost my train of thought.

(the conductor has it out for me)

He runs through my gray matter

at the speed of  

WENDY’SALWAYSFRESHNEVERFROZENBEEF

Well, fast.

Food!

This MOVIE is EPIC

ally-expensive!

Extracurriculars

Oh yes, of course.
Who am I with no trouble
of that opposite point?
Points-- I should say,
of entry.
It's more than that,
naturally.
And perhaps one outweighs the other
(in character, not weight).
Regardless,
once again my attention is split.
No peace of mind exists,
(that's wishful thinking).
I am doomed to endless decision making.
Friend or foe,
love or lust,
live or die.  

I'll have what I've always had, please

Here I am

on my life’s edge.

The brink of existence

lies within my finite grasp.

“To be or not to be”

was once the question.

Now I must formulate my own

disillusioning inquiry.

To sum up my feelings

in a line or two

might help me live on

with less worry and care.

But! to define a life

through prose or poem

is infinitely difficult

and inescapably annoying.

Experience by experiencing.

(not by hearsay)

One’s life is just that—

it belongs to no one else.

While the cats are away—

the mice will play.

The mice will set up their own form of self-government,

one that is more dangerous and oppressive than the last.

With only the white mice having social right, all the darker-skinned mice

will be forced to stay within their tiny homes lest they go “missing.”

The mice will soon take over the entire house, to be sure.

It took genocide, yes, but how great is it that mice now rule their world?

The field mice outside are far too "savage" -- clinging to their cat-based theologies.

unlike the civilized and self-made house mice, autonomous and logical.

With an empire united, and a colony enslaved, the mice truly command their realm.

The felines return and kill all of the mice.

The 100th Luftballon

Rather than a tether, forever tied to the cold, hard concrete,

(as is usually the case)

you are a string.

A string, mind you, attached to a balloon.

(perhaps a red one)

Yeah, you’re a string that’s attached to a balloon.

And, you see, this balloon, is adrift,

(not floating at random, but maybe it is)

it lifts us higher and higher into the stratosphere.

This may not be clever, no,

(I’m fairly certain that it isn’t)

but unlike those luftballons, there’s just one--

and only one.

Dear Bill

The season of my discontent is neither winter nor summer, spring nor fall.

It embeds itself into my calendar and refuses to leave.

It twists and turns in and out of every month, week, day, and hour.

Its growth is vine-like, it constricts and strangles any chance of contentedness.

She Only Blurs Lines

You blur my realm of understanding.

My clear thoughts are no longer certain,

and no longer is my confusion clear.

I am a camera out of focus.

A necessity, but slightly less useful.

An inconclusive passion experiment.

My intellectual faculties are burnt out,

white-washed in a sea of

ridiculously unintelligible bliss.

I am a deaf translator,

once glorious, and still that way—

just wholly impotent.

A dog without a leash

is only useful to himself.

The Delusion of Insignificance

My mind is adrift in a sea of nothingness.

This is no Waterworld, no Dryland exists.

. . . the thought of which is preposterous.

You see, I am ruled by logic and persuaded by feeling.

Two beings trapped in an endless maze,

in which we are the mice

and there’s no cheese at the end.

(how did mice develop a taste for cheese?)

(how did we develop a hope for heaven?)

A labyrinth of white-washed blandness

separates us from a false eternity.

This time together is pointless, and yet full of points—

of departure, from this world to the next.

(which exists only in brain-form.)

For what evidence is there of after-this?

A time controlled by logic and reason,

yet dominated by fantastical thoughts of existence.

Passion in a Shot Glass

A sorely misunderstood joke

can't possibly lead to destiny.

Or rather, maybe it's fitting

to lead a life of comedy.

Vulnerable Simplicity

An artful projection

of an infinite truth

is not nearly as accurate

as a rendezvous with the corporeal.

Sunburned

A quiet simplification,

is no match for this oblivious fact.

Time away leads to a mind’s reflection

and generally a false image appears.

The question arises, then—

What to do with an obvious projection?

Let it breed in the dark recess,

and feed off its incessant beauty

or return to that place of origin,

compare the two, and hope for the best.

Not even a plastic butter knife . . .

I was told to carve myself a niche in this life,

but was not supplied with a knife.

Perhaps a dog without teeth,

or a bird without wings.

I am not meant for this world.

A different plane of existence, is. 

One for a different type of being. 

No atmosphere dwells here, sky.

No physical body, star, planet.

No vacuum of space, blue marbles.

No free afternoon, nap.

My Mind is this plane, and that is all.

A single celled universe, adrift in nothingness.

Millions of light-years across,

covered in an instant’s instance.

Time and space are bodily functions,

they do not exist where I will go.

No heaven would suffice,

the reasons are too practical.

The beginning of an end cooked up

in the minds of unimaginable fools.

Eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Consumed whole as truth, and now spewed forth

in an unrelenting torrent of abomination.

How can an end be as familiar

as a street of gold?

Roads convey movement,

in a place where only thought exists

and movement is a delusion

conjured by false philosophical mystics—

Such as myself.

A Different Similarity

Not quite a cliff, precipice,
or even a ledge.
The corner of a meadow, maybe—
Facing inwards.
A wide open space ahead
full of bright flowers and tall grass.
There’ll be patches of mud to be sure,
and maybe a few wasp nests, too.
The journey is not made alone, though—
I have you at my side
and your hand in mine.

For Whom the Alarm Clock Tolls

How do you mourn the dead?
With pity? Remorse? Regret?
Is this for you or them?

No, Not That

Two days late
and my fate
hangs in the balance.

A thought so natural.
Is it merely cultural
or as widespread as eternity?

Time is transient,
nowhere near apparent.
Yet we insist

upon its importance
despite its chance
of being a complete lie.

I Like This

There is neither a beginning nor an end.

It’s a timeline of sorts--

with speed bumps and funny illustrations

that are halted without rhyme or reason.

Procrastification

Malaise derived from disobedience
is a false excuse, to be sure.

What, then, is the perpetrator?
Not love, no, nor preoccupation.

Sure, the fate of existence hangs
in the balance of disillusionment--

but is that reason enough to sit
and dwell upon bottomless presuppositions?

Never wholly useless, no, I prove
my worth time and time again--

Just not in ways that settle
my overwrought brain.

     A gray mass of thoughtless brilliance
     clouds my pointless productivity.

River Kwai

I don’t burn bridges,

I obliterate them.

And it’s true what they say:

they do make a nice fire.

The charred remains of missed opportunities

and lost chances litter my life—

All the better.

There’s no beginning without a clean slate,

And I clean my slate often.  With fire.

      Burn!

Dazed

(and Confused)

That tangled web

woven by my restless mind

is gently made free

by your endless chatter

and warm embrace.

Revolution in a Minute

Time is divided by definition.
Arbitrary states of being
are placed into quaint little boxes
with neat, shiny labels of existence.

Limitless possibilities are rationed.
A day consists of countless variables
needlessly separated into 24 blocks
of man-made space-time.

Meaning thru Action

I talk because I enjoy talking.
I write because I enjoy writing.

No word is infallible truth--
simply conjecture.

I sustain relationships to
hone my relational skills--
no more.

A sad truth, perhaps--
yet none to satisfy my being
has come along.

Proverbial Mess

Life is an endless maze wherein we are the mice and there is no cheese at the end.

By declaring it

impossible to write

poetry. It isn’t.

All that is, is but a dream.

Symmetry is a lie.

Near the end,

it’s just a thought,

just a few moments.

Moving on is

not forgetting.

You can’t judge a life by notation.

The simplest anecdote—

lasts a lifetime in the mind.

“There’s too much,

and so little feels important.

What do you do?”

An ice-cream scoop taken

right from my heart

atop your sundae of

dreaded individuality.

“Happiness isn’t a goal,

just a byproduct”

Of what, exactly?

“If we can’t have everything,

true perfection is nothingness.”