They and I: A Continuing Epic Polarization
At age six and definitely not seven,
had to be “normal,”
so, for the summer break,
was arrested, cuffed, gagged, opiated, straitjacketed, boxed up
and FedEx’d off to an institution for the mentally slightly off,
one of those places with an impressive sprawling front lawn
of the finest Kentucky bluegrass,
philanthropy’d by some guy who called himself Colonel,
but was never actually in any war,
because he drank with his money-buddies
while Vietnam went on and on for acres and hectares and someone’s GDP,
like this goddamn front lawn,
and anyway it had this entrance with a magnificent
marquee of polished stone that announced its grandeur
in a very southern self-congratulatory and Colonelly manner,
was told by
head would be deflated,
according to the established
and highly respected and internationally recognized rules
of experimental psychiatry and modern medicine, until
cranium and all its beautiful mush
more closely resembled the cute miniature
shrunken heads of all the other children
age, those who were patted on the head by
the esteemed Head of
for being cute, sweet little subservient
and obedient whatsits,
daily tell us in the papers,
are the foundation of modern American society,
which is what
representatives recently PR'd during an interview for this piece by
am happy to report, told
and theirs to fuck off and be merry,
because life is too short to live by the arcane and
whimsical rules of experimental psychiatry,
modern medicine or any other ridiculous invention of
a spiritual belief
practice to this very day.
Worst day ever. . . .
Honestly, I can’t place it.
It’s almost always the most recent
as all others are melted by
and lost to
Time does not heal.
It simply allows room to lay down
How can we possibly store everything from every experience in our
Even the details of how we were potty trained are lost,
soon replaced by the details of how we learned to fight off that
how we overcame childhood cancer,
how we learned to ride a bike and take a fall,
and the extreme pain of rejection from our
The worst day ever?
It’s always our most recent trauma,
because that alone demands immediate focus to contend with it,
soften its blow,
and allow us to absorb and later implement the
The worst day ever is always yet to come. . . .
A tiny death this eve, mine
They instructed: life, for all its meanness, is yours
Do with it in wicked caprice,
Ye shall pass on achingly in small minutes
Sing across hilltops until dawn,
ye rides the wave largest on open sea
Forgive me, dear gods, for this pagan hath sinned
Drowned in but a millimeter of ocean in my final moment
And missed the grand tour prescribed by my map of destiny
Now my slim payment for a life squandered is come due
Indelibly scrawled by hags who judge with neither ear nor eye
Tonight I shall give alms
Or shall we call it taxes on life wasted?
And proceed to my doom
It shall be but a tiny death, mine
Witnessed only by foul air and oven breeze
Scribed by the eve's final moonlight dagger
So small did I pass
Not even a molecule of lavender was displaced
The morning air now still
Welcoming tomorrow's splendid sun
Weep not for me, child
Life, for all its meanness, is Yours
a final letter from my cell
as i protest here in vain
my body doeth snow-angels in my own piss and shit
what a shame
wishing breathlessly for that little hamlet in the good of saint pete
where I shall expire before the dawn
please explain the accusations to me mom
so she shall cry out for me
a thousand daggers of sorrow and not glee
and if we are so full of luck
plead no further for a thousand tomorrows
among the pissiest and shittiest of muck
i splinter lightning
\ this noon I swim through a midnight sky
over and under a hurricane’s eye /
\ stirring every electron from wild slumber
lucifer's entourage of untold number /
\ following in my wake, so dutiful they are
carving lightning to splinters so wide and far /
\ ghastly photonics surge across the earthly plane
raising dust and sea so insane /
\ kingdom animalia under the impossible weight
dissolving to a dark unsaintly atomic state /
\\ and so another submystery begins anew
this hot frothy mix of celestiobrew //
I, Atomic Chef
The chef’s cutting board,
or is it the mortician’s table?
I, atomic chef, place a single atom of calcium
on my cutting board.
It glows an otherworldly sparkling yellow,
shot with all hues of red,
each one a new artery that feeds
the growing golden threads
that make the world’s electricity,
cause dictators and martinets to smile,
and induce happiness in newborn noonday demons.
The first cut must be 100% accurate,
down the centerline drawn by Zeus himself,
thus preserving a certain unwritten symmetry
that Heisenberg poeted in his first principle
that I say is bullshit ’cos you can, in fact,
stop an electron by knocking first then asking nicely,
something the good German never even considered,
’cos, well, you know how the Germans are:
shoot ’em dead first, Herr Kommissar!
then go all ACHTUNG! and ask questions;
maybe take some names later.
After many sweats and tears
that extinguish my box of exotic sea salts,
I determine the correct theoretical angle of cut,
and deftly toss and flip the calcium atom
for weeks and years that, it turns out, are numerically
only 16 small minutes of Swiss time,
and position Her Atomicness just so,
spread her out and pin her down at the corners
with fine insect pins, each Swedish black anodized steel,
#000, and pretty goddamn close to 0.25mm diameter,
so help me god (jesus fucking christ, child, any god will do).
6:45AM, The Next Day
Zeus warned me I have only one stroke,
so please don’t fuck it up;
yes, Zeus really said fuck,
and that the term has been around
since before Uranus slipped from Gaia’s womb,
or so legend has it,
but methinks he was actually born parthenogenically,
’cos the gods were like that: all asexual and shit.
P.S. When Zeus said fuck,
it was delivered across the western Pacific sky,
from Santa Barbara to downtown Tokyo,
in a series of blue-purple lightning arrows
and great cracks of thunder that rocked
the moon out of its dull orbit
and sent it on an urgent errand
to escort Halley’s you-know-what
on its screaming elliptical.
9:36PM, The Following Year
After careful consideration and much consternation,
which are probably the same thing ’cos they both
have 13 letters,
I, the atomic chef,
have decided not to split the calcium atom,
’cos it would doubtless splinter my fingers
and irradiate my privates
in the process,
common side-effects I wish to avoid
in case I need them for masturbation
or maybe invagination in one form or another,
which are mos def the same thing,
’cos both have 12 letters
and end in ation.
Please stand by for a formal press release,
which will announce that I am actually
a cowardly mortician
and not really I, atomic chef.
Old Man Rio
Old Man Rio, why such tears of sorrow?
Sorrow? What do you know of sorrow?
I have drunk from the inner ovens of your sun
and played on the feathery tendrils of midnight lightning
My song echoes distant among ghostly hypergiants
of the celestia
I twirl The Great Flat Earth on a single digit
while my warm breath spins a hurricane over the high seas
So I say again: What do you know of sorrow?
The tears I weep created the great Pacific pool
in which I swim and dive and feast
Silver rivulets fall from my countenance and seed
the heavenly rivers and streams of the north and south
These tears of what you call sorrow run blood red
among the craggy masses of land so enriched with my iron
No, my young earthling, mine tears know no sorrow
Only the dreams and fantasies and promises of your tomorrow
A Very Special Kind of Drunk
I, as a single-malt scotch drunk, am unlike all other drunks: the tequila drunk, the gin drunk, the beer drunk.
I am, indeed, quite special:
Rooms don’t spin wildly out of control.
Speech doesn’t fuzzy-slur.
Imagined voices don’t visit me in the night, tap me on the shoulder.
I never stumble about like a stick-figure robot with insufficient RAM.
The gills don’t go green and moldy.
Mine is a decidedly different space-time under the influence of special malt:
I get hyper-focused . . .
Ears clutch the distinctive high-C tink of a wine glass three doors down and discern the edges surrounding a breath . . .
Eyes sense a warm body in inky darkness and diagnose the foul chemistry of the psychopath upon first blush . . .
I taste the wispy molecules of someone’s exhalation from a hundred meters away and the subtle differences between a drop of Auchentoshan Three Wood and Glenfarclas at 40 . . .
Fingers go a-tingle from the distant touch of a stranger from yesterday or from the future . . .
I perceive the shimmering electric field of a beautiful creature in slow delicious motion.
You might say I am cursed with a feverish awareness of . . . everything.
I read all cycles, especially those in the parafrequencies where the undead communicate with the living world.
Calling it a curse is too kind.