Eat a Bullet.

Just an offering,
No pressure
delivered here,
my sincerest dear.

Change for the sake
of it: your choice. Bit of truth
that rubs you the right way

with a side
of a pile
of fucking bullshit

and you embrace it,
swallow it whole.
Where do you think
you leave me?

in laughter straight till the point
of saturation,

where I find myself forced
to try and wrap my mind
around this absurdity…

How can you live
with yourself, sleep
as yourself at night,
without eating
a bullet?

The strength inherent
in your ignorance
is astounding…

Pardon the pun,
but it blows my mind.

Call to Uncharacteristic Faith.

Money means nothing.

Preach it till you’re black and blue.
Heard it all before.
Got it down pat.
Sure. Right.


All of this, it is about the integrity
of the art.

So your soul bloats.
Your soul farts.
Back to the drawing
board again…

Yet what if you found
that you could make a living
through the passionate pursuit
of what you desire?

Wouldn’t that be something?
I mean, fuck: you could be on the cusp
of breaking new ground here…

Up till now, in the end,
all about planting and nurturing a seed
that this final step
could help to germinate.

So keep going.

Have uncharacteristic
faith at the ledge.

No Hope for Disclosure.

Blazing fires of truth dim
in retrospect. Even so, in time, burn
victims heal, their wounds scar,

they leave a mark 
yet never betray the depths
they cover-up,
considering it their birthright

as they pass the torch
when the clock strikes midnight
to the next generation
inheriting their red hands

stained as they painted
themselves and their progeny
into a corner.

Code word.

Red hands, red tape.
In the black,
so many hells there to unleash…


Don’t hold
your breath, man.
No hopes
here for disclosure.

Managing Damage.

Can’t change
what happened. It was
what it was, does what it does:
paralyzing, asphyxiating,

violating. Blame game gets
you nowhere but dizzy,
so take your truth or lie,
spice it up
with your own spin:

facts remain to ruin
your lunch, like diarrhea
from the sky falling
on their precious fucking parade
of post-truth alternatives.

Knowledge grows
and disseminates.
Opinions evolve.

Question’s the same.

How might you manage
your damage? Turn your crazy
shit into gold just to gain
some vague sense of integrity?

Question’s the same.

Track in Goldilocks.

Over his shoulder,
follow the story of this ego.

Not too close.
Never too far.

Yes, it will surely frustrate
the living fuck out of you.
Just remember to maintain
distance, third person

Keep too close, suffer
all the consequence.
Either way, it promises
some enlightenment.

This kid? More than a little
fucked up, but he’s got
something to show.

Track him
in goldilocks fashion.

Ego in the Dust.

Violation as recreation
as perceived from both ends?
It’s all so fucking confusing
till you enlighten me,

dear voice in my head deafened
by all the valued chatter,
muffled by viewpoint mayhem.

Cut through the clutter and find the gem.
Dig till you find the golden peanut
buried deep in the steaming
pile of fly-infested bullshit.

Escape your head.
Ego in the dust behind.
See passed your own eyes.

Permission is key.

All the difference in the world
is found in the presence
or absence of consensuality.

Boundaries, thick or thin.
One way now; then, different.
It’s all about the individual

crossing a bridge, a manifestation
of a signed contract,
a bold declaration of mutual consent.

“Fuckin’ liberals!”

Just passed my index, a digit
held high and proud as my salute
to the herd, so cocksure
that majority rules.

What about those fundamental,
inalienable, personal freedoms?

To each and every,
the right to their pursuit of happiness:
so fuck you.

I grant you no control.

Opium of the Amber.

You could die
here, warm
and otherwise comfortable.

Hurdles await,
though rest assured
they would be surmounted.

Why reach out
for more?

A meaningless existence,
sure, but think
of the assured security.

Thick, comfy,
memory-foam boundaries
nurturing immobility,

inner eye forever fixed
on that ever-clear,
hopelessly numb,
endorphin-nurtured path
to the grave.

Morgan & the Art of War and Peace.

What you are holding onto
is not already gone,
it is only slipping,

akin to the grip of Rick,
who clearly resides
on the opposing extreme
of the spectrum
to which you both belong.

Even so,
if indeed all life is precious,
is it enough to ensure
protection from death delivered
by yourself
through committing
yourself to never
killing again

or might death
sometimes be necessary
to protect life
from other life that lives
by taking other forms of life away?

Everything is a cycle.
Death promotes life.
It’s all a circle.

High time you learn
where to draw the line
and what side you’re on
and accept the role
you have to play,

the hard choices
you have to make.

Sometimes love
means sacrifice;
sometimes war
is the only way.

Senno Ecto Gammat.

Slanted, liquid, almond eyes
bursting, bugging out of an inverted
gray guitar pick of a head. Endless
numbers of you staring
down and into me, nearly touching
my forehead,
nearly Eskimo-kissing
me as I lie, immobilized, paralyzed
cold table against
my back, raped from within.

My head, your flipbook.
My mind, transparent, naked
as can be before you.

No external wounds
to tend to,

not to say I’m not torn
open wide, bleeding,
always fucking bleeding…