LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

DEATH BECOMES THE DREAMER

I feel it slipping.  I feel time.  And sometimes,
I fear the dream is dead. 

Which is not a bad thing for a dreamer.

I am not complaining.  This is not a dramatic spout.
If a dream dies, death comes first for those that
Love them.

The drama of it all is a trap that shuts as it opens. 
Relax. 

A dream can condemn with as much grace as it liberates. 
Know it.

I will never forget the day when a shrink told me to treat
My family like mental patients. 

I love them madly.  But will cut a motherfucker. 

A dream can make people deaf, dumb, desperate, and mean. 
It can turn us into satellites and find that kind of life
satisfactory. 

It draws emotional vampires who come to feed
On your heart because they know your hunger and
smother with hugs that constrict. 

These hapless wraiths with ideas about who you
Are and stomp around with hot meals and blankets
To mask the rage they have for the bankruptcy of
Their own happiness. 

They are not happy.  They are hungry, scorned,
And jilted.  And they do not see you.  And, if you
Forget you can lose sight of yourself. 

Even if you are the one doing the seeing. 

Worship not these people.  Worship not your ache
for the way their limitations scorn you. 

Do not get lost to the dream of “shoulds” and “should nots”. 
And “Are we there yet’s”.  

It will rob you of smile and song. 

It can steal your time if you forget
That the dream is an escape plan.
A through line from the days that
Clung on to the belief of the lack
Of ache of later days. 

A belief that kept you alive throughout
the complete and total indecipherable
bullshit and absurdity of living, through
The Mechanism of a Dream in the simple
fact that you refused to accept it
and believed that you deserved
more. 

Which you do. 
The dream defies. 
The dreamer thrives in the belief
That there is no way in Sam Hell
That you are going to lay down
And take it like a dog because
You know you are very important.
No matter how subtle or not the
Transgression.

You are.  You do.  
You have a grand purpose
And one day this purpose will diffuse
And bring order to the bomb they baked
For you (that you ate because you were
Hungry.  It is not all their fault.) and make
light of the plight of the grossly misunderstood,
Underestimated, dismissed
And invisible. 

If you let it. 

Us freaks born ill equipped
for this life. 
Even amongst the strange. 
Of whom we believe we are the strangest. 

Don’t get carried away.
We are not.  Nor never was.
And living in this state may have been
The lie all along. 

Which makes a great companion for
Anxiety, self loathing, and panic. 

Do not panic.  Have no shame.  Speak freely.
The eyes will roll and the reactions will not
Match the risk you take for opening up.
Your ideas will be shot at and ventilated
As both preventative medicine and murder. 
As well as sometimes larceny.  You are
Bright.  You are strong.  And it shames
Them.  Because they want it and are
Afraid to say it for fear of failing.  Do
Not fight them.  There is no insult. 
Only purpose.     

Know that yours is the beautiful belief
That you are completely unique and entitled
To all that is in and isn’t in the universe. 

And I am the type, as well.  Here now. 
Still standing with scars.  Later in life. 
Humbled by the limitations of my imagination. 
Fighting to follow through.  Make good. 
Prove the well wishers wrong.  Snuff the lie. 
The stench.  The black sheep on the couch. 
The malnourished.  The discontent. 
The Hungry.  Squeaking like a wheel. 
Or not. And moving now, like never before. 
It has never been about them. 

These days I live with great urgency, love
and conviction. 

The dream is changing.  As I have cast it. 
The dream is changing.  I see now with
What and how I assembled it. 

The dream has changed as I open. 
Technology comes.  Technology changes. 

The ground dries up.  The prey skips town. 
The stubborn hunter wanders around looking
for mice with a machine gun amidst
a stampede of buffalo. 

Licking his finger to check the wind with
eyes upward, waiting for -

Angels. 
Rain. 
Fog. 
Sunlight. 
Ticker tape. 
Kisses.
Flashbulbs.
Cries of adoration. 
Trumpets. 
Parade. 
A wink.
Justice.
Windfall. 
Currency.
Revenge.   
Same but different.
Algebra. 
Money.
The omniscient.

To fall from the sky.

In this we go somewhat mad at the miraculous lack of echo
That comes back at us if we forget what we are doing. 

Dressed in black, twirling your mustache, shaking your fist
at the sky screaming, “BRING IT.” 

Death becomes The Dreamer. 
Like The Spoils of War getting tongue fucked by The Runner Up.  

Fret not. 
There is no time. 
There is no schism. 
There is no peril.
Have no shame. 
Speak up.

You are and have always been independent of tragedy. 
But not exempt from it. 

Admit it.  Drop it.  Say it.  Even if its weird. 
Keep moving.  Evolve.  Be present.
Do it better.

But fall not victim to the mechanism.  
 
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy. 
The world is opening up to me. 
I am the Walrus. 
I am the fisherman. 

The gifts keep unfolding. 
There is a porch swing in the garden.
There is much work that needs to be done.
Every day I become a better man. 

Which is a process that is uncomfortable
And goes hand in hand with the illumination
Of my shortcomings. 

Not unlike popping open an umbrella
In the desert and holding it up like a torch
in the bright. 

In the realm of poetry it is my belief that
The Runner Up does deadly best and
Becomes what he never thought of
Himself . 

And becomes. 
And laughs. 

Because he isn’t. 
Never was.
And always is.

Like you. 






 
 

GO WEST

>

it is not sadness

> But practice

> That brings me here

> For something

> Me self says.

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THE LIVING ROOM DOZES AS BILLIE HOLIDAY SINGS AND I DRINK TECATE

feeling low but not beaten. 
working as hard as i can and as quick as i can
while i am lucid. 

sitting on the couch with nothing on but a
black beanie and red towel in the dark
with another beer. 

i’m trying to ignore the impulse to shave off
all my body hair. 

i don’t care how it looks but it gives me an
idea for what i’m going to paint next. 

ants.  one big gigantic mechanical stealthy
saturday morning decepticon transformer
motherfucker.  the kind that makes me jump
up naked in my bed and slap at nothing
with a bath towel then use my cell phone
as a torch to look for the glory of my
kill.  

there are limitations to my imagination.
i like my hair so i jumped in the shower.      

this kind of stuff used to bother me but
i’ve settled into an uncomfortable state of
ease with it where i can ash on the floor
and not sweat it because i know it can
be swept up.

we have tools to make this thing easy
and i’m working. 

i’m working as hard and as quickly as possible
because i have got the strange feeling that i’m
going to die this year.  never though much about
dying, not like this and i can’t explain it. 

time to pause dramatically. 

i think about this while sitting on the couch
in a black beanie naked save a red towel
listening to billie holiday getting ready
to paint an ant. 

and as the living room dozes her voice
drowns out everything.   

NOTHING TO MISS

she told me that she liked the
taste of my semen.

apparently it’s light and mild.
kind-of like sunday or eating a
bowl of cereal on a
rocking chair.

it was a nice thing to say so i
thanked her.

then we moved on.    

i don’t know what other people
are like or if the “i like the taste
of your semen” conversation
is a relationship standard. 

but 
this was our, “i like the taste of
your semen” conversation
and up until this moment
i never really thought
much about it;

if at all. 

which makes sense because
this is how we spoke to each other
so there was nothing to miss.

YOU’RE NOT TAKING ME ALIVE COPPER

lying in bed in the dark with my pen. 
using the force to scribble it down. 
thinking about my hair.
i’m losing it.
which strikes me funny
because
it has been a long road
to vanity
and
losing my hair is supposed to be
some sort of
a genetic impossibility
because i’m half asian.

not so much. 
it looks like i will not end my adventures
with a superior mane.
son of a bitch. 
but not. 
it could be worse.
or better.
i’m not too concerned about it. 
i could be wrong.  which is wonderful.
there are more pressing issues at hand. 

i was told that losing my hair can be attributed to:
rapid weight loss after gastric bypass surgery,
being put under twice for two 8 hour stretches at a time,
real life stress, physical pain, disillusionment, the ensuing
learning curve with the mandatory rapid adaptation,
a familiarity with alcoholism, bitch boy death, poetic rebirth,
insomnia, consciousness, pawnshops, the memory of them,
feeling sick, internet education and lack of sufficient nutrition . . .

(i am not always able to afford the finest of ingredients
but do my best.)

. . . . i was told that each of these things are enough in an of
themselves to create a state of emotional mange and they
say if i want to fix it i have to take better care of myself
on all fronts.  

ok.  thanks.  i’m doing the best i can.  its not about the
hair.   

i have ideas about how this sort of thing works,
speaking of remedy and or reconciliation and
for the most part i am internationally known as a
power lifter but the way things are taking shape
these days all i can say is that my skills are most
definitely waning because no matter what
these eyes of mine are unshakeable and
locked on to the prize.   

in other words, some nasty stuff is coming for me
and i know it.     

tonight, in preparation i did push ups and practiced
martial arts in my apartment. 

yes, i was drunk at the time
and i was smoking a cigarette
but the act was nice
because it embraced my eastern roots
and i thought that it might be enough
to flatter the gods of kahn and inspire them
to wave their magic wands and sprinkle their
nun-chuck dust all over me to
resurrect my tresses.

i’m not joking. 
i know it’s coming for me.   
fear.
i’ve known this for while.
the dread.
i know its close because
my trick elbow hurts
from throwing punches
without stretching
which is good because it
freaks me the fuck out
enough to listen.  

i know
there is no way to beat the non negotiable. 

ignoring the non negotiable is
the path to happiness over and
over again.

shut the fuck up.
i think this much.
i feel this much.
sometimes what i feel is too much.
or not enough
but too much of not enough
and this is where i’m at.
the specifics do not matter.
this is not a joke.
the non negotiables have strung
together everything. 
every state.
every shade.
every idle stretch and lateral movement.   
the non negotiables have been my
north and that sweet mean son of a bitch
and has gotten me through in
every way even if i lose track
the way it works. 

from time to time it
is and always has been about
happiness. 

i say, you can’t beat the angel of death
make nice, move on and get happy. 

over and over again.  in schism there is
no schism.   

i don’t want to give into the muck side of my eye
and give it momentum.

i don’t have time and i’m tired and i don’t know if i’ll
make a speedy recovery if i do.

but
i’ve noticed its been creating new and
interesting emotional experiences which
has been an unexpected development.  

last night while watching two friends beat
the hell out of each other like grown ups
as they played a video game i felt like i was
going to burst into tears while laughing my
ass off.  

i was having fun and i was present but while
all this was going on i felt like a crack team of
jehova witnesses were lining the insides of my eyes
with c-4 and at any moment they were going to bust into
my apartment with ill intent and spray the room
with watchtowers.

i’m tired.  paranoid.  short fused and drunk with
misplaced aggression.  i’m legitimately angry.  your
schisms demand more attention than mine and i am sad,
disorientated and from suburbia.  make no mistake.
i am confident. 

i feel panic.  i feel ache.  i feel anxious.  i feel dark. 
i am unable to knock love off of the pedestal.

i am stubborn in my silence. 

tight lipped and clammed up i know there is no diffusing it.
i’m not an idiot.  

yes i know. 
that’s life.
it’s just life. 
all in all it doesn’t matter.
and
everybody knows this. 
frank sinatra knew this. 
he sang “that’s life”
as the chorus
in that song
about this and
the mob loved him because
of it.

right now, i hear him sipping tea
with the jehova witnesses
just outside my door.

i feel a dance routine coming on it’s making
me sleepy.     

yes.  i know.  that’s life.  i get it.
but getting it and finding solace in it
falls flat
like a proverb.

i understand a proverb.
i understand that a proverb holds human
truth and these kind of truths transcend
everything, thus the human angle, 
but my true champion is the temporal
and my heart is capable of both stroke
and strangle and this is where it
lives

and guides me.
it pulls me through.  

the non negotiable.  the irrefutable. 
impervious to momentum with no
need for motion.     

in this freedom
i skip and sing
and go tinkle with my
wee wee.  i do cartwheels
in the Guggenheim
and
blow shit up
in Pennsylvania. 

i
sleep thirty four
hours in a day
and fuck
six thousand times
a minute. 

i have come to understand
the wrath
of
spending too much time
eating the ass out of
a sherpa.   

i won’t do it. 
i don’t want to lay in my bed fretting about my
hair in an attempt to ignore that the fact that frank
and the witnesses are coming to get me.

they are.  i’m here.  so are they.    
what am i to do?
i don’t know what i’m going to do.
i know i don’t want to give in
but i don’t want to break while doing it. 

i feel it coming.  i don’t want to be dramatic
or get lost in pop psychology so i’m doing all i
can to let it come and go without too
much weight
but it’s seeping through.
and i can hear them. 
they are here.
those loving fuckers are here.

and
while i’m light in what i write
i promise you that it is not and
what i feel is sincere.

i am not being funny and i am afraid
and when i tell you that i have
been practicing my punches,
kicks and doing push
ups in the middle of the
night in my apartment

i mean it.  

so if you decide that it’s a good idea to
come knocking on my door i suggest you announce
yourself and enter quietly with care.

i’ve been practicing. 

(don’t make any sudden
moves.)