moments of
immaculate poetry flow

golden
poetry
i let vanish
from me

a grotesque
disappearance

if i could recall
the beautiful
lines
entering and exiting my mind
if only i had a notepad
in front of me
all the time
you would have enjoyed
it like an exotic bouquet
instead of this poem i wrote today
like the weeds left
after i got smacked in the face
with some of the most beautiful lines
i ever thought
then quickly
disappeared
the quixotic
inebriated zen
was more like
receiving a poem and
reading it in my mind
and then
being too fucked up from partying
to do anything but hold
on to the last stanza in regret
of the loss
like a kid being
given a bunch of colorful helium balloons
as i looked up
i let go of the words
looking at them fly away
i reached out and grabbed one
and text messaged myself:

moments of
immaculate poetry flow

golden
poetry
i let vanish
from me

a grotesque
dissappearance

i wrote
an elegy.

it
was given
to me

so i got
to give

all that ever mattered
was the moment
until
it was gone

moments never last

moments
pass
from
real
to surreal
memory
of the
past.

i don’t like polished poetry
like admiring a finely cut
diamond
that will last forever
will emerge
from a nuclear winter
hard
and perfect
perfection is process
art is
frosdjkhsdlkslkdj
it
is
friosidoisiddjoisjsdjosijsodijsij;oJ
cant say what it is
i don’t want to say what it is

speaking on the general
human condition–
how temporary.

(old poem i found dated 6/7/06 scralled across a blank page)

Fuck
Me
Born to die
Writing
beautiful poetry
like a goddamned
tragedy.

Goodness
is harder to create
than evil.
Goodness takes love–

Evil’s so much easier,
and for the weak,
is the quickest path to power,

show love
instead of
hate and fear

because
in the end
it’s the
only reason
we’re here.

with every death
more difficult karma
to deal with

my soul
this radiating
devourer of pain
to
love
converter.

O,
ancient soul of mine
got born into the
soul grinder
too,

just like you.

every morning
i wake and think of you.
its a routine i’ve become accustomed to.

the taking
of my heart
an evil game
and so
i just go
solo
and
hearken back
to my
vision of a
house
by a creek
i could
spend my life with–
the rushing water,
the trees,
the earth and the moon
and the sound of the night
whispering
it’s secrets to me
like you used to.

seeks:
“3 essential qualities:
mastery of language,
maturity of feeling,
and complexity of thought.”

“maturity of feeling”
i like that one.

sometimes

but
sometimes
i don’t want to
write boring mature poems
for old faggots
teaching at
universities.

Empathy takes too much
Sympathy is worthless
Apathy is for losers

Compassion is the only way

Don’t be a worthless sympathetic
or an apathetic loser,
and don’t tell me
of your empathy
unless you want to feel
starving
or tortured
or smashed
or burned all over your body

I don’t want to feel those kinds of horrible things.