Thursday, June 27, 2013

rapid succession fire.

"The smell of blood
and an air of prominent madmen
is all around us."
And puppet pundits 
with detailed nuances
choose to speak in such a way
as to never draw the needed attention
but only create the proper diversion.

The Landscape changes for the coming era.
From the pharaoh’s of Egypt
to the scholars of Greece,
the Soldiers of Rome
and the Corporate Interests
of Colonial Europe
our century is becoming history
before the population even realizes
what their history has become.
The sounds of nationalism,
Yankee Fascism,
disguised in our ability to watch
a colored television,
breathe in a manufactured breeze,
drive the long road that follows the sun,
and condemn an enemy that holds no army.

Government assisted corporations
spend our money
that politicians owe to them.
CEO’s are the General’s of the New Millennium,
they gather troops in boardrooms and strategize the most successful maneuver to narrow a limited power base.

In 1970 the top 100 CEOs 
earned approximately $45 
for every dollar earned by the average worker.

By 2009, it was $1,081 to one.

Coercing the political agenda
with threats of lost services
that supply their constituents/ consumers
with a sense of well-being and cheap goods
they rise
behind Mayors and Governors,
Congressmen and Senators.

Their agenda is now our philosophy
and Freedom is buying what we want
when we want it.

Our names get passed around in a hat,
lists written by criminals,
their names get burned on the pyre,
and even if we knew them
they are beyond our comprehension
or our attention
because the tents are going up,
homeless man with a cup,
the price of bread is rising,
and my neighbor’s house is up for sale,
and their neighbor’s house is up for sale,
their neighbor’s house would be for sale
but they ran like fugitives
before the bank showed up to collect.

Voices that got garbled in the silence 
of empty houses where families evaporated
in the failed attempts of turning
the pavement into gold.

We the poor and indebted
had wanted a home
like our parents and the
parents before them

we wanted the victory
and comforts of living
a life that only few
were able to afford.

We are tired of phone calls
with vicious voices
that speak to us
as if the enemy was us.

That we have besmirched
their name
because the interest rates
are taking up all of what we make on a job
that we are told
to be grateful for.

We, the last, were promised a heaven
and all we got was a 24-hour convenience
that now harasses us
because we can no longer pay
for the service.

Desperate voices
do desperate things.
Ingrained possibilities,
no longer devoted
to ideologies
of paradise exhausted,
creates an under class
that sees no possibilities.

The people have spoken
the wrong language.

I called the numbers that were given
to reach an operator with all the answers
only to be mitigated to mechanical voices
that pretend
to know
who you are
even when they ask you for your name
at every encounter.

I wanted to speak to someone,
I had questions
and wanted responses
that I can repeat back to make sure that my understanding of what was being signed was actually being read,
the voice had a recorded message.

The Random Interests
had decided
to cancel any option
that was available
to the public at large
who are largely in debt.

A little girl,
whose soldier dad is dead,
shouts it from the tower,
“The bees are gone,
your lives are bought,
roads are falling into the ocean
and the milk
and the honey
has turned sour!”

Thursday, June 20, 2013


It’s raining out.
     The peaceful fall of water
     washing away everything you left behind.
     It’s one of the few moments
     it gets quiet around here.
               The neighbor’s kids
               are shut up in their homes.   
Sometimes it only lasts a few minutes,
other times it lasts for hours,
     either way
     it always gives us a break
     from everything.
Once it stops,
the sirens pick up;
the car speakers start thumping,
trailer park mothers start screaming,
and the children are back
spewing their inbred hatred
amongst everything.

Out of state northerners
think of this as “The Sunshine State”,
never realizing
how it rains here
three to four months out of the year.
They create an image of some sun-drenched haven, of old leathery people, orange groves, mobile home parks with alligator mascots
and a great big talking mouse.
It rains.
The short pissers do nothing but turn everything into a contaminated sauna.
The air thickens with moisture and automobile exhaust and the rotten smell of burnt sulfur
from the fertilizer plants miles away.
Within a few minutes you feel as dirty as a cheap whore after she’s been raped on Sunday.
It rains.
Big, thick, monstrous clouds
that you can see forming on the horizon;
you can witness them moving over the land
black and blue bruised divinities
pouring out all around us.
Nothing but falling rain walls that hit the ground so strong
that everything vibrates.
We all get floated away in a maelstrom of flooded streets and overfilled retention ponds.
Just lie back and close your eyes;
Mother Nature is washing
her sexual organs.
Rains slowing,
almost gone,
I can already hear some far away ambulance
screaming its way
to some dead boy in the street.
The trailer park queen just realized
life has been unfair,
leaving her with three kids
and no smokes or drink
to get through it all.
The neighbor’s kids are already making their way
to newly born puddles.
With any luck they’ll trip
and fall,
drowning themselves
in the tar-oil-water-mixture.
It rained.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Dead Letter's for Living People

...  Dead Letters for Living People, was published in April of 2008. 
After the initial excitement of having my very own book available to the world and in my hands I flipped through the pages once again and discovered that in the past two years of constant revisions and re-formats to make the piece ready for print I had lost focus on the material. A lot of the beginning now struck me as dated and the arrangement of the stories didn't convey what I had in my mind... 

I threw the book to a far corner of my mind and entered into a painting cycle, focusing my attention and will on the visual creations of paint on canvas, which I have been on ever since...
... With a break in my focus on painting, and some extra time at work, I took to re-editing the piece, Dead Letters for Living People. Without having to re-format the text, simply re-arrange the content, my entire attention was on what the collection would say and not how it looked... I wanted to make the book a piece onto itself, a collection of work that was in itself "the 25th poem in a collection of 24." 
Looking through it all, I feel, that I have achieved that much. 

What can I say about Dead Letters for Living People? It's a collection of short stories and poems that I have written over the last eleven years. It has been said, by good friends who have read the first edition, that the work can be dark, sometimes gruesome, other times melancholy, best not read straight through from beginning to end. But 8 times out 10, the people who have read it tell me that the work resonates, touches, even moves them to think, that the descriptions and metaphors are creatively beautiful and at times has the sense of a memory unawares.  Much of it comes from personal experiences, but not all my own, and it's all fiction... or is it?