Foreword

It was mid-summer 2001 and hot as hell, in a self-conscious city dense with what felt like half-a-billion twenty-somethings' combined urgent expectation of the new, “what's next?”, as the reflector-vested hardhats poured their steaming black-sparkle asphalt cum out onto the little unnamed sub-street that ran parallel to Delancey as it began at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge outside the ground-floor window of my illegal nouveau tenement peeking out from behind freshly-painted steel security gates toward a ceaseless flood of exhaust-borg imports in their canoe drifting automation, when I penned my first real poem.

Writing a book was never a goal of mine. I'm not a 'reader'. I don't give a damn about writers. Certainly not the kind that wear the title as badge. I couldn't care less about the masturbatory egotism that fuels the fraudulent gymnastic intellectualism that is permanently concerned with academic exercise and status play. Nor am I interested in the systemic manipulation of the public by the book industry's hype-machine worker-bee piss-ant armies and their sacred revenue-stream Excel-sheet altar. I saw a dead fly. And I heard it say something to me. So I wrote it down.

What came next was ten plus years of shit that if I dared try explain would likely, at best, come out drenched in self-pity. “So what, asshole”, I hear you say. And you're right. But not for the reasons that compel you to say such mean things. But for the fact that all is blank. All is empty. All is done. And none of it new. Or important. Nor will whatever we do ever amount to anything beyond the storage-closet meta-taggery we in reflex assign to it in our fleeting want to love meaning. To mean love. And yet, like all men, a majority of fools, I am thus compelled to do. To continue. And so I do.

Poems, however trivial and futile, are not just a result of semi-conscious persons attempting to eek out a desperate 911 call in their shared lonely moments of domesticated gang-rape. They are more than just job security for linguistic archeologists in the hundred years from now times. They are not just the bottled SOS messages of a 

trillion sunburned, insect-infested, shipwreck-stranded, skeleton-sack, desert island men, floating about aimless on a sea of accidental hope waves, betting on the magnetic prayer magic of the desperate sender that they reach some obsessive hero-fetish first-responder on the other side of the ever-taunting asshole horizon. No, they are instead our last sips of fresh water as we dehydrate to death in the blazing fury of life's uphill why.

And so, these words were assembled solely as salve to simply soothe my sailing soul.

Index

The Fly Ghost's Message

Passing Through

Invisibilia

4004

Delta 1843

The Strength Of A Man

Work

To A Passenger

The Problem

The Breaking Of A Door-To-Door Salesman

Human Resources

To Heir Is You, Man

Resignation

Another Day In Paradise

The Men From The Boys

The Assassination Of The Precedent

The Silent Brigade

When Ears Just Wont Do

The Big Bang

Keep On The Sunnyside

The City That Never Wakes

Love Letter To A Universe

Hotel Blues

New Guinea Jersey Pigs

Sympathy For The Garbageman

The Trouble With Waking Up_or_Stiff Joints

Broke-Ass, Kicked Out Blooz

Down For The Count

The People Are Revolting

The Blissful Headless Hordes

The New American Pledge of Allegiance

WTF Do You Know About The Magna-Carta?

John 812

My Terrifying Election

Oh Sweet Child, Why You So Troubled?

Training

Goodbye

Lovely

The Torment Of Peace

Life Without You

Hot Shower

A Brief Encounter With The Christ On 9th St.

On Sings The Night

Grateful Dead

Time

How Dare You

I Always Wanted A House Of My Own

Creepy-Ass Crakka

Extremeophile Dinner Party_or_Shouldn't I Be Indicating...

Slow To A Crawl

The Book Of Joel

Grrr!

Hot Off The Ancient Rare-Book Press

An Unfinished Thought

The Big Score

British Imperialism...

Bumblecide

The Inevitable Me

The Fly Ghosts Message

And that fly there on my sill
with its legs stiff
all pointing to the sky
obviously died there
trapped behind my blinds

Exactly my sentiment
of all these strange events
leading up to my
penning this down to you

It of course
struggled surely
trying to reach
what it saw so clearly
as the out side

The place where millions of years of evolution
had pitched its instinct to know certainly
"that is where I should be"

And against the invisible shield of fate
courtesy of Pella
the poor fly strived
straightway to its end
in a place where it knew it did not belong

They have been known to say
"if you work hard enough
and don't give up
you can have whatever you want out of life"

Well, I say
tell it to all the flies out there
who spend the last hours of their lives
slam dancing themselves into oblivion

Invisibilia

n his twenties

several attempts were made

at turning himself into a product,

since the citizenry appeared to require

a certain amount of recognizable packaging

before they could be bothered

to afford any attention

to the contents of a given thing.

 

He dressed himself a few times

in various shrink-wrapped suits

and occasionally tried on

some press-kit boots

and once even went so far as to ask his soul

to think about coming up with a Facebook username.

 

But no matter how hard he tried;

his efforts to get the privies* to notice,

to spread his butter onto gatekeeper toast,

to serve his bacon out onto the breakfast tables of the wide readership,

he eventually could no longer ignore

the nagging echo of Ecclesiastes 1:9.

 

Reluctantly settling back into his inheritance,

he took jobs for the check,

for as long as they could last.

As each situation consumed undeservingly

his dwindling give-a-fucks, his reserve tank of gas.

While his "now" kept on melting

his arctic ice-cap days fast,

and those that might be to come

were outgrown by those that passed.

 

The same fright that he once knew,

the fright he once had fled,

is still very much the boss of God,

adding venom to his dread.

 

This bureaucratic sea of eager drones;

the incurious bland, the over-fed meds.

The punch-clock battalions of the tweet-informed;

the know-it-all-hive, the group-think heads.

The suburban jungle of soft-punk consumers;

surveillance honey for the digital Feds.

Our War-Office crafted effort-mill;

Authority apologists, the living dead.

 

And yet, after several years of committing his after-hours

to exhaustive study of the way of the botnet,

he was eventually able to talk his way into a desk,

assembling Fortune 500 facelifts;

salaried, remote,

via wifi.

 

And though the new routine is nearly as grass-blade jagged

toward his soap bubble moment of existence

as is the idea of becoming one of the other Joel Moore's on Google,

it's somehow not.

 

At any rate,

here I am.

At least for now.

 

Human Resources

The lord's war against you

climbs your knotted back

Blistered by the demand

you go on

seeking evolution in a song

ringing in tune with telephones

crying out to be informed

tethered to each day-to-day's rush to believe

in its own forward motion

 

The continuous activity

of the words I, me and my

suffocate in their inherent

exclusive failure

 

The brown dwarves of business days

remain locked down in bar codes;

a dumb bedding

for southern Christian small-talk

 

Their fear of world's end

on June sixth, two-thousand six

betrays the emotional defense of a child

among the paper-shredder's fornication

of a lascivious screen-saver

 

The pig-women in their head-sets and floral print

tango with the supply closet

while the coffee-maker and refrigerator wait

for their chance to cut-in

 

Their eyes glued;

absorbing the light-ray highway

fed digit chores from the symbol store

in an ever-fresh transitional modern

they explode in their sockets for wanting more

 

Our supplication falls silent

at the bloody feet of payroll;

her jobsworth toes tingle

Their heads the gnarly nails of yellowed health

She's a mute goddess

adorned in the lace trappings of Friday,

benefits packages and future vacations

 

Her devotion is a "safe" fantasy

Her members call her "the real world"

lapping her swollen cunt's white lightning

in a transitive Elvis Presley glitter

She's a cold case skull

Her mountain dew comes up dry at last breath

for all who follow

 

Her fluorescent air-con cubicle

personalized

Polaroid

like an inmate's wall scratch

 

The persistent hacking cough of the desktop printer

looks forward to lunch hour

as she marks a thumb-tacked calendar

with the words, "annual picnic"

 

The team morale meeting is an enchanting brochure

that offers only a surface comfort

Our primitive instinct attempting to log-on

gasps for air in this paperclip ocean

A deep-sea message forever undetected

because we don't open e-mails with attachments

 

Flailing about in the babbling brook of cliche-speak

we've gone to auction with the split-lives of ambitious mediocrity

while our lungs collapse under a billion gallons of routine

and we reason it all a pittance to pay for alphabetical order

 

"Save your prayers", she screams

"Saviour prayers"