Force Lux Imperium Imperius

Would I have to leave you
for Space?
When the cities were sick.
Choking, polluted messes,
discarded, but still not discarded.
Of course, like all great shit shows,
built by the masculine gender.
Gravel, trash, petrochemicals.
Fused, smashed, grinded together.
But look, there is a new glassy
skyscraper rising above.
Phalluses we pat our backs over.
The leaders retire in them.
Guarded by their Imperium Guards.
These are truths of the era.
Dumb, choking, cough.
So would I have to leave you
to love you, to love in a new way,
beyond the dumb dome of
violent boys playing with their
toys.
To kiss the blue bend, bleeding
to black, infinity, freedom.
Civilizations not built around
gold, silicon, and silicon dioxide,
but light, mineral soil, air, the
circle,
the unworded, and the unmolecule.

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Pete’s Pizza Economies Falling

centuries of people
have eaten that bad pizza
more long lasting
is the mystery of
these economies that plague us

come for the people
at this street corner
going in to get their pizza

going into the brick and
mortar
neighborhood building
to be back home with family
eating the cheese and sauce
and meat
with all those electric screens
aglow

they look into each others
eyes
with something ancient
asking

there’s more to this
in our DNA and the dust of
stars
above and so far across
existence
than what I chew and swallow
over and over

Ripe Womanly Presence

In the summer
I will want to jump
from the city bridges
into the polluted river below
to celebrate
the carcinogenic world
that men have built
from their grand manly
leadership,

then I’ll climb out,
walk home
to be loved properly by you
and your ripe womanly
presence.

The Foot Soldier or Being In Love In A Free Market Economy

It’s like I’m going to war in
World War II
My legs are shaking
I need a ciagarette
My lungs are big
I’ve not had enough calories for the day
though I still love you
On my way up
to the bell tower
where the sniper is
My best friend had his head blown off
and it splattered on me
Gave me the vegence to kill them
These chemicals
It’s why we should never forget
The mechanisms at play
Capitalism produced all this
The tobacco from Turkey
The marketing
The landing on beaches
and the copius loss of life
that makes us men

Divorce Or “The Non-Perfected”

We are divorced.
Divorced.
Now.
The children don’t walk into
the kitchen to see us.
The children don’t exist in
the garden
or the backseat of
the SUV
moving through moonlight
into the
mountains.

Your hair falls for some other
kind of
silence on the bathroom
floor.

The grime on the light switch
stays.

Another family moves in.

The heroic
Industrial Revolution is
winning.

It defeats the unpresentable.

The solo. The non-perfected.

divorce

The Graduation Party

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There are graduation parties around
town tonight
I won’t be there
under the Spring bloomed oak trees
souring scents of keg beer
and hanging bulbs of pink lights

Those days are fifteen years beyond
me now
My head is but a hazy haze each
new morning
Not filled with subjects of moons
and phases or the kissing lips of
fresh skin by the windblown lake

What would I do at a graduation party
anyway
besides toss cupcakes upon the
hoods of classic cars
then come round with a mower
the next day
to cut a damp and fertile lawn
to start the crusty ruse of economics
that the empty call adulthood

Our Days Or Jesus Speak

With poverty
I have lived happily, jubilantly,
celebratory and
fulfilled

But you
and so many others were
posers
wanting, striving, to be
somewhere else

If these are our days
then what is our wealth

in the end
the nothingness we go
holding

rather insignificant vanishings
amongst the galaxies

So this my friend
is why I rejoice and love

When Eve Was Unformed

The days is done. The pop music played.
Cavafy’s been read. The scotch drank.
And a train howls solitarily through town,
proclaiming the Industrial Revolution on
the good contemporary day; the greedy
Industrial Revolution, it won’t let go. The
door is open. The pearl land curves of her
ivory body curl on air, the languid, suspended,
electric air. Her smell scents the world. One
thousand six hundred miles away she is
there. Her eyes, the jewels of empires, fall
on concrete, sad concrete. Concrete the
immigrants laid from the bounty of war. Her
chestnut hair flies as the banner of tyrants
and servants. The genetics are broken in
the City. People enter the department store.
People enter the department store. The apple
core rots in her garbage. Her constitution was
formed from war. She lives in the capital of
Capitalism. It lusts her femininity. It loves her
curves. It floors on the energy drinks of the
tiendas. O the asbestos crumbles!

The day is done.

Robots Driving By The Oligarchy

I can’t sleep when you’re on vacation.

My hands are small, smaller than they’ve
ever been.

The kittens were born ten years ago behind
a modest wooden house in Fort Worth.

The cats will die someday. I’ll cry like a
baby then.

I personally think the bacteria in your stomach
and anus are what’s ruined you, you know

soured you as a person,

in the midst of this lactic war.

Biologists think the big red spot on Jupiter
is fueled by lactic acid,

the lactic acid, that is, in its upper atmosphere.

I thought for a moment;
kind of like your robot stomach.

You do
love a lot like robots driving by the White House,

reporting on domestic spying initiatives
and
tossing Molotov cocktails.

Your sheets are folded perfectly.
Your bed is made quiet nicely.

These are not codes, Shipley Shipwin. They are
not codes.

I Remember Something

Sometimes I remember something then
I remember the sun.

I remember people doing dumb things
like rushing to toy stores filled with products
from China
on Christmas Eve evening in Southern California
because
they believed this is what love is.

I don’t believe this is love, I don’t believe
these kind of people anymore.

They’re floating along out there, somewhere
in outer space

somewhere as spirits
because let’s be honest
that is how they were born to be

as
the walking dead, the slaves, the constructors of
slaves, the worshipers of kings.