November 10, 2015

Gonna read this piece tomorrow night at the event below
because I sure like performing it but never did much to get it out there.
If you’re in L.A. you should come. The line-up is holy f… fireworks.


Having pumped our panic buttons and pedal metal
down the throats of freeways
then crashed
like heavy glass ashtrays
into our own homes
with department store force
and a gas can,
distended stomachs and God’s holes…

Having shown off our momentum for yawning
as a clever way
to denigrate deeds of kindness…
Having created
enough minimum wage faith
to distract orphans from the exit rows
then thrown holding pattern parties in their honor
only to present each other
with our own names
on gold plaques
bolted to a fountain of toll booths used
to get dressed up up
in our go go go and gone uninterrupted
by the signs that serve to encourage calming down…
It is good to know
I have finally been loosening my grip
on the expectation that our thumbs
will necessarily oppose each other in the next life.

There is a next life.
And it is my understanding
we will not necessarily be binge-drinking bros
wearing Greek lamp shades
paying for friendships
based on how pornographic our breath smells.
I will not necessarily find myself
rationalizing with computer gamers
and overly polite customer service robots
about how much life is lost
on alternative realities
or how much violence peaceful consumers cause.
The results of our language cannot be programmed.
There is no proper way to hide the rampage
with whom we have been banking.
There are no words
thick enough to conceal the transparencies
in these stories we have crafted
out of loopholes and nothin’ but net.

The next life is being offered to us daily
via live streaming satellite
by entitled white rabbits and tragedy addicts
dragging their fingernail
file cabinets
across records of the damage my nerves have done.
Inglorious preachers of a sensational game.
Sensations and games
are at the root
of why we are walking so inefficiently,
warped 45’s with credit card swagger
charging up a sad sad path
like Ray Charles singing Seven Spanish Angels
to the bottom of the barrel in broad daylight.

Stop congregating in the valley
just because an echo
sounds good
when it agrees with itself.

A trajectory of misery –
at this point –
seems intentional.

We have all the information
we need
to see clearly.

We are no longer toddlers
on the landscape
of consciousness.

It is no longer cute
to crap ourselves.

Get the sticky off your buns
and roll with me.

Brush the hair from your eyes
and comb over.

Stop paying the dentist for a night guard
if it’s still allowing your jaw
to pulverize the truth.
The truth is:
We feel fine. Right now.
We are a point of complete, not a soundtrack
to the next life. The future
gets no say
in who we are. Thank you
for laughing at the joke several lines ago
about sticky buns.
That was sweet. This is nuts. Listen…

Having listened
to the parentheses of passive aggression
and made far too much bracket in response,
incriminating ourselves
as sucker punches and suckerfish,
soaker hoses and preying on
the dead weight
of fashion-forward food for overpopulation…
Having inflicted the most amount of pleasure
with the least harm done
then called it progress…
I am still, without fail, eligible to remind us
that there is a reason the future
gets so agitated by our advances.
We are not built to barge ahead of ourselves
in false fast-forward on a flat fifth wheel
made out of spokespeople for progress
who fly off the handle
whenever anyone taps the breaks.
Throw it in park.

Gauge the pressure.
Renunciation is not a frigid concept.
It is okay
to abandon the tackle practice
of having and crashing and
having and crashing
through this circuit board of carrier pigeons
carrying torch carriers
over an orchestra of strung-out sixteenth notes
composed with a matchstick
that struck out and broke off but did not
burn up. If the future
keeps finding us
in these uncomfortable positions
they might mistake us for honest
before it’s actually true.
How honest is it
that we drink
until we are dehydrated?

If my throat turns to carbonated leather
and you hang me
like a lucky foot from the rearview mirror
while barreling down the freeway,
toll booth after toll booth,
in a heavy glass ash tray,
how the hell freeways got to be so
goddamn expensive,
remember this: The White Rabbit
is said to be a symbol
of human beings
who are pompous and belittling
toward anything they deem less valuable
than themselves, yet
they grovel to accommodate
anyone from whom they stand to gain.

To what end
are you gaining?

I’m not speaking
to our governments.

I’m speaking
to the way we govern ourselves.

Make your stopwatch
live up to its name.

We are not late
for an important date.

We have simply shown up
too early
for the next life
and forgot to knock, forgot
that the future
doesn’t want us to arrive.
It knows that if we do, it dies.

As if people on stilts really need you to offer them more gravity.
Easter Egg