The Sock-Monkey As Alone

"I'm not looking for anything,                  In anyone else eyes."                           - Bob Dylan. Trite, cliche, or a manifestation of the truth. A lie is seen as self-expression? Or, a delusion divided and set loose. He doesn't even follow the rules of surrealism. It makes to much sense. But that is the fault of legalism... "No reason to be so bent." Ĺike one of the three stooges saying "I'm blind, I'm blind!" The truth won't make a dent or spare the rod. Yet clarity comes at the price of eloquent lies. That I prefer for there enrichment.

Do you find it odd that some people think          that saying, "there is no way you can convince me otherwise."                    Is a rational argument? Anonymity breeds ignorance.      And clarity convictions in the legal term sort of way. Images can mean anything, but it is only when you choose... That you actually say something.    Bad days are my business, I lie to get what I want. Life after poetry is a contradiction I have excepted. I find that I have no use for a good soliloquy.   Though I am fond of spell-check. The joke is broken, yet I laugh defensively. Some idea, some time ago       In another life in this country              I had hope inside a dying star. Gravity gave me yoyo's but god gave me a middle finger.

Frogs or dirty old toads line the forest with rainbows on their backs. An angel walked over the world, and his gold skin and flames for hair are only a glimpse of what I thought capable to dream.  My young friend's pretty eyes and fair Hare like an angels skin walks his dog over the blacktop though nothing is ever what it seems.    The asylum was not kind to me, "we will strap you down and shoot you up on meds!" I was told. Though an anonymous phone call spared me more than I deserved. Sleeping in the grass, freshly mowed, and sticking to my clothes. They drove me in a prison cell over the interstate. My steel box was bouncing me around in handcuffs without a seatbelt.    Symbols have a way of getting away...walking over the world or down the aisle of some other man's wedding. Still, they have a purpose because safety is always a concern. "Maybe he will be tempted? Make him go to the cafeteria?" I started to laugh, " you had t

Truth, I feel you though like music you are invisible. Yawning like a lion, Yawning like something in a zoo. To find out where you belong,            Is there nothing you won't do? A rhino and a war machine, let be what has been done. Forever the time is changing: radiation from the sun. Chimera's and laughing dog                  without the other one can not belong. Is it naive to not be political?                   Or, mature to patronize kings? when the words that define me are belittled                   than the walrus starts to sing. " Rimbaud  was a trader who outgrew the need. For poetry and art to find himself some things. So while free verse can be broken or a statement made clear. nothing is left write in this age of fear."

"Where the wind blows, that's where I go."                -Daniel Johnston Smoke like weaving Through my controlled and safe space. Life is an act of plagiarism From which the smoke will escape. Any idea is obscene When a TM is involved. To wake from the dream But still lost in the fog. A mechanism of terror Or, a giant god that got. "We were told in error That our soul can be bought." His mechanical legs Leave a footprint a mile wide. His iron soul  wakes the dead While his eyes see where angels reside. The Kaiju he seeks Alternates in the matrix of things. With a sword for the geek That feeds off of screams. They struggle in conflict As life lives on Both are catatonic In the madness of there bond. Science as magic An atheist mystic with games That plays on the tragic desire to regain ownership of a name That shakes the world with ever step. As an idol maimed the same As an old testament that crept. To take from the living what little is left.

"Sometimes I feel very sad Sometimes I feel very sad (Can't find nothin' I can put my heart and soul into) Sometimes I feel very sad (Can't find nothin' I can put my heart and soul into)"   - the beach boys: just wasn't made for these times. I rode the four-wheeler around the twenty-foot circle in my parents back yard. Goku had just defeated Frieza, but Namek was destroyed. The girl I had a crush on was afraid of me. Her older brother cared but in an observant worried sort of way. I had a box with a barbie I had painted blood on. My parents told me I was an idiot for claiming I read gone with the wind (I hadn't). My mother dragged me into the house my wrist cutting on the bricks of the house I reached for screaming for help. My neighbors thought this was normal. But Goku had defeated Frieza. I had drawn women naked in bondage. My parents found out by the house cleaner who went through my stuff without my consent. He told my parents she

"You have the brain of a very clever man, and the heart of a child."                                       - one of lewis carrol's child friends. So sick, as a telescope. Or, just the right size staring down the barrel of a rope. Fingers greasy from McDonald's fries. The sick age of abuse the truth is he doesn't fit his shoes. Like a vampire stealing life he can't even cope with the truth. That logic prevails, and to play with it is a joy. "Who in the world am I, that's the great question?" I will set demons loose while deeming it fit to teach you this lesson With an off the coof quip. "he is spooky as a person, or I am losing my grip." Yours sincerely, and independent little girl. Who questions authority (dangerous, questioning, claustrophobic).

Words of decadence swallow decay swarming eyes in line to remain. Shallow property of well-meaning sores. To educate the thoughtless or open up doors. The dance has been over for far too long. we (you and I) Are dreading the cleanup tomorrow. The pamphlets and confetti. Streamers and kazoos childlike wonder that never came through. So the masks come off,and the frolic is to be feared with the flicker of cinders of our tempest of years.

What is the story, information as seen through post Eliot and Pound? We see a delirium, of spice and snails...incense over ever-encroaching decay. While my dream life, a brain destined to make associations that aren't there. Or name drop a reference in a desire to be seen as literate. Not the overweight, balding freak of tooth decay and "you need to take a shower," I am. Yet I find the coolest trick in my bag is an awareness of my failings. Not the bouncing jingle jangle of bells that my incompetent vocabulary can't defend. But looking you in the eye and saying no matter how much I say I am sorry, nothing changes. I can lose weight, but the sagging net of scars will not make you my number one fan. Nor will my legal psychosis make you sick, no matter how much people act like I am contagious. I can hate, and I can hate, but rage won't make me number one on the bestseller list. so what I am left if you can care enough to ask is, "I should have no lega

Traffic in the morning, tells the story of a species in love with gambling. I would rather stay at home watching the song go by. Rambling and disoriented, as much a victim as I have nothing to say. So I make clean sentences trying to organize the associations of another day. A collage of repercussions, fear, and sincerity. Alternating as black and white cross-hatching Where is the music in the language? The melody of the rhyme? A short statement in prose in the promise of it's kind. Poetry is in between word though it never rereads the same. I am content to be a variation in the age of information loss. an old fashioned dandy addicted wordplay for its sake (and on its own terms) that wishes granted are in the very least are here so I can love language as a framing device.

Radioactive gods dismember the foretold of promised land. The shadows line a silhouette of cliches that tell me where not to go, as poetry is dead and someone like Frankenstein is busy in the lab. But the monster unleashed can not salvage, for me, clarity. While yesterday says sweet things about the wasteland and mother acts ashamed at my desire to know her before death. you tell me there is nothing left, I laugh and say there never was I drink my bottle of wine and quickly type something I promise I will fix later but days, add up, and problems line the walls of my creative endeavors, So much frustration and so little reward, for my amusement or for yours? And I find no solace in a fistful of shattered sand escaping from a desperate hand.

Weeping stone angels. Or, the life and times of Mason Andrew Freak. "People do things they can't live with, but they go on living."  -David Lynch. He was fat and had a green mohawk like the ones found on those who serve in the air force. Vulgar was his natural aesthetic. Insane his natural disposition.  He was a freak and chose that word as his family name.      The field he stood in was a place of shattered dreams, A sand lot of forgotten childhood and VHS tapes watched until they bubbled and ripped.  A place that disagreed with him. He looked around (feeling watched), but couldn't find out who was stalking him.     His trech coat flapping in the wind, with it's turtle neck hiding his face from below his eyes. his  eyes changed colors. his eyes were ominouse. The sinister if antisocial creature stomped off as his black converse sneakers kicked up a trail of dust.  He looked like he weighed three hundred pounds and was twelve years old.  He was looking for