A Mirages Diffraction

Splitting too Fast

homeless children tend to bend at a characteristic,
living like a wolf, with a wolf.

Rich men, the ones the strangers are scared about,
speculate on how to be above the wolves,
to send the wild grass and the un-touched nature
and set it on fire,
to unleash the smoke above our heads,
even theirs.


But it can only hover for a moment,
a time between minutes and decades,
a strangers’ thought will plague the mind,
 like why is it so hard to control a cry?

You over hear your Grandpa dying in his room
two away from yours.
You have been waiting there for four days
with the rest of your father's family,
you think the tears will come on there own,
you have been waiting enough
hoping they were held in storage.
But you force it until your eyes bulge
and relinquish from blinking.

You see a man being diagnosed with cancer
on television,
in a movie,
and while he is making his rounds,
telling his relationships,
breaking the mold,
capturing his misery and
your sight becomes blurry,
at times the scene stretches
adding a duplicate to each vision,
and the man made water drops from your eyelids,
filling up like a river bed until they erode
the grime on your cheek.

And Nietzsche, Hegel and Aristotle come to mind
while I gag on this Catharsis in my throat.






Only Play it if you’re going to Win.

the memorization of high cards is only a mistaken enchantment.
Tip the dealer         to better your luck,
or to become a philanthropist.

When in life do you have to ante?
Only when you already know you won,
albeit distracted strangers
ready to by,     buy,     bye.
Cards pass,         face cards with suicidal swords
through their heads,
                nothing.
Fold.

Look up,         see faces
through imaginative omission,
sunglasses with metal frames
reflecting our         faces while blocking their     appearance.
        Hands counting their chips,
                           rattling them like dominoes.

Two more cards,
ace,   ace,
could take it     advance   
collect,
           
Call,     bet,     raise.
Burn.
    River (5 hearts, 9 spades, Q clubs)
Calls and Percentages.
Players stretch,         others fold,
some lineup their chips        waiting to up the ante,
wager money,     value     before acknowledging its representation.
                                   
Burn,         turn (A hearts)
Three aces.
Most players check,     trying not to shell out the money
but stick in the game,
the field is looking like a slop.
I bet what it's worth,
                 open sesame. ($2000.)
                        The following fold,
only one is remaining.
One cattle about to be milked.
Burn,     Flop (7 spades).
He checks, while checking his glass for melted         ice.
I bet ($1000.)
                He folds,
tripling my chip count.

As a couple walks out of the poker room, caressing chips in there arms, the objects they weren't ready to give up seemed
                                                                              apparent.










































Bye Bye Mr Nice Guy

Do you ever feel like your brain might just want to escape?
It throbs painfully but it never fixes itself,
just the rest of your bodies.
Maybe if I broke my skull, or at least had it fractured after my full development
it would tell me the answer. 
It could stay, to afraid to be away from home or
leave me dearly, letting my body limp majestically,
absorbing nothing but just a day. 
A day. 
A day.
Never the same because our brain puts everything to a frame of reference
but now we’re separate and as i am floating through absence
and my brain is happily on it’s own
discussing the difference between totalitarianism and fascists.

































Talk about it like the Moon

Filtered out still impure,
eyes washed away with waves,
only see the salty taste,
the dehydration

Soul-less foods
eaten to make the stomach swollen
aches as long as an earthquake
but there was no plate to begin with.

Solemnly squire,
Divest in the medium,
poorly; show me a blank sheet,
and I’ll show you a lonely day.

Open up, why not grow?
but up and down are just directions,
positive and negative are just subjective
it’s always easy to say;
to speak; but it will never equate.

Talk about it forever,
these ideas are like the moon,
it just keeps on showing up,

where’s the radicality?

we have never changed with an idea
just been cynical with
this living organism; society.

A cave man has always been a man
and an animal
has always been animate













Passion Fruit

It was Kris and I,
surrounded for years by these succulent, seductive fruit.
While stocking, rotating, fingering each fleshy exterior,
fondling to find it’s decay date.
Still soft, not squishy or morbidly moldy.

It’s just us two tonight,
to try the treasures of the exports of the world.
Exotic like a paradise we recall ever eight hour shift.
Start grabbing the unknown flavor trying to taste
them through the air behind our loathed laughter.

Run, run to the back room,
grab a knife and split it in half.
Passion Fruit. Sliced from top to bottom,
inside looks like a spawn pool,
seeds ooze out oils,
that we take with our upper lips licking
out the pit.
Grinding eggs on the tops of our mouths,
taste transforming each swirl of saliva
from salty solids to cluelessness. 
Do we swallow or spit?
Eyes turned up on dimmer switches,
sweet sexy tastes of magical fantasy.

Kris spits his but it looks much like a loogey,
I swallow as the seeds sink into the gaps of my teeth,
silently staying, waiting to be watered.


















So Pessimistic, just Reality.

Hooray!  The author who will never see the published page.
The author who writes with no motivation, has no set goal,
doesn't want to stretch his credentials to fit in,
the author who has no place in his economy,
the one that rather break his back so he may never sit in a chair to write again,
the author that doesn't settle into one story, still exploring, how pretentious.
Yeah, the author never read,
the artist never seen
it is me, it is me,
yes the author that only hears scenes in the prospected, emerging writers
but no scent,
no transition,
which is where I can fit in.
For once, but never again. 
An author in a rut, aren’t we all.
a Novel never finished, a story with no glory, a character that attracts to no one.
Read once, written once, never recalled.
The author that has loyalty to himself,
only has one audience.
I am that author,
that artist that cannibalizes his own work.
The author that enjoys all.
The artist that sees no originality but his own.
























Masculine

I like to call it destiny
finding faith in genitals
only natural when they are hairy
only angelic when they are used
rubbing my ring finger
ring-less until I feel bone,
pull the excess skin up until
the fat looks normal

I still look around
not as a predator
but as an observationalist
but I was nothing before Jackie
never received any glances,
just old woman praising my golden curly curls,
thinking I was a girl.

I'm trying to co-write a thesis on asses
sexuality is ambiguous
homo--hetero are just extremes
that never exist
like opposites in nature.

Girls look, not women.
I always think they know.
I hear about a study on how men
with wedding rings
get hit on more.
Makes sense
-Reliable
-Relationship ready
-Obviously interesting enough for another girl to love

Stricken by paranoia by the whites on the side of their eyes.
Anytime I go out I just get hit on by gay men.
Makes sense
-I don't talk to women
2 fears
-Mixed Signals &
-Her judgement
-I'm usually dancing out of my self-controlled body

Women tell me their fears openly,
maybe I should be a corporate therapist to
relinquish hope in their lives.
How could you be afraid of death?
It's inevitable.
How could you be afraid of the dark?
It's inevitable.

I could never leave,
I've never wanted to.
If this was easy, convenient, stress-free
then it wouldn't be worthwhile.

We share our interests,
more me then you.
We share our bodies.
We cuddle underneath the pressure of reality.
Our apartment gets one inch smaller everyday,
losing room to stretch our arms.

We try to go to bed, finger tips away from orgasm
because my dick fell limp.
It's hard to leave the room when
you, Jackie, sleep naked next to me.
but reality will always be outside those walls,
waiting to play like yesterday.




























When everyone starts looking Weird

I think my glutton to change anything has passed.
I just want to write, paint, play, listen, talk about absurdities too sincerely, satirically mock our sensibilities, our lust to prove
something out of nothing but behind my mask, it will be serious,
finally answers to my own questions that I only would
think of.
But no one listens to this nonsense.
This nonsense that's been going on for years.
Creativity is just stupidity veiled by artistic credibility.

Fuck this.

Fuck words when they are formal.

Fuck grammar when I use it wrong or not at all.

Fuck me for never trying because I know if I promised myself to try harder, I would quit like everything else.

I would leave behind this therapy, only to lose myself now.
Would that be so bad?
No one answers because no one cares.
I've already passed the wandering, vantage point.
I'm out of frame,
out of focus,
out of exploration.
Just ready to work (7)(12)=84 hours a week to deny access to my true loves because what do I deserve anymore?
A constant misery because this has gone on to long.
But nothing in this universe is absolute law because the word uncertainty exists and I rather doubt then dream, but I rather dream then live.

















For The Verbal Hologram

I have amplitudes that are minimality
story ideas that pass as posh
and actions that speak as brash
but the new year brings me opportunity
because your failure will only grant
my existence with immunities
Gypsies  say impurity is what lies in beauty
if that’s true then why would our sight be
so puny.

I’ve been here all too long
and when I die I’ll say the same thing
because it has the same ring
and the same sting
actively trying to be ludicrous
pledging to Allah while I
shake a Buddhists fist.

Being served by a number
lost in this lumber
focused on location
misspent on vacation
possibly equated
faded
in the last luck of mystery
were thoughts find the light
from darkness, a fight,
a few rounds of straight punches
from the right
different position, same strategy
it’s the line between insanity
and democracy.

Who knew life disposed such options
through operands
looking for beliefs that’s been stained since memes
come on, ideas passed through genes
that's obscene
because my presence is all that matters
in a moment so serene
and I’m picking out the words that
will sound perfect without esteem
because cliches are only spoken
because their truisms.

We are all hearing trying to be shooters
but I can be nice with out a conscious
the perfection expression of a Madonna
so don’t get lost unless your perspectives vary
and taking breaths can be quite scary
you don’t have to stare into objects
floating around promises
no space for time’s sake
because my rhymes fake
I just pick the slope of convenience
because I’ll be teased to be pleased with
the ease of me
find out that my words were unoriginal
obviously because this craft
has safeties that unforgivable,
one’s with fingers are unwinnable
except these words determine our life span between zero
and infinitable
and my theorem might be out there
sound, stare
but we have only one fair way to know
to let the objects speak for themselves
and let the no’s be the no’s
so we can all get on with our life and
leave the absurdities on the tip of our nose
so when we look crossed eyed
we will be able to see the differences, I suppose.
























Missed his Chance

Bunnies chew holes in couches
and never know when you are yelling at them,
he’s just a furry rat
that pet specialists call intelligent
but what you heard is true
all they do is poop and try to hump you.

He hops on the wooden floor
trying to remember where he’s been
before.
Never doing anything he has never
done before.

Open space, free world, eternal existence
all the options promised to us
comfort provided by furniture
but even with all the precautions
he still hits his head on the coffee table
on the way down.
But the next day, we’ll forget all
about the accident
and he’ll look at us on the couch
and jump up so he can
deserve some attention.























Outside of the Wilderness

You guessed it, the last child to carry a message
blanked out on servitude
and spent his life serving food

But why would it be another way?
a kid’s predictable
their actions stay through the next day

The real worry is you,
preserving conservatives,
like the past was not a fool

Isn’t that where the story comes from?
That picked human nature from it’s bungalow,
a twisting of fiction, a separation from the soul.

Holding together our insecurities,
yesterday is already the past
but the stories you tell influence us

So instead of telling mine,
my mind tweaks and tells yours
and yours becomes ours

and soon we are just saying
the same thing in different accents
and our ears only hear the noise.




















Tech Crunch

lying bone dry on the porch
while Jimmy Tambrello played me his
glitch synth so I can remember
not to get my trash turned into
plasma.  I don’t want people
making endless profit off
what I deem nothing. 

Gliding on my rocket chair
post apocalyptic utopia
with eye drops of angel dust,
bright lights and circuits.

I heard over the cosmic waves that
Teeter totters become the
next American past time
except it’s virtualeality
with each drop your feel wrong
with each raise you feel right

down on the craters of
devalued land, we see new wildlife
a flying lilium, floating roots that
itch your head on the way by
domesticated nature,
and we tried to adapt to it.

part time livers, on an oxygen binger,
human hibernation swept
through the man made Ice Age
trying to prove he was King Cryos

but an HVD tastes like
soft serve, and the external
memory is easy to imagine.












Old Values

Those deep wrinkles
only meant to be an answer

and our machetes can only
chop like my hand can only hold
Trees touching, roots intertwined
soil erodes leaving hair to
play in.

Immaculate bodies strung out
on bristol boards.
Audience only waits to
see immunity harmed.

but my arms can only be wayward
my legs are revolving, tactically
even when I have sand dreams
exploring the desert for luxurious artifacts

I can only face the uncomfortable
like a penny
In the roller coaster queue,
admiring the mechanics of metal,
of fear, of excitement

Taking sparse moments
like cleaning the kitchen,
shaving, and seeing your dog die
and pushing them through a meat grinder.

Endless amounts of seas
to vanish into vapor
expand our lungs like the universe.

It’s already there
but I can’t seem to roll up my sleeves
enough, to get these hands
to hold onto disbeliefs
like accepted truths
like bread comes from wheat
and social norms
like owning a gender





Fork in Frequency

(C)  Amber State of Grain

Seldomly held opinions,
relapsed on adversity like an enthralled pear.
Tirelessly bashed from odd ended, blue’s sweatered spectre.
One legged begging as the tailored suit coats
filled with jest filled twenties and antique photographs of ashtrays,
golden hazed glassware holding onto sunken grayscale ashes
full of burly guilt and one side fits of embered rage
But the insides different
then the triumphant outside.
The silver luxuries only cleverly speed when seen
in brick layered alleys
and the beggars and peddlers
only tell you they are
unless when they forget to selfishly pray.

(G) Wandering and Wondering

The optometrist recommended me shattered
glass to prevent my disorder.  It’s like a round robin,
heads on soss hinges, never a mood to articulate
under the tunnel from seamless up and
draught down.  Bounded by discrete alienation, the kind
when the proprietor is only chasing down a one eyed
Saint Bernard.  And numeric's  lead me to fenders,
tramp packed in a Blue Moon soaked napkin,
scent of blood orange’s nostalgia sting underneath
those external bones, binding those stray, loose
strands of cob webs tossed on barb wired tents
contemplating Lucy and her band of mixed wicks
like a sunder under the Pacific,  Rusted pedals
hyped up to be a new changeling.  Seeing in
the fog of old men’s stench went through the
percentage of tomorrow.  In it for a future’s vision
on a thyme leaf later lent out to a cricket
thoroughly reminiscing on a banana jacket,
refining a pig silhouette to be unafraid of a
trumped step.

(D) Humming a Dew Drop

Floating on green buoyancy
waiting for the sacred fresh water to sneak out from under me
like doing labor without any value to show or
for a man made wave to bombard, trying to turn a pet
into a one off slave.
Staring at where clouds used to feverishly evolve
when association meant abnormal
and word play was a sex game, not an effective technique,
just a way to bang a black sheep
because their opinion of you was handsomely strange
and mentally able to bid on a farewell.
But I could never shamefully kick outliers out and their esteem
and she wouldn’t passively passionately tell me I was full of nothing
and starved on biscuits filed with absolute innuendos.
She willfully passed away after our first vacation
to the attic and I tried to educate her on
stuffed similarities and seductive semantics.

(F) Calming Essence

Grit over the Mahogany coffee table, missing legs
like a childhood memory still stuck on the trunk of their
now axed apple tree.  Not even a ladder could pull
us together even when it’s made from splintered words.
Tenderly pressing up against the momentum
that swung down the types of gyrations,
capillaries hibernated in the desolate icy strife
of memorable mnemonics.  Fate always seems to
miss when shot towards sun rays and family hay,
grouping pieces of tether under sloppy weather,
the kind you salivate to, the touching of nail
clippings in the toilet bowl, and only when
the figure of a meat head shines through
a dinner tube will I feel
biblically cyclical, naming patterns
like a group of neo nerds plausibly
calculating the reincarnation of heaven Gates
or the returning of middling Jobs.

(E) Being Told Later

Six pack plastics lining a tub full of delicately used ice chips
bought out by precise pigeons wanting a place
to tremendously crash.
Only when the awry robbers come out do the self sufficient,
double blinded humans show up to wait,
black denim khakis, long banks lines that double as death sentences,
winos trying to act tempted by the lush beaches
of Barcelona where age is nothing but an illuminated filament
in a heap of heavy star dust.  Carbon meddled down to complex basis,
left eyed stasis besides a myriad of parallaxes.
I always loved staring at the cracks, separating the pixelated grooves
of sidewalk because they reminded me of dying sunflowers
being prescribed  out of date penicillin providing immunities
for therapy.

(A) Walled in a Continent

Nets interlaced with Nets
Dirt men tugging at the yellow anchor
while a mistress, the outlier gaining traction, gathers agave
for us lonely feathers, since
friends are mere illusions,
with their blue bark speech, If only wings could
toss their remains under the stars.  It would make
the grass greased for weeks
as the shifting of eclipses didn't count for geometries
and all that jazz and clockwise foreplay
and bees knees stirred with tendonitis, then
all off a sudden, gestation in a feverish nebula.

(B) Produce a Serpent

A green black board full of dots
like a universe covered in backwards t-shirts
used as smocks.
Sprinkled acrylics silvers measuring the seconds
before the chaotic taps of the paintbrush made
from dissected shoelaces as it’s hairs.
College backpacks in direct violation of a cosmetic affair.
Clashes with grave stacks and moss stashes that
only a pairs burden could negotiate with.
A dimpled cheek that only a blade of artificial grass
could interrupt these slow tides of sanctity because
when I view the fishing boats sail down mud raked rivers,
bending at every trigger finger, where many wedding rings,
each detached contain the lost souls of a steadfast maturity
that once seemed so extremely branded like a dinner table
but ended up notoriously bland like mixing all the colors.
And that's when the young, self sustained import adult
could finally abrupt their Netherlands and waste their
abundant time to reclaim their primary feather.











The weirdest possibility of me

Me, A telemarketer trying to sound out the dialects
I hear everyday.
Why did I settle for this?
Every job is a juxtaposition to the next.
Because you are the constant.
I really wanted to be a stay at home husband
But I never had any kids to watch except the one's on
television.
So my wife quickly left me.
Did you mind?
No I can't stand laughter or doubted happiness.  I
would hear her giggling over a text
and I would pass up sex.
Over her pleading me to go to bed
I would hum loudly, incessantly, and masturbate
in our water fall shower.
What do you do in your free time?
I lost all my friends when they told me I was now living
the single life, the real life.  Free time is like real life,
all moments are real and all time is free.
Egan why do you exist?
Easy enough.  Animals primary goal is to procreate, to live
another era and the longer you live the less you fear. 
Accumulate knowledge, memes, coping mechanisms and techniques on living,
survival.
Egan doesn't believe in destiny because I'm an author.  I create stories,
I don't live them.  But I guess I live to feed off pop culture, to support the society
where I was born.  To watch bukkakes but never imagine partaking in one.
Egan just wants to view life behind a glass,
to feel like my interests are being fulfilled even though they are given to me
without my consent.
Will you be going to heaven?
Only if god has a posse and at the pearly gates, he is surrounded by GZA, RZA and ODB chanting
"Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with" and I would agree.
What about hell?
Egan thinks hell comes from inside.   It's your conscious, an internal conflict and the way you deal with them.  But if it was a place, it would be full of honesty and everyone would only talk about you while they talked.