I know a lot about life,
things, and stuff
so when they question
the credence
of my knowing
I get angry and have to
spit. Then feel
better that they don’t
know how much
I know about who
they are, and remember
they know nothing
of me and what
I know about
them, things, and stuff.
Nod to Spleen
No snow so go.
thoughts,
snippets of truth from other men:
“There is no snow in Hollywood, there is no rain in California.”
Some chap once said,
as I thought of clouds and planes and the
beating,
burning dream
of the endless American sun.
The Disconsolate of the Land
Buried basements of the free-butveryexpensive-world behind heavy hung doors, rusting industrial bolts and locks, dripping alleyways linking subterranean darkness, mystery flickering in networks, a lack in linking that never reconnects. The body of darkness, the spirit of the dirt. The soil of turmoil, the filth of the earth. Mouthgagging relations to silence family discussion. Terrorists shopping in supermarkets, posting love letters, smiling in the sun; how we shock, they are just like us. We snap and kill, crimes of passion, the desperate hate of endless loss. All in the name of love. We sit and watch the grotty hovals that blister and brim, spilling out with symbols of uadaltered, universal sin. We forget before we found the hole in which Sadam lived, above ground in light is where he, we, me, sipped from the rim of that diet-coke icon global tin or considered in passing which tooth paste would give us the Hollywood ‘ching,’ that plastic smile of shining white. Human, all too human, the philosopher would say when we try to make the distinction between them and us. We must remember that it is we who have plotted the points along that axis of evil, we who absent mindedly forget the lies behind this axis of diesel. And so they hide underground, the tribals fleeing from genocide, the infecting rape of the other side, contaminating and splicing traditional blood lines.