December V

If you think your boxcutter blade might be dull, you should change it because it is. Mind is the same: if you think things are feeling dull, sit down and read for 20 minutes - a one thing that takes 20 minutes, not a bunch of little electronic shits that isn't really reading so much as robot scanning. A dull mind does not cut through long days that easily.

[then I got bored and wrote a sonnet in 14 minutes inside the facebooks of boredom dumb shit]

waning moon hovers over the end of lost year
boring further dullness into my life's routine,
I gave up self-destructing, gave up drinking beer,
sometimes gave up dreaming in this world rinsed too clean.
my natural born grime shows through my scars, my skin
scuffed, marked with homemade ink stains, bright brain going dark
because all the shinefaces buzz by, born to win.
marked by birth to live lemmy lyrics on a lark;
one step astray, ten years hard work to straighten out,
running what I brung with my supersport ass soul,
but no matter the holeshots, still sit idle, shout
at random passersby, wondering how this whole
facade got built with insanity and magic;
so ends this sonnet written melodramatic.

and then I was gonna complain about how full of shit everybody is, not really just online but in the town I live in, which seems content to pretend to be this little vibrant community without actually building anything artistic or unique about itself, as well as the small city/college I live near and work around, which also seems pretty content to continue to pretend it's some sort of great savior of thinking minds when in actuality it's a country club for the liberal-minded. but you know what? fuck it. 2013 will have me thick up in it, and you motherfuckers can either get down or get ground.

Manifestation Sonnet #0812

books are outer space in places I come from
working minds draped up in sweat and flat screen's fog
we breathe deep the soul glue and let our glow go dumb
perfect storm of still bodies and electrosmog
but I wander these roads with words for my long lost
armed with wild man's beard face and workingman's handshake
uncle sam's goddamn bastard 'cause I can't be bossed
understand self-medication, still I stand straight
this crooked world don't want straight words in a child's head
they want us drunk on dumb when we need sober truth
so old ways ain't forgotten when old folks is dead
want my words to spark a desire for fire in youth
     all day we're kicked in the head and yet still we stand
     when mind matches body's strength, we'll be workingman

Manifestation Sonnet #0712

ain't no god, no science, just this right here right now
sometimes your savior is the worst choice you could make
expecting spirit jesters to gesture somehow
finding shame in pleasures your senses want to take
same old game, repetitive medieval thinking
"right" and "wrong" illusions make the carrot seem close
slow death procession, self-medicated drinking
syrup from the masters, sipping poison sucrose
I fly from the false laws of gravity and gods
love and death intertwined in my mind as one whole
my homeland's got trick prophets and tesla coil rods
littering the back roads which I routinely roll
     but I bury them both behind the horizon
     and yet the sunshine rises on more confusion

Manifestation Sonnet #0612

born raven at the bottom of the totem pole
hustle like raindrops for new blooms on crooked wood
from fam'ly tree where die-hard habits took their toll
juggling bills and ideals while fighting to find good
in a world where wealth defines worth, often from birth
cursed with serf DNA, plus third world streams of thought
never bought into belief systems beyond earth
still stained by dirt amidst all the plastic I've bought
can't wash it clean in water, there's grime in my soul
there's rhymes in my head with reasoning that seems lost
calculating foreign angles strict squares can't hold
they've forgotten the hard stone soul beneath soft moss
     but my bed's hardscrabble, still I dream without shame
     chasing my trickster destiny; raven's my name

Manifestation Sonnet #0512

slow death penalty in cubicle like cattle
my madness creepy crawls across country landscape
when my ancient head talks I get geared for battle
dark gods in my mind enable me to stand straight
manifest magic through rituals with white quartz
tomorrow's carrot steady slips with each day's dawn
try to stifle down sounds of desires from false wants
the electrosmog's thick to where buzzes seem calm
digging through mud for gold, coming up short on shine
wish I could feel brand new but I'm forty years old
wish my wishes were heard beyond my cobwebbed mind
shouldn't have fell in love with my writer's soul sold
     misled by promises, went walking the wrong way
     but I'm a born survivor, get by day by day