Self Destructo

self destruction
rampant
alumni
live in coffins
or as ashes
spread across the globe
I have looked in their eyes
as the living
death films over
everything they see
no fortune teller
or special gift
only the obvious reality
of how people
will kill themselves
over and over again
until the job is finished
does it matter?
when an auto accident
choking on dinner
or allergic reaction
can do the job just as easily
control
must count for something
to watch oneself
wither
decay
and eventually die
pain
to live as an outlaw
means pain
suffering
revealing wisdom
most people choose to ignore
when under the realm
of cultural comforts
take those away
an there is just the self
the mirror
and realization
that mortality
is more than a word
its the final word

Crime Report

So many assualts
burglaries
stolen cars
and narcotics busts
in 89109
every week
I get the neighborhood paper
with such light topics
as the haunted locations of Las Vegas
or Halloween cookie recipes
but on page 2
in every issue
resides the crime report
a street map
littered with stars
squares
and triangles
all representing
a variety of reported illegal activity
by looking at the overwhelming smattering
of symbols
one might think I live in a dangerous area
yet people walk the streets
around here at all hours
the prostitutes
crack fiends
junkies
pimps
theives
and bad asses
cops sit next to patrol cars
in front of a 7-11
with siren lights on
a neon garage sale
or maybe a cue to conduct business
but be discreet
cause even with the addition
of a police division
down the way from my place
near the Hilton Hotel
not much has changed
besides the demolition of a few apartment complexes
no problem
people just move down the avenue
tons of empty apartments around here
some just boarded windows
no doors
people squat
does not cost a thing
others refuse to pay rent
why should they
the accomodations look bombed out
no power
window shades
pad locks on the front entrance
yet next week
there will be another map of the 89109
with the same exceedingly high amount
of crime traffic
as the local labor force
dodges all those stars
triangles
and squares in an attempt
to do it all over again the next night

Rock Diet

Things you see
on the table
on the rider
bags of oxycotins
lora tabs
vicadins
valiums
percasets
piles of coke
weed
an entire array of whisky
vodka
jager
151 rum
and tequila
there is always more
we need more
excess has no boundaries
except
sleep
and death
the insanity inbetween
only fuels the gravitation
back to the safety
of drug induced comas
where happiness exists
while the pain of humanity
ebbs away
like the receeding tide
as the moon stop
ceasing all further ocean movements
it is showtime
load up
numb up
feel good
and forget for a bit
that life shall never
get any better than this

Age

Funny to see someone
who I have not seen in five years
she has aged a bit
but still maintains quite a fit body
wanted to have sex with her back then
and even more today
maturity has masked that once innocent youth
boyfriends
partying
one night stands
fill in the voids
for living in a world
where people have expectations
based upon traditional family values
values that have since
been blow to smithereens
showering new generations
with fragments of beliefs
twisted through media
friends
and personal choice
sitting across from her tonight
it was plainly obvious
my intentions
which probably got my friend
to make a hastily exit
no problem
my door is always open
and she now knows where I live

Open Season

The storefront is open
after a brief vacation
where old friends meet once more
time has no concept here
merely the rise and setting of the sun
formalities
mysteries
and reason
have no foundation
just another evening
to connect with greater sea of insanity
cresting over the Las Vegas Strip
every bill comes due
ignoring it
will not make the issue go away
only fester
like an annonying family member
or flesh eating virus
total consumption
give precious blood
sanity
surrender to the waking hours
which never cease
even during the off moments
all these folks pay
heading off with their product
to tiny little islands
marooned in a mental sea of conversation
sex
and rememberance
until the feeling wears off
redailing friends numbers once more
to recapture the white light

Safety Conscious Recycling

He passed by me
wearing
industrial grade
black rubber gloves
that went up
way past his elbows
armed with a trash picking
mechincal tool
he rummaged through the sanitation bins
behind the liqour store
careful
continously aware of his surroundings
the man lifted each layer of refuse
with the manner of treasure seeker
coming upon a rare and exclusive find
focus
patience
coarsed through his veins
with the precision of a surgeon
removing each layer of garbage
assessing everything for potential value
The recycling artists of Columbia
were not so particular
taking no shorts but to just dump
the entire of waste on the street
then figure out what was worth saving
and leaving the rest in a pile on the street
for the next person

Langauge Barrier

Spent 3 weeks in Columbia
No more fluent in Spanish
Than when I left
A woman
Ask me for help
Could not understand
Thought she wanted some money
Americano tendencies kick right in
when back in the states
someone
always wants something for nothing
she looked homeless
that's enough
to be judgemental
when all she wanted
was a bit of help
figuring out how
to put more air in her car's tires

New Pop Fantastic

Teenagers in their Halloween Costume
Roam the Aisles of the Neighborhood Convenience Store
Pop Implants for the Mind
We Dance
We Sing
We Fall in Love
With the Thoughts
The Dreams
Of Escaping a Nightmare Reality
on the City Streets
Moonwalkers
Hip Hoppers
and Body Rockers
Dancehall Divas
and Beauty Queens Take Notice
Time Moves on
Yet the Illusion
Remains the Same
Youth Burns Like a Short Fuse
Smiles Fade
Turn Hostile Faces of Stone
Where No Light Shines
and Those Thoughts of Dancing Your Life Away
Fall Victim to the Wandering Predators of the Night
Talking in their Sleep

Join the Human Race

No Desire to embrace, accept what others do so readily, there is nothing wrong with have a enormous sense of disgust for contemporary anything, commericalized, over processed, made for material profit. Many of my acquaintences call me a hater, never satisfied, completely incorrect, there are plenty of great stories and moveable creations, but interacting with the general public who pay to view garbage cinema, backyard brawls of ultraviolence, and happy hour key busts can do nothing but provide me material in which to write, not much else, in the end people want money, security, and the illusion of upward mobility without these concepts the knife will cross the throat or the pills down the throat, all of this gives me immense amounts of laughter as well as a greater desire to press past all their inadequate ideologies that only spawn, violence, transgression, and expliotation. Those things run our society and more we employ them up on our fellow humans, the greater the gain but the quicker slide down into a society of paranoid, self conscious robot, without feeling, thought, or compassion, grinded into paste and served on a cracker is to be fate of the human race, bow down to your superior who have no shame in abuse, cons, and destruction, nothing more to them than blowing your nose or blowing up the neighborhood architectual relic.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Appears that post 2am time frame has been the most suitable lately for putting down any sort of information, living in hotel rooms dodging all the usual drug addicts and chronic alcoholics so I can drink in peace without the discomfort and peer pressure associated with people bound in chains who prefer to live in denial of their self destructive natures masks by the socially acceptable roles of playing parents or discovering religion, anything, an excuse, a legitimate angle to cure the ham, to come back home, hit Orwell's Room 101, go braindead and forget that you had anything called a pulse. I know this is all a big scam, shitting on the toilet, my disiciples running back to the comforts of reality. It is too late for me, no matter all the hangovers or cardiac arrest, my lot is to go down as a dengerate, a substance abuse, a person who sits in bars in his middle age, staring at the asses of 20 something female bartenders watching them talk to douchebags, laughing at the entire display, the wasted nature, the complete and utter joke of witnessing the process of courtship in the 21st century when all people want to do is get wasted, fuck, then move on. I speak of Las Vegas, of working in the entertainment industry, right away reason goes out the window.

No one wants to here about the reality of being a cog for the ministry of truth, a tele-internet communicator to the masses who believe whatever I tell them, then attempt to come up with a lie, a bigger lie to seduce a piece of pussy back their way. I watched it happen tonight, when the cockblock crew heard I was from Vegas and the female bartender got excited, then began talking to me, these recording machines, shifted gears to begin talking about their Vegas experiences, nights at the craps table, the money won, lost, and spent, as well as a bunch of other tales of fabrication, really?, the entire process was ridiculous, the effort spent by these guys to win back the bartender's attention amazed me. What did I care, she wondered if I was coming around the next night, no such luck, don't really need anymore hassles, there are a million bars throughout the world, been to half of them, still the drama at the local neighborhood tavern is not to be underestimated. Bogota, leaving next Tues night, no plans, itinerary, or direction, just show up and let the country speak to me, just the way it should be, later. No edits