Dead Tree Therapy

There is currently no better word for incomplete than incomplete,
and therein lies the paradoxical fuckery of coping with emptiness
and grappling with nothing. By conceptualizing nothing, it's been
disserviced. The fact remains, 'nothing' is easier said than done.

It extends beyond the removal of materialism, of desire and remorse,
though each contributes to the whole in their own small ways.
Feeling incomplete is inherently difficult by pitting one's soul solely
in the void. Without knowing, without planning, without thinking.

The greatest torture and thereby the greatest therapy must then be
solitude, if only a modicum of sanity can be maintained throughout.
When you strip away the gained insight, the experience of it all,
preconceived notions of existence, all that remains is self.

The illusory fabric of 'reality'; a flimsy construct built on distraction
whereby goals drive innovation instead of the opposite.
And balancing the scales too moderately stagnates the procedural
growth that ever rebels against our urge for 'free-will'.

The only real choice to be made is whether to partake or quit.
It is indeed difficult to relinquish control in the unfathomable depths
of our sincerely unknown universe, but I've said it before and so again
I shall: "Be leery of any who claim to have the answers."

Pessimist's Lament

It's funny how life can turn on its head like some sort of hypercomplex fractal.
Like now how you're thinking, 'what the fuck is a hypercomplex fractal?'
and mad about the fact that you're worried about that rather than carrying on.
The way that we sought stability until it drove us right into the ground;
that point of origin, having gone full circle, the place most stable and dirty of all.

We Babel at each other, not saying anything, until the tower's so high that,
no, it doesn't get collapsed by the omniscient God, but by forgetting why we built
and finding that I'm pulling the last Jenga piece out from under myself.

Scurrying to grapple and grasp at the ever-thin air, getting heavier and heavier,
there is the ever-growing pain of realization, knowing that we only move forward
at the cost of living, until our bodies tire of the incessant antics and abuse.
Navigating dodgy systems of olde, aiming for heaven, afraid to get there.
Wasted years preparing for moments that were only but dreams of youthful
vitality.

As we pay to play to forget to play until we just pay, and pay and pay
to remember some day what once was lost was not forever forgotten
and gain sight once more in our unsightly, broken bodies
with rusty joints and dreams of joints once so fine.

Blissed

Sipping on the Oskar Blues but I don't feel that way at all.
Every other word out of my mind isn't humble enough for you;
so I sit here and strike out passage after passage, because
I feel too good for the norms imposed by the Drunkard Canon.
Maybe they just weren't doing the right stuff, just the write stuff.
I've spent my time at the end of the rope, morning after PBRs
stale bong water and the like. The goddamn grey Michigan skies
which are only fair for how otherwise great this place is.
Sure Detroit gets a bad rap, but for what, Robocop? Eminem
represents the 313, but only for what it used to be. I look forward
because I don't have eyes in the back of my head; roll over, roll another.
Strip away all the bullshit, the colors and layers upon layers, sedimentary
cityscapes, re-purposed skyscrapers, get higher and higher, but never rise.
Maybe we could all take a lesson from the persistence of hard times
and the people who don't turn their back, instead turn the shattered glass
upon themselves and see the fractured thing they've become, only to
remain and see themselves rise and get high once more.

Glycerin Glisten

iridescent bubbles catch the fleeting Spring sun
in their separation of self and whole
a limited glass-wall world, the community bubble
the sanctitude, the solace, the illusory solitude.
lifelong ponders, "who blew us into existence?"
from which soapy soup were we comprised?
the primordial balance of alkalis,
the oleochemicals and otherwise
Taking the inane and invoking the insane
and setting it off unto the elements;
the darkness and cold, a glimmer of hope
as it captures light, captivates souls
from POP to POP to POP, evermore.

to chaos, unexplained

to the untrained ear, chaos
to the untrained eye, chaos
to the untrained mouth, chaos
to the believers of chaos, untrained
to the composer, a deaf ear
to the cartographer, a bird's eye
to the critic, a marathon runner
to the knowers of chaos, unchained
to the chaos haters, arraigned
to the chaos lovers, sustained
to the chaos grabbers, restrained
to the chaos talkers, ingrained
helped into, oaxaca sun.